Simon and Melanie - Part 2

Part 2

I’d known the Knight-Foxes for over a year. At weekends their converted farmhouse in the New Forest was a welcome retreat for a boy like me – a sensitive fourteen-year-old. With a difference: a sensitive neutered fourteen-year-old. (If you want to know more about how and why I was neutered, there’s plenty you can read.)

No one could have called it an eventful household. In fact, whole weeks went by without anything happening. Then suddenly, that summer, two mega-events. The first affected only me, but it was the most important happening since getting my balls pricked and made a boy-eunuch, with a permanently high voice and unable (as I thought) to “do it” with girls. The second event rocked the contented, complacent Knight-Fox family to its foundations and changed the lives of two other boys for ever...

Okay, I’m going on too fast - as usual - so I’ll take these one at a time. They told me that after being neutered, a boy isn’t supposed to get erotic longings. It’s not true. Just a glimpse of a girl’s knickers when she uncrossed her legs carelessly was enough to send me off into long daydreams about sex. Then one day, while exploring, I met Melanie.

At first, Melanie had pitied me. My story of how I’d been taken to the clinic, where a nurse had said “Another dear little boy to be neutered,” and then held me firmly down while the doctor injected Neutersol into my balls, almost brought tears to her eyes. But this soon gave way to fascination. She was a very “horsey” person and thought of my neutering as a gelding operation.

“Simon,” she once said during one of our sessions “you might have made a good stallion, but you’re a fantastic gelding!” She was never tired of fondling my minuscule penis and the place where my scrotum had been, before the loose skin grew out smooth.

Together we explored ways of enjoying sex that I’d not have believed possible. That very first time, she said “I’m going to kiss yours,” and took my penis in her mouth – and I had all those erotic thoughts that I wasn’t supposed to get anymore. And though I was sterile and impotent, unable to get an erection or to have an orgasm, I learned that I was able to fuck her with the help of an artificial prick and balls, which strapped on where my own had been. With another boy, also neutered, and his girlfriend (yes, it’s not only possible, it’s true!) we had one hell of a sex party, which you can read all about somewhere else.

Before I can tell you about the second, and altogether different, episode, I need to introduce the two younger Knight-Fox boys. Up til now I’ve only mentioned them in passing. Roddy, the younger, wasn’t the Knight-Foxes’ own child but legally adopted.

He was thirteen, with blond hair and the sort of peaches-and-cream complexion that often comes with very fair people. There was a sort of 'little-boy-lost' air about Roddy: not that he was small and slight – he wasn’t, he was quite well made – but sometimes his blue eyes would open wide and his mouth quivered, as if he was going to cry.

He had quiet tastes: chess (which he played expertly), reading, doing his stamp collection. He liked listening to the quieter sort of Sixties pop music: old forgotten groups. That summer his holiday project was to catalogue all the trees and shrubs on the estate, illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings, all beautifully done.

I’d seen Roddy in the shower, although up to date he’d never seen me. He had the sort of body that some young boys have, just before puberty. He was perfectly proportioned; a square chest with boyish nipples, a firm tummy with a neat belly-button, curving down to his genital area. Not a glimpse of hair down there, but a well-formed and uncircumcised penis, tapering to a point where the foreskin covered the entire glans. His scrotum was like mine had once been, the skin very fine, almost translucent, showing the small blood vessels and two plump testicles. His bronzed legs, seen from behind, ran up to a soft rounded bottom.

Fifteen-year-old Malcolm couldn’t have been more different – a true son of his father. Wing Commander Knight-Fox was a thick-set, burly man with iron-grey hair that had once been black, and strong features. Malcolm was as dark as his father had been and the same sort of build, big feet and big, rough hands. (Roddy’s hands were slender and delicate). He had inherited the same large nose and prominent chin. Only his mouth was different. The Wing-Commander always looked good-humoured; Malcolm’s mouth was turned-down and ugly.

He was ugly inside too.

To put it nicely, he was macho. There are ruder words for it. He liked “garage” music turned up to full volume. Though he was supposed to take me out sailing and teach me how to shoot, he’d lost interest after a couple of outings. (It was Melanie who later took me sailing, and shooting didn't interest me.) Malcolm loved handling guns but was a lousy shot. If the woodpigeons got too noisy Malcolm would grab the four-ten from its rack (he was strictly forbidden to touch his father’s 12-bore) and blaze away. I can’t recall that he ever hit anything.

