And Afterwards (Another Simon Tale)

“Right, then. Just pull your shorts down and I’ll have a good look at you”. The boy nodded, turned away and slipped his white satin P E shorts down to his ankles. He was my 13-year old ward, Simon, whom I’d not seen for a long time. I ran my hand slowly over his bare bottom; it was warm, smooth, and smelled nicely of scented soap, not long from the bath.

But I’m jumping ahead. This story really begins two years earlier, when Simon arrived, at short notice, in the household of some relations of mine. From the start he had been a disaster. Placed, at his absentee parents’ insistence in a choir school, for a start he couldn’t sing; he sulked on the playing field, slacked in the form room and was universally unpopular.

At home, things were worse. For a start he was unbelievably dirty: clothes clean on were filthy within the hour and his underwear was disgusting since he never wiped his bottom properly. He was rude, moody, lazy, and given to breaking or spoiling things for fun. By the end of his first school holidays Jennifer (my cousin and Simon’s guardian at that time) was at breaking point. Then, matters came to a head.

Aged eleven, Simon had begun to get “schoolboy erections” and had learned how to get them deliberately (“I just keep pulling on my willie till it goes hard”) Running around at bath time with his penis sticking out in front of him was one thing. Attempting to use it on one of his female cousins was something else altogether. Jennifer caught him at it and came running to me for advice. By her account it was no big deal. Simon had not got his penis into the girl’s vagina, and was too young to be able to reach orgasm if he had. But it was too much for Jennifer.

It was I who proposed that Simon should be neutered. In the first place he would get no more erections. Secondly I knew from the widespread practice of neutering boys – particularly juvenile delinquents - in other parts of the world, that the hormonal upset brought about personality-changes that were invariably an improvement. Besides this, scientific advances had banished surgical castration of boys to the pages of medical history. It was now possible to prick a boy’s balls with a hypodermic and inject a drug that made them wither away. The effect was just the same as taking them right out. The most horrible little tearaways became all sweetness and light, once the cause was removed.

Since I’d proposed the idea, Jennifer handed it to me to get it done. The first hurdle was to sell it to Simon. I said I’d noticed him, lately, looking tired and unhappy. He was just like a young horse, then – and did he know that when a young horse became restless and nervous, he had a little operation done, to calm him down. Well, it was done on boys too, and just like a young horse, it was done on his “privates”. Auntie Jennifer and I had decided he was just the right age. I told him of the thousands of boys who had it done; of choirboys to make them sing better, of page-boys to improve their looks. If he was good and didn’t make a fuss, he could have a new computer.

I wished I’d not mentioned the computer. Simon was a dirty-minded kid and the mention of his “privates” turned him on at once. He wanted to know what was involved. “Just two little injections, one on each side” I said. This was no more than the truth. Since the introduction of boy-neutering drugs in the early 90’s, the technique of administering them had been simplified to the point where it was the responsibility of practice nurses, rather than GPs. (In the USA, indeed, “Home Kits” had been developed, so foolproof had the method become, and in state orphanages it was practised wholesale. It made the boys stronger for work and one hundred percent safe with girls).

“When can I have it done?” he demanded, not at all put off by my graphic description of the consequences: that his balls would dry up, his willie would shrink and he’d never be able to get married or have children. Later, at bath time, I overheard him telling his 9-year old cousin Charlie that “Uncle Carl was going to take him to the clinic, to get his balls pricked” and “You’ll have it done too, when you’re old enough, to stop your willie going stiff and doing rude things with girls”.

I arranged it for the following afternoon. Somehow Simon kept himself fit to be seen during the morning and I drove him to the clinic in my Jag. We were greeted by the practice nurse who would be doing the neutering. The rest was very quick. Simon was seated, minus his shorts and pants, in a chair that was a smaller variant of those used for examining pregnant women, with his feet in stirrups that held his legs apart. The nurse asked me to steady Simon’s shoulders while she put a shot of novocaine in the top of his thigh. We waited a few moments for this to take effect.

High on the opposite wall, a screen had been fixed, and on this, a red light traced a meandering path. “Simon, watch the light” I whispered. This was to take his attention away from what the nurse did next, which happened so quickly that I missed the actual injection, and saw only the last stage: Simon’s balls being massaged between the nurse’s fingers to spread the drug around. It was all over: two empty hypodermics in the empty tray the only evidence apart from two tiny marks – like wasp stings – on Simon’s scrotum, where the nurse showed me that the needles had been inserted.

