The weekend came: the four of us stood in front of the fountain at the park. We were supposed to look for a guy wearing a NY Yankee baseball cap. Roger had given him our school pictures and told him what I’d be wearing, so he would know us. We were to go with him, expecting to stay the weekend, at least. He said they’d want to film Tommy’s and James’s castrations and want snapshots of me and Shaun naked. That some guys might want to jack off looking at them didn’t surprise me, but nothing guys with balls did surprised me. You already know my opinion of them.

“Are you guys scared?” I asked of James and Tommy.

“A little,” said Tommy.

James shrugged.

“I think I’m more excited than anything; but I’ve watched dad cut the balls off a bunch of animals. They squeal when he does it, but they’re up walking around like nothing happened before long. I hope they don’t knock me out or anything. I want to watch them cut mine off.”

“They can knock me out,” said Tommy. “I don’t like blood. I just want to be rid of my dick and my balls.”

“That might be him,” I said, spying a guy in a baseball cap walking toward us. The other guys looked where I was pointing. When the guy got closer, I saw he was wearing a NY Yankees cap. He walked up to me.

“Are–you–Roger’s–boys?” he asked.

He had an accent, Russian maybe. He spoke like some of the Russian spies I’d seen on TV, saying each word distinctly, not running them together like we would.

“Yeah,” I said.

I was a little surprised he’d mentioned Roger’s name.

“Come–with–me.”

We followed him to a panel van parked on the street. He had us climb in the back, which had a steel mesh screen separating it from the front. Once he closed the door, I saw it had no handle on the inside. It could only be opened from the outside. That should have been my first clue about what was about to happen. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the van and drove off.

It seemed to take forever, but whenever one of us said something to him, he said, “Quiet-no-talking.” But if we spoke quietly to each other, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he stopped the van and got out. Looking out the front window, it seemed we were in a rundown warehouse district.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Shaun asked.

“Fuck if I know,” I answered. “Roger vouched for them.”

By now, a little pissed off and a little scared, I didn’t care if Tommy and James knew about Roger. Hell, I was about to tell them all about him and about how he’d castrated me, when the back door of the van opened.

The driver stood there; he was accompanied by two other guys. One of them gestured for us to come out. When we stepped out of the van, they ushered us though an open door to the building. The van had pulled right up to it. It seemed to be an old warehouse.

They took us to an office. An old guy was sitting behind a desk. The driver spoke to him in a foreign language; I thought at the time it was Russian; and I later found out it was.

The guy behind the desk replied in the same language.

“Take-off-your-clothes,” the driver said.

The other two guys stood behind us. I glanced at Shaun. He shrugged, sat down his pack containing a change of clothes he’d brought and pushed down his shorts; but he didn’t mind other people seeing him naked or seeing that he didn’t have balls. I was used to hiding that I had none.

The driver poked me with a baton, one like police carry. “You-too.”

I sat down my pack and pushed down my shorts. James and Tommy were already pushing down theirs. They looked scared. I was scared. This wasn’t going like I had imagined. We stood, our shorts around our ankles, wearing only t-shirts and sandals or flip-flops.

The guy behind the desk spoke. The driver interpreted.

“Who castrated you?” he asked Shaun and me.

“Roger,” I said.

I didn’t bother explaining that a doctor had actually cut off Shaun’s balls. It was Roger, who had castrated him, after all. His balls had been long dead by the time they were cut off.

“You-boys-will-do,” the man behind the desk said. His English was worse than the driver’s.

The other men took us to a room. It had mattresses on the floor. After taking our t-shirts and sandals, they shoved us, naked, into it. The driver pointed to a bucket.

“You-have-to-go--use-that.”

He didn’t have to explain what he meant by that. A roll of toilet paper was next to the bucket. He closed and locked the door.

“What the fuck?” said Shaun.

Tommy was crying; I felt like crying.

“What’s going on?” asked James.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I told them all about Roger, about how he was my mother’s boyfriend, about how he had castrated me and had shot up Shaun’s balls. I told them that he had told me he had arranged to have Tommy and James castrated, as long as we let them take some pictures of their castration.