But there was something else too. Both boys attended boarding school in Devon. Now, deprived of female charms for thirteen weeks on end, a lot of boys turn to having sex with one another. As a “junior”, I had myself become a senior Prefect’s sex slave: bum-boy if you prefer. The majority grow out of it later. Malcolm was one of the exceptions. He was actively and aggressively gay.

Melanie was certain, though she couldn’t prove it, that Malcolm was using Roddy as his minion. She’d once seen the sailing dinghy half-hidden in the reeds and the sail down, and movement underneath. (“And if they weren’t having a go with one another, what were they doing?”) She thought that Roddy might have learned the habit in his years at a children’s home, and initially led Malcolm on. She was altogether wrong about that.

Now I come to it.

In late August Malcolm hit sixteen. He disappeared into the town with some of his friends for the evening, as he often did. Over the next two or three hours, they drank God knows what, returning in a bunch at about ten o'clock. Malcolm’s booze-sodden mind registered his father’s big black BMW 740i standing on the drive, with the keys still in...

Four of us were in the lounge. Roddy had just beaten me at a chess game and we were thinking about bed. Mrs. Knight-Fox was doing some cross-stitch work. The Wing Commander was busy with his laptop. We heard shouting and laughter, and feet kicking up the gravel. Mrs Knight-Fox looked up. “Harold, Malkie’s been drinking again; shouldn’t you go and help him, in case he’s sick?”

The next thing was the sound of a powerful engine starting up. Harold Knight-Fox drew the curtain aside to see rear-lights disappearing down the road. “Christ, he’s taken my car!” he shouted. (It was much later we found out that Malcolm had proposed to his mates, stoned out of their minds as they were, that they should all go to a gay bar in Southampton.)

Intent on heading Malcolm off before he reached the M27 motorway, the Wing Commander rushed out and jumped into his wife’s old red Rover 214. This was a mistake. Registering through an alcoholic haze that there was a car on his tail, Malcolm trod on the gas. The big BMW was soon far ahead of the Rover. Vodka and all the other booze overcame Malcolm soon afterwards: at a roundabout on the outskirts of Lyndhurst the big car mounted the curb and smashed into a wooden bus-shelter. The engine stalled and died.

The BMW, built like a tank, was hardly scratched. Malcolm and his passengers were shaken but unhurt. The bus shelter was matchwood. But it had not been empty. Inside, a vagrant had been fast asleep on the bench. The impact had broken his neck, killing him instantly.

Someone phoned the police, attracted by the noise of the crashing car. To tell you everything that happened next would be boring. Of course the police brought charges. At next day’s preliminary hearing, Malcolm was committed for trial for “causing death by dangerous driving” – only just short of manslaughter, with a secondary charge of drunk-driving. The Crown Court trial would be some weeks off. Meanwhile, Malcolm was taken away to a Youth Custody centre.

The senior Knight-Foxes at once disappeared to London, to see lawyers and prepare the defence case. That left Roddy and me in the care of Mrs. Hodges, the housekeeper – to see we got regular meals. (I would have left the place, if I’d had anywhere else to go). The farmhouse became a Mecca for press photographers. Mrs. Hodges did her best to shoo them away. In a strong Hampshire accent she warned us “What yew want to dew, is ter keep ewt of the wye – keep a low profoile, loike”. She must have got “low profile” from the paper. We had no problem keeping out of the way.

Roddy kept to his room much of the time and rarely spoke to me, and only twice at any length. The first time, he said he was scared witless of returning to school and hearing boys say “Look out, here’s another of the Knight-Fox boy racers. They get stoned and kill people, you know.”

The second time was pure accident. I had taken a shower and was drying off. Now at school I didn’t bother with who saw me. My closest friends had all had their balls pricked, and other boys, who hadn’t been, took no notice – it was just something that happened. But to Roddy, the sight of an otherwise well-made, tall boy with the penis of a four-year-old and no balls or scrotum, was something else. He stood and goggled in shock.