“My balls itch” Simon remarked much later. “That often happens” I said. “It’ll wear off soon”. The neutering drug was doing its work. Within a week his balls would become soft, even mushy, to the touch, as the hormone-bearing tissues broke down. Within a month even the spermatic cords would be hard to find. Finally, as the drug eliminated the nerve endings that control erections, Simon’s penis would shrink, sometimes hanging limp but more often retracted into his body like that of a gelded colt. It would never, ever, go stiff. Whatever erotic longings might stir in him he would never be able to put his penis into a girl’s vagina.

With Simon on course to becoming a boy-eunuch, my work took me to the Far East where I remained for eighteen months. Meanwhile I agreed with Jennifer to have the wardship of Simon legally transferred to me – his parents having disappeared from human ken. Returning, time went by before I was at last able to visit Simon’s boarding school and find how my ward was progressing – in particular was he, in his new state, experiencing any form of sex life or was he sexually inert?

The Headmaster called for Simon’s form teacher who said that though no genius, Simon (they referred to him as Scott) was attentive, careful and polite, his work methodical, even meticulous, especially in diagrams and map making. The games master said that in winter (Rugby Union being the major sport) in the Under – 14 team, Simon was a “winger” with a remarkable turn of speed. In the athletics season he was developing well in the triple jump, and was shortly going to train for distance running – he seemed to have just the right build.

Boxing, alone, was disappointing: Simon lacked staying power and was apt to dissolve in tears. I knew – without saying – what the problem was. A boy needs testosterone to put iron in his bones, and Simon’s main source of this hormone had been taken from him by two little pricks of a hypodermic. Lastly the music director at once identified Simon as the star soprano in the chapel choir and dreaded the time when his voice would change. I tried not to smile, or to confide in the man that he should make the best of his first-ever castrato!

The Head readily agreed to allow Simon to spend the coming weekend with me in the flat I was currently renting on the sea front (Simon’s school was in Sussex). His housemaster sent for him to come over. I had not been prepared for what I saw. The racing news sometimes says that a young horse’s performance on the track has changed out of recognition after he has been gelded. With Simon, too, being neutered and becoming a boy-eunuch had been the making of him.

For a start, he was spotless. The weather being warm he had on a navy blue blazer with the school badge, over a white sports vest and white satinised P E shorts. White trainers and ankle socks completed the ensemble. It wasn’t a million miles different from the clothes he used to wear – only those were always filthy and these were pristine. With the light behind him – it was a clear sunny day – I could tell that he was nude beneath his shorts.

Second, how he had grown! He would soon be as tall as me (I’m on the stocky side). The long slender legs that were such an advantage on the playing field were, I knew, the direct result of the hormonal imbalance resulting from his neutering operation. All his energies were directed into growing and not squandered in producing testosterone – or sperm, to be got rid of in secret masturbation. Simon would never know the joys of “jerking off”.

Two years ago he would have ignored me. Today, his face lit up. “Uncle Carl, what a lovely surprise! Did you have a good journey down?” This, and more, in a clear, high treble voice. It being the lunch hour I took him for a meal at the Hilton, then round to my flat. Which brings me to where we came in, with my hand caressing Simon’s bare bottom. Eager to see what effect the last two years had brought about, I spun him round.

Simon’s penis was much the same shape and size as a thimble, three centimetres at best, and most of that was foreskin. There was very little else to be seen. As he had grown and put on a bit of weight, the loose skin of his scrotum had taken up until there was no trace of it except the “seam” that all males are born with. Of testicles there was no trace at all. Simon was the classic boy-eunuch of erotic fiction.

Very gently I took his penis between my thumb and two fingertips. Very gently I began to stroke it. I needed to know whether Simon, neutered, sterile, impotent, his testicles destroyed and his penis reduced to the size of a six-year-old’s could still be aroused and get a horny feeling.

Up on the wall was a poster of one of my favourite paintings: Caravaggio’s “Love Victorious”. Simon’s eyes wandered to this. “That boy has big balls” he remarked. “Really big balls. What’s his name?”