“He didn’t tell me anything about this shit,” I said, my upturned hands indicating the room.

Later, one of them brought us some hamburgers and fries from MacDonald’s along with a coke for each of us. He took the bucket each of us had pissed in and brought in a clean one. One by one, another guy took each of us down the hall to a bathroom, and I took a shit; I didn’t want to have to shit in the bucket. Neither he nor the first guy answered our questions. I’m not sure either of them spoke English.

I lost track of time, but several days must have passed. All our food seemed to come from MacDonald’s, Egg Macmuffins, coffee and a sweet roll for breakfast, hamburgers, fries, and cokes for the other meals. Sometimes, we’d have a little a little orange juice, also in a MacDonald’s container, for breakfast along with the coffee. Normally, I didn’t drink coffee; I’d never liked the taste of it; but I started drinking it.

One day, they took James. He was gone for a long time; it had to be hours; it seemed forever. When they brought him back, they brought along a cot and placed him on it. He was out, snoring softly. After they laid him down on it, I saw that his groin was bandaged. A catheter ran from it to a bottle they put on the floor at the foot of the cot. About an inch of yellow pee was in the bottom of the bottle. The bandage on James’s crotch was tight enough for me to see James no longer had anything beneath it.

“He just wanted his balls cut off,” I told the two that had brought him in. “It was Tommy that wanted his dick cut off.”

But if they understood me, they paid no attention.

James awoke shortly after they brought him in. I guess they’d also given him a local anesthetic, so he wasn’t in pain.

“It’s all numb down there,” he said.

“They cut off your dick,” I said.

“No shit?”

He looked down at his crotch. The bandage was tight across it, leaving no doubt there was nothing beneath it.

“You didn’t know they were going to cut everything off,” Shaun asked. “You didn’t ask them to cut off your dick?”

“I didn’t know shit,” James said. “The goons took me to a room. Like, it had an operating table in it. There was this doctor dude in a surgical gown and mask and even a nurse – or woman, anyway – also in a gown and mask. They had me hop on the table. The doctor, in perfectly good English, said, ‘Don’t worry, Kid. I’ve done plenty of these.’ I thought he was just going to cut off my balls; I was hoping to watch; but the nurse started an IV in my arm, and the next thing I remembered was waking up here with you guys.”

The nurse, still wearing a mask - I suspect to keep us from seeing her face, since none of the rest of us were wearing one - came in later to check out James. He was hurting some by then, so she gave him some pills, checked his dressing, and changed his piss bottle.

Several days passed. James, since there was nothing he could do about it, was resigned to losing his cock. If he had to give up his cock to lose his balls, it was a good trade off, he figured. He was glad to finally be a eunuch. After they took off the bandages, we got to look at his crotch. They had shaved it, and he had no balls, no ball sac, and no cock. All he had was a vertical cut, stitched up, running down his groin, with the catheter coming out of where his dick had been.

They took Tommy next. He came back without his dick or balls. He was happy with it; but next, they took Shaun. He protested:

“I’ve good like I am. I don’t want anything else done.”

He came back without his cock or ball sac. I expected them to take me next; I was resigned to losing my cock; but they never did. Turns out, they liked how I looked, my small cock, shrunken ball sac, and hairless pubes.

Since I needed no operation, I was the first to find out what else was in store for us.

James was up and walking around. He still had the catheter in, so he had to carry the bottle with him, but the bandages were off. Tommy would get out of bed now and then, but he didn’t feel like doing much yet. Shaun still had bandages on his crotch, but like the others, he definitely had no cock. I wanted to see what he looked like when the bandages came off. The Goons, as we called them to their faces – not sure they understood – still brought us food and shit. The nurse, always wearing her mask, checked on the guys that had surgery. She seemed nice enough, but she wouldn’t answer any of our questions.

One day, they came for me. I expected to lose my cock; but the room where they took me had a bed, not an operating table, in it. On the bed was a naked man. It was Roger.

“Roger. What the fuck?” They weren’t supposed to cut off James’s cock; and they sure weren’t supposed to cut off Shaun’s cock. When are they going to let us go? We want to go home.”