“Before you even ask,” I said, “I’ve been neutered, when I was a bit younger than you. Some boys are, you know. This is what it looks like."

Of course he wanted to know all about it - why I’d been neutered (I gave him an edited version), did I mind, how was it done, and did it hurt? I answered all of his questions and he became quiet and thoughtful.

Next morning, Roddy wasn’t there.

I suppose I should have seen that one coming.

His bed hadn’t been slept in. Before Mrs. Hodges discovered this and began flapping about, I pulled the bed apart to make it look normal, and left some clothes on the floor too. Whilst doing this and wondering what to do next, I heard hooves on the cobblestones outside. Looking out I saw Melanie, riding Diamond. Quickly I ran downstairs. Melanie dismounted.

“Roddy’s vanished,” I said. “I’ve only just found out”.

“Then we’d better start looking,” said Melanie. “I’ll need to leave Diamond somewhere safe – can I use your paddock?”

With Diamond safely lodged, we set off and soon came to the boathouse. The sailing dinghy was still there but not the rowing boat. “He can’t have gone up-river,” said Melanie “or I’d have seen him. It must be the other way. Help me with the sail”.

There was enough breeze to give us steerage way. Melanie steered. Her legs were bare, which must have been very uncomfortable when riding, and she had on the blue denim mini-skirt which gave me a view of her knickers, the tiny black thong she always wore. But no time to think about sex now. If Roddy had gone too far and got caught by the ebb-tide...

I saw it first, the rowing-boat drawn up on some shingle, just below a small concrete building, a World War II block-house. “Over there, Melanie!” I pointed. “Ready about – mind the boom."

Melanie put the helm down and steered us across towards the rowing boat. We tied up and climbed the broken, weedy steps to the block-house. “Roddy, are you there?” I called, as I came up to the rusty iron door that was the entrance. I feared the worst: it smelled of damp and decay in there.

But he was there, alright, and wrapped in a sleeping-bag. To my question had he been there all night, he grunted a “yes”.

“In that case,” said Melanie, taking charge, “you’re coming back with us for a proper breakfast. And then you can tell us what’s on your mind. We’ll have to use the rowing boat to tow the dinghy, though – the wind’s all wrong for sailing and flood tide’s not for ages”.

At the Knight-Fox boathouse we left the dinghy behind. Melanie was apparently keeping house that day. In her mother’s kitchen she left me to brew up some coffee and fry eggs, while I made toast. Roddy looked tired out and grubby after his night in that place. At first he said nothing, then horrified us by suddenly starting to cry. Then he began to talk.

Through sniffs and sobs he told us of his nightmare – that Malcolm would be released to come home and torment him as before. It was a pitiful and disgusting story. Melanie had been right, up to a point. About a year before, Malcolm had first forced Roddy into having sex with him, forcing his big rigid penis up the younger boy’s bottom and shooting his lot into his bowels. They had used the sailing dinghy, lowering the sail and using it as a canopy to prevent their being seen.

Roddy’s anus bled from the repeated assaults on it and was often sore. He had begged Malcolm to use some Vaseline, which in the end he did. Worse was to come when Roddy learned that Malcolm was also having anal sex with some young bum-boys in the village, who were rumoured to spend evenings in Southampton and Portsmouth, offering themselves to sailors or anyone else with money. Terrified of disease, Roddy persuaded Malcolm to wear a condom. “They’re in the locker of the boat,” he said. “The condoms and the Vaseline”.

“I hate Malcolm,” he said, fairly spitting the words. “I hope he never comes back. Much better if he’d been killed when he crashed the car”. His blue eyes blazed. “To be rid of him for ever!” Then he paused. "I wish they'd never adopted me."

It wasn’t just the pain of getting sodomised – although he hated every minute of it. Personally, I hadn't minded it that much, but then again, those who had done it to me had always done it properly. But there was more to it than that.

Malcolm revolted Roddy physically: his terrible breath (I’d noticed that too, really foul), his pimply face, his big, rough and usually dirty hands, but worst of all, his precociously hairy body.

“I don’t want to be like that,” Roddy whimpered, near tears again. “I don’t want to get like other boys with hairy legs and a hairy arse. I’m different. I want to be me”.

And then he said it.

“I’d like to be like Simon”.

