Terry - part 17 -The Conclusion

In the prison hospital, there had been little attempt to repair the damage done to my genitals.  Even if I hadn't said that I'd cut them off, there probably wouldn't have been an attempt to restore my cock.  My scrotum had been so shredded that the doctor found it simpler to cut off the excess, stitching together what was left-the cords to my balls having been tied off with sutures which would eventually dissolve.  With a catheter in my urethra  the doctor connected my urethra to the skin which he pulled together to cover any evidence I'd ever had a cock.  Shaved as my groin was, the stitched wound looked like a small vagina.  Otherwise, my groin was smooth. 

Occasionally, during the first two weeks, before the testosterone flushed from my body, the remainder of my cock would become hard, forming a lump which strained at the stitches.  By the time I returned to the cell, that no longer occurred. 

At first, they weren't going to return me to Terry's cell, but I assured them he'd had nothing to do with my castration.  I'd done it for him.  If they weren't to put me back in his cell,  I'd sacrificed my cock and balls for no reason.

Having no cock or balls, I no longer became aroused like before.  There was no stirring in my groin, even though the vestiges of my cock remained.  There were no balls to produce the testosterone necessary for the swelling of the remaining erectile tissue or the stimulation of my desires.

By the time I returned to the cell, my stitches had been removed.  The only evidence I'd ever had a cock was an vertical, angry, red, scar, which was becoming hidden by the stubble of my pubic hair.  Once the hair had grown out, and the scar had paled, there would be none.  The scars covering the former site of my nuts were puckered, but fading fast.

Peeing was a problem.  Since I had no cock, I could no longer stand to pee-and my urethral opening was too high to pee down into the toilet while sitting on it.  Sitting on the toilet, I had to pee on the palm of my hand, letting the urine run off it into the toilet.  I often wished they had relocated the opening, so I could pee like a girl.

Although I exhibited no physical manifestations of arousal, I wanted Terry.  Still loving him, I wanted to have him-his cock-inside me.  I wondered if he'd changed-if these additional weeks of torture by Snyder had warped him further.

He was noticeably bigger.  Although he was clothed-not naked as I'd last seen him-I could see that he broader through the chest and shoulders. 

The first thing he said, after the guard had gone, was, "What did you tell them, Lyons?  Did you tell them I did it?"

He didn't say, "Hello" or "How are you?"  He just wanted to know what I'd told them.  "No, I stuck with our story.  No matter how many times they asked, I said that I'd done it to myself.  You didn't tell them you did, it, did you?"

"No, I told them you did it to yourself, but they kept asking me if I'd done it.  I was afraid that you'd finked on me."

"What did Snyder say?"

"I think he stuck with the story, but I don't know for sure.  He's gone."

Dropping my jaw in disbelief, unable to conceive that-for the first time since we'd arrived at the Walls-some good had occurred, I said, "Snyder's gone?  How?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think that your getting your cock and balls cut off on his shift was the last straw.  Too many other things had happened.  They transferred him to a different prison."

"Then he hasn't," hesitating, not sure that I should bring it up, "raped you again?"

I shouldn't have asked, because Terry became furious.  "No, and no motherfucker will ever rape me again.  If he tries it, I'll kill him-guard or con."

From the tone of his voice, I had no doubt that Terry meant what he said.  Shackled, or not, he would retaliate the best he could.  "And," directing a look at me which chilled me as much as the words which followed, said, "no one will ever come in my mouth again.  If you ever tell anyone that you did-I'll kill you.  The same goes for what Snyder did, too.  You don't tell anyone about Snyder-understand?"

"No, Terry.  I would never tell anyone."

"If I ever hear that you have-I'll kill you."

Although I couldn't have previously imagined that Terry could have said those words-particularly to me-I believed him.  I had let him cut off my cock and balls so that he could love me.  Instead, he hated me.  I could see it in his face-hear it in his voice.  I had come in his mouth, and I had witnessed his degradation.  Either was unforgivable.  My presence was a constant reminder of his shame.

During the next six months we were at the Walls, Terry never spoke to me except to command me.  There were never words of friendship.  He fucked me, whenever he felt the need, but never from the front-and he never asked me to suck his cock.  That would have been too intimate.  I was no more than a body with a convenient orifice into which he could eject his semen.

Each time, he fucked me in silence, never moaning or exhibiting any sign of pleasure or contentment, rolling off me as soon as he finished.  It was fortunate that, after the first few times, I felt no pleasure from being fucked by him.  To show it would have earned me a beating, which I often received from him, anyway, just because there was no other victim within reach.

I no longer wanted to be fucked-or loved by Terry.  Each fuck was a rape, even though I offered no resistance.  The person I had loved no longer existed.  That boy had died under Snyder's heaving body.  Snyder's cock, in penetrating his ass, had killed his soul.

Working out with weights every day, Terry became strong and hard-almost as hard as his heart.  Made of stone, there was no room in it for love or compassion.  He could have killed me with one hand.  At times, I thought he would.

Eventually, all charges for assaulting Duke were dismissed, and we were transferred to Connolly.  Upon being split up when we arrived, Terry whispered to me, "Say one fucking thing, and I'll kill you."

Although I occasionally saw him, I never spoke to him again.  If he looked at me, it was to remind me to keep my mouth shut.  I avoided him as much as possible.  I was afraid, that, out of sight of the guards, he would kill me, if given the chance. 

From what I heard, I wouldn't have been the first.  When two cons had tried to attack him when he first arrived at Connolly, he had hurt them so badly that no one else ever tried.  I heard that his punks, whom he frequently changed, lost their cocks and balls.  Although each of them had said he had cut off his own, I suspected that Terry had.  The last time I'd seen a look of pleasure on his face had been when he'd cut off mine.

I was anyone's punk.  Since I had no cock or balls, I was a prime piece.  Each fuck was a rape.  I cared for none of them-and none cared for me.  I was a convenient hole, unimpeded by a cock or balls.  I lost count of how many times I had been fucked-or of how many men there had been.  Although I had once thought that I would imagine that it was Terry fucking me, when I was raped, I never did.  The Terry I had loved was dead.  Some foul creature inhabited his body.

During our third year at Connolly, Snyder was transferred there.  Terry killed him and is now on death row, awaiting execution.

When I completed my sentence and was released, I went to Houston.  I had long ago stopped returning my parents' letters or permitting them to visit me.  The boy they had raised was dead. 

In Houston, I worked-then went home.  Having no friends, I was alone.  People looked at me strangely.  Without balls, my hips were rounded, and my breasts protruded.  Most thought I was gay-but, although I had been, I no longer was.  A eunuch, I had no sexual desire-and I had been fucked by enough men to last me a lifetime.  At times I thought about killing myself, but haven't-yet.

After I got out, I started writing Harris.  Going to Huntsville when they executed him, I caught a glimpse of him when they transferred him there.  He had wanted me to witness his execution, but, since I was an ex-con, it hadn't been permitted.  I stood vigil outside the Walls during it, though.

I haven't decided whether I'll do likewise when they execute Terry.  Maybe I will-to honor the boy he once was.  That won't be for several years.  Perhaps I won't know what I'll do until the day comes.