“Sorry, Kid. I thought they’d cut off your cock, too, but they decided they like the job I did on you, so I guess you get to keep it.”

He had an erection. I looked around, half expecting to see Mom.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s at home, I guess. I wouldn’t know. I’m not seeing your mom, anymore. They paid me enough for you guys, I can get something better.”

“They paid you?”

“Yep. I sold you guys to them.”

“You sold us?”

“Yeah. They’re going use you for more than just pictures, although they’ll take plenty of those.”

He pointed up to a video camera in the ceiling. It pointed down at the bed.

“I’ve seen the video of your friends getting cut. They are hot.”

“I want to go home.”

“Sorry, Kid, you and your friends aren’t going anywhere. Maybe someday they’ll let you go; maybe they won’t; but if they do, it won’t be for a couple of years, anyway.”

“But Mom will be looking for me.”

“She thinks you and Shaun ran away. Even the cops think you ran away. I told them I heard you guys talking about running away to California or somewhere. I told them you were both gay and wanted to go to San Francisco. They believed it; they’re not even looking for you. No one bothers looking for runaways.”

“What about the other guys, Tommy and James?”

“I think they think James ran away with you guys. His friend told the cops he was going off with you guys to get castrated. The cops just shook their heads at that, I heard. They figure you’re all a bunch of crazy queers. That kid told them he thought you were castrated, too, and everyone already knew Shaun was. Why should the cops waste their time looking for runaway gays that don’t want their balls? Tommy’s mom is still in Europe, and as far as I know, no one knows he’s missing.”

“What are you doing here?”

He laid on the bed, his hard cock pulsating. I thought I knew why he was here; I was afraid I knew why he was here.

“You know why I’m here. I’ve wanted to fuck you, since I first laid eyes on you. When I fucked your mother the night I castrated you, I imagined I was fucking you. Hell, you like it: you let Shaun fuck you.”

“I love Shaun; I hate you.”

“I’m going to fuck you. Either you can relax and enjoy it or I’ll call one of them to come in and hold you down while I do it. If I do that, you’ll earn a beating and be locked in a room by yourself. You won’t see your friends again. I’ll see to that. They’ll keep you apart. You think you’re the only boys here?”

“We’re not?”

“Shit, no. There are a dozen or more boys here, and there are others in other cities, and none of them have balls. Some of the ones like you, castrated before puberty, they let keep their dicks, but the rest have neither. Now, do you want to see your friends again or not?”

I nodded.

“Then get up on the bed with me. I think I’ll have a blowjob first. If you bite me, you’ll never see them again. Sergey will ship you or them off to another city. You’ll be all alone.”

I climbed on the bed: I gave him his blowjob; he shot in my mouth, making sure I swallowed it. He fucked me. It took him a long time to cum; but thank God, he didn’t have it in him to do it again.

The goon took me back to our room, back to the other guys. Seeing them was worth letting Roger fuck me.

“What happened?” asked Shaun, after seeing my face.

I don’t think they expected me to come back with my dick; none of them had. I couldn’t answer. I lay down on my mattress, covered my face with my arm, and cried.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

How could I tell them what we were in for? It was my fault. I should have never trusted Roger. They were never going to let us go.

Over the next several weeks, I had to service several men. I learned to zone out. Today, I couldn’t tell you what any of them were like. They were men with balls; and I’ll never have any respect for men with balls. I’m certain many of them are decent, loving fathers and husbands, but I’ve never known any personally.

James says his father is cool, but it was his father, with his teasing, that made James want to get castrated. On some level, I think James’s father wanted his son castrated. Why else would he joke about it so often, so often that James became obsessed with the idea of being castrated? Couldn’t he see – didn’t he care – what he was doing?

Now, James has no dick or balls. It’s my fault; I wanted to see him castrated; but I didn’t want to see him lose his dick. I trusted Roger; I should have known better.

Not that I don’t think James is better off being castrated; I no longer think any boy should keep his balls. All should be castrated. I know that’s not practical; but all men with balls seem to care about is sex.