“His name was Cecco” I replied. “And his balls were painted in, by the artist, in that picture. In fact he’d had his balls taken out by a doctor, some time before the picture was painted, to keep his body smooth and boyish. Afterwards he became the artist’s

principal model, and the artist always painted him with balls just for the look of the thing. More often than not he was the model for Cupid, or for a cherub. And cherubs always have a full set of genitals”

Simon giggled. “Really, then, he was just like me! Only I don’t suppose his operation was like mine, Uncle Carl?”

“No, it was quite a lot more drastic” I said. “When a boy was going to be “done”, to prevent him ever having sex with girls, they would first make him drink a lot of wine with poppy juice in it, till he was drowsy, then pop him into a warm bath to relax the skin. Then the doctor used an instrument to compress the cords of the boy’s balls, and cut off the blood supply. If in a few days’ time after that, the boy’s balls started to dry up, the operation was a success. When they had totally withered away they were snipped off”.

Simon looked thoughtful. I continued to stroke his penis. Under my fingers I felt it begin to relax. “Uncle Carl, you’re making me feel I want to be excused” Simon whispered.

For a while, neither of us spoke. I continued, very gently, to try to arouse Simon’s penis. It was he who broke the silence first. “Uncle Max, you’re dying to ask me about my sex life, aren’t you?”

“Only if you want to tell me” I said.

“Well, it all began by accident, a bit before you came home” he began. “You know Uncle Max?”

“You mean Major Riche?” ( I knew Max Riche well – one of Jennifer’s oldest friends.)

“Yes. Well, because it was my birthday he took me to London to the theatre, for a treat, and afterwards we called round to his sister-in-law’s, that I call Auntie Glenda. She had a daughter called Wendy, a bit older than me.”

He paused, blushing, then went on. “I didn’t know a lot about girls before that, but Wendy showed me that they can be every bit as filthy as boys. She knew – Auntie Glenda had told her – about my operation, and she was thrilled to feel up my shorts and find out for herself, and she let me feel inside her knickers and slip two fingers up her…….”

“Fanny” I suggested.

Simon giggled. The recollection was making his penis emerge from its hiding place, three inches of schoolboy cock. Very carefully I rolled his foreskin back, uncovering the glans. I continued to fondle him.

“The rest happened only a month ago, it was half term. I went to Auntie Glenda’s for the weekend and on the Saturday afternoon she had to go out, and Wendy invited a school friend, Lorna, who was blonde and very good looking. Wendy started things off: she said “Lorna, this is Simon. He’s had his balls pricked and can’t do what most boys want to do with girls but we can have a lot of fun all the same”.

“We all took our clothes off. The girls had nice bodies and their boobs were just starting to come. They made me lie on the bed. Wendy opened her legs and made me put my tongue into her- her fanny, and Lorna took my cock in her mouth and sucked it, like a lolly. It was quite a nice feeling. We did this for quite a long time and the girls changed round.

“Then Wendy whispered to Lorna “Have you got it?” and Lorna showed her what she’d brought. It was in the shape of a boy’s cock and balls, made of soft plastic. They got me to fasten it round my waist and between my legs, then one after the other they got on the bed and showed me how to fuck them with the artificial cock, up their fannies. They loved it”.

“When they’d had enough, the girls whispered together, then Lorna said “We’ve decided that now it’s your turn to be the girl, and we’ll take it in turn to be boys”. First we all went to the bathroom, still in the nude, and the girls made me have an enema. This wasn’t anything new. At school the Matron gives us enemas quite often to keep us “regular”; she says it’s healthier than giving us laxatives or pushing soap up our bums.

“Then it was back to the bedroom. Wendy was the first to strap the dildo on, and I got down on the floor and she did it to me doggie-fashion. Then Lorna had a go”.

“You sound to have had quite a session” I said.

“Yes. But talking about it, and having you fiddling with my cock – well, now there’s something I want to do, something desperate”.

He paused, then “Do you like my looks, Uncle Carl? Do you think I’ve got a nice body?

“Yes” I said, truthfully. Though neutered, he was very, very sexy. “Simon” I said “I think you are altogether beautiful”.

“That’s alright then”. His shorts were still round his ankles and now he shed all his remaining clothes. Turning to me, he looked me in the face. “That looks a nice bed over there. I hope you’ve got some Vaseline?”

THE END