I didn’t have sex: I got fucked; I got raped. Because they were still healing from their surgeries, my friends hadn’t yet serviced clients. It wouldn’t be long, though, I supposed. All of them had their catheters out, and James’s scar was mostly covered by his pubic hair. I had to admit: he looked cool smooth. I almost wished they’d cut off my dick.

My friends knew what to expect; they knew what I did every time one of the goons took me from the room. At least, I got to go to the dayroom and watch TV sometimes. That’s where I met some of the other boys.

Anton – we weren’t allowed to tell our last names – had been there the longest. He was Russian, but could speak fluent English, which I guess he learned at school. His father had traded him to the Syndicate to pay off a debt. Anton was eight at the time, and like with my friends, the first thing they’d done was cut off his dick and balls. He wasn’t sure how old he was, now; there was no way to gage time, locked up as we were.

Although we got to watch TV, everything we watched was on DVD, played back from another room. The movies and clips we watched were x-rated gay movies or downright gay porn. I think they wanted us to think what they made us do was normal and desirable.

I never really watched them, but I welcomed the opportunity to get out of our room. James and Tommy were also allowed out of the room: they were pretty well healed. Shaun had developed an infection, and it was touch and go for a while, but he seemed to be about over it. They’d probably let him out before long. I don’t know what they would have done had he died: probably thrown his body into a dumpster somewhere.

We had to be careful what we said to each other in the dayroom: we weren’t allowed to say where we were from or to mention where we were, now, if we knew. Anton had been moved from city to city several times, and had no idea where he was. We were in Chicago, since they hadn’t yet moved me, but I couldn’t tell him that.

I think from what he said, he was from back East, but what accent he had was Russian, so I couldn’t tell from that; and of course, I didn’t dare ask him. No one said for sure, but I think microphones in the dayroom recorded anything we said. I know anything we did or said when in with clients was recorded, video and audio.

Some of the boys were given estrogen and had grown tits. They were giving it to Tommy, and he was beginning to grow some. Already, with his smooth crotch, he looked more like a newly pubescent girl than he did a boy. They had plucked the pubic and underarm hair from James – Shaun was still recovering from his infection – but they had only plucked Tommy’s underarm hair. He had beautiful, silky, black, pubic hair. They had decided to leave it. Of course, I hadn’t grown either.

James’s scar was evidence he’d been recently cut, but I supposed it would fade with time. Anton’s scar was hardly visible. Unless you looked closely, you would think he was born without cock or balls. None of us were allowed clothes. We went everywhere naked. I hadn’t worn clothes since that first day. We, now, ate our meals in the dayroom, but our food still came from MacDonald’s. I wonder if the Establishment – Anton told me that’s what they called themselves – got a cut rate on food from some MacDonald’s.

Only one other boy, another Russian kid, Valentin, also castrated before puberty, still had a dick. His was as small as mine, two inches, at the most. Like mine, his ball sac had shrunk to no more than a little wrinkled skin at the base of his dick.

Some of my clients were Russian, but the most of them were Americans, many of them businessmen, guys you wouldn’t expect to frequent a whorehouse, especially not a whorehouse where the whores were all castrated boys; but throughout history, men had wanted boy eunuchs for sex, even if they had wives and children.

Many of my clients were married and had children. Some of them are gay; some of them consider themselves straight. Evidently, they, too, no longer consider us boys. Without dicks and balls – without balls, in my case – we are no longer boys.

We are expensive: one client told me he had paid $1000 for an hour with me. Of course, I never saw any of that. If I did as I was told, I stayed with my friends, and I got to spend time in the dayroom, even got to play videogames.

I remember one of my clients:

He was sitting nude on the bed, when I entered the room. His clothes, folded, lay on a chair. His cock already anticipated me: it was hard.

He must have been holding his breath; because he let it out in a long exhalation.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “you’re more beautiful than your picture. I almost didn’t take you, because you still had a cock, but the more I looked at your picture, the more I wanted you. Some of the others almost looked like little girls, but you were definitely once a boy. How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” I said.

“You look younger. When were you castrated?”

“Almost a year ago.”

“Obviously, before you started puberty.”

I nodded: “I was a late bloomer. Most of my friends had already started.”

“I see some of the kids here had started puberty; some of them have pubic hair.”

I nodded. More than he thought, kids like James, had started puberty before they were castrated, but the Establishment kept their pubic and underarm hair plucked. I’m glad I didn’t have any to pluck. They had waxed James’s pubic and underarm hair and ripped it out. Since then, they pluck it as it grows in.

“I have a kid about your age,” he said, “a boy.”

Do you fuck him? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t dare. Insulting or pissing off a client would earn me a beating, at the least, and if I really pissed off the Establishment, I would be shipped off, possibly to a worse place and be separated from my friends. Since they charged $1000 an hour or more for us, our clients were usually businessmen or wealthy, at least. Most of them acted like gentlemen, if you could call a man that fucked 13 year-old eunuchs, gentlemen.

I called them men with balls. As far as I was concerned, all men with balls were alike.

“Did they cut off your balls here?”

“No, my mother’s boyfriend cut them off.”

“Jesus,” he said, “that’s hot. I’ve seen some of the videos they’ve made of the castrations they’ve done here; they are fucking hot.”

“Do you like being a eunuch?”

“Yes.”

I like being a eunuch; but I don’t like fucking guys like you.

“Sometimes, I wish I could have my boy castrated. He’s become a little shit, since he started puberty. His mother is always finding stains on his sheets: no telling how many times he jacks off each day. Did you ever jack off?”

I shook my head. “I never wanted to; I wanted to be a eunuch.”

“No, shit? I didn’t think any boy wanted to lose his balls. Did all the other boys here want to be eunuchs?”

“I don’t think most of them did. Three of my friends and me wanted to be eunuchs, though. I think more boys want to be eunuchs than people think.”

“No, shit?” he said, again.

I shrugged:

“It’s not like I’ve done a survey or anything,” I said, “but there were, at least, four of us in my class at school. After I was castrated, my best friend decided he wanted to be, and it turned out, there were two other boys that had long wanted to be castrated. They were done here.”

Shaun was already castrated before coming here, but they had cut off his dick here. I didn’t see any reason to tell him that.

“I’ve never fucked a eunuch,” he said. “I’ve long fantasized doing it; but you’ll be the first.”

“I’m honored, Master.”

I wasn’t, of course, but the clients like to think we want to be fucked by them. They like for us to pretend to be eunuch slaves; but we are, aren’t we? We are eunuchs; and we are slaves.

He stayed his full hour, getting off three times. His cum was leaking out of my ass, and I had swallowed his first load.

“Was I good?” he asked me afterward.

“You were fantastic, Master.”

You fucking pervert. You’re the one that should be castrated.

I had an idea: he had said his son should probably be castrated. If the kid grew up with balls, he would probably be like his dad; his only change to become a decent person was to be castrated.

“You said you’d like to see your son castrated. It would probably be the best thing for him. I’ve never known a boy, that once castrated, wasn’t glad he was.”

That much was true. None of the four of us missed his balls, and neither James nor Shaun really missed his dick.

“I can’t have my kid castrated.”

“Sure, you can. The Establishment would do it for you. They could stage a fake kidnapping, and the money you paid them to do it could be a supposed ransom. There would be such sympathy for your son, especially after he was returned castrated, that you’d probably collect more in sympathy donations than you would pay to have it done. You could put up Facebook and Twitter pages for him. No telling how much money you would collect.”

“But, he’s my son. He wouldn’t want to be castrated.”

“Lot of the kids here didn’t want to be castrated, but they are glad they have been. You said he was a much nicer kid before he hit puberty. Wouldn’t you want that nice kid back?”

He covered his mouth with his hand, rubbing his nose between his thumb and forefinger, thinking.

“He was a lot more fun. He used to want to do things with me: now, he only wants to be with his friends.”

“See, he needs to be castrated. If he keeps his balls, they’ll just get him in trouble.”

“You’re probably right. You really like being castrated?”

“Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“But he’s my son. I can’t really have him castrated, can I?”

“Can’t you?”