This comment caused my stomach to attempt some odd acrobatics, which I wasn't sure of just WHY it was doing at the time.

There was silence for a moment. Melanie spoke first. “But Simon’s had a neutering operation. He's a gelding...I mean, a eunuch!"

“I know,” replied Roddy. “I’ve seen. And I’m not frightened”.

“But, Roddy,” I said. “I’ve told you what it means – for me. I can’t ever have children, and there’s no point getting married, even because I can’t ever get a woman pregnant. I can’t have sex with a girl (only partly true but I didn’t want to complicate things). Just stop and think for a bit, 'bout what you'd be giving up.”

“I have thought. All last night. If only I could be “done” like you were. To stay as I am. Never mind getting married, I don’t want to be. And I hate girls – not you, Melanie, you’re different. Oh shit!” Roddy broke down in floods of tears again.

“You’re tired out,” said Melanie. “Sleep now and we’ll talk some more later”. We tucked Roddy up in Melanie’s own room and returned to the lounge. We looked at each other.

"Could he still be done?" Melanie asked, with an odd gleam in her eye.

“He could be,” I said. “I’ve seen him in the shower. He looks like me, down there, before I was “done”. Just the right age. But how, that’s the point. Not on National Health, for starters. We can’t just take him to a clinic, like I was; they’d never listen to us. And anyway, we’ve no money”.

“There are other ways,” Melanie said. “Up at Home Farm they’ve got a Burdizzo, for doing the calves. I know where it’s kept”.

I shook my head. A burdizzo castrator works by crushing the spermatic cords and veins, and for farm animals it apparently works perfectly. But I’d read about experiments in neutering boys by that method. It caused a lot of pain and more often than not, caused blood poisoning.

Then I had an idea. “Where’s your computer?” I asked.

With the search engine in action I keyed in “Neutersol” – the name of the very drug that had been used on me. The website came up OK. There was a lot of stuff about the development of the drug and how it had revolutionised the neutering of young boys. Then along the top of the page I saw the red button labelled “ORDER” and clicked on it. Another page appeared. Halfway down, the words “Starter pack for home castrations” appeared. I clicked on that too. An order page came up. I began typing in Melanie’s address, then came to a full stop.

“This is no use,” I said. “It’s all based in the USA and they want credit card details. I haven’t got one and I don’t suppose you have”.

“Wait,” said Melanie and ran out of the room. She was back in seconds with a wallet full of credit cards. “Mummy’s always leaving them behind,” she said.

The top card was a gold Visa. I typed in “The Hon. Selena Scott-Hamilton” and the number and expiry date, then “Submit”. Up came the magic words “ORDER ACCEPTED” and the news that we could expect it in three to four days. I logged out and then dumped the Internet cache. “So all we do now is wait,” said Melanie. “Don’t worry about the credit card bill. Daddy’s accountant gets it.”

“What’s all this, then?” I asked, jabbing a finger at “The Hon. Selena Scott-Hamilton”.

“Yes, stupid name, Selena, isn’t it” said Melanie. “It means ‘Moon’. Dad’s just plain John Hamilton”.

“No, I meant the first bit,” I said.

“Oh, that! You have to blame Uncle Carl for that. Mum’s his younger sister, and he’s a viscount, so she’s an Hon. She was a Scott before she married Dad”.

“I’ve an Uncle Carl too,” I said thoughtfully. “And my name’s Scott. What’s your uncle like?”

“A big tweedy man. Drives a dark-green Jaguar – when we see him which isn’t often, because he’s abroad a lot, although he’s got a place near here. He’s with the Foreign Office, some sort of fixer, though they call it ‘special envoy’."

“Sounds the same,” I said. “If so, we’re cousins”.

Melanie put an arm round my neck and kissed my cheek. “In that case it’s a good thing you can’t get me pregnant,” she said. “We might have got married and had loopy children. Anyway I prefer you as you are, with no balls”.

Uncle Carl, if it was the same, had arranged to get me neutered. And though he’d been very kind and understanding about it, he had said he would take me to Disneyworld afterwards, but never did. He went both ways, in fact he screwed my ghastly cousin Sue although she was hopelessly under-age. But he had remained unmarried, for the simple reason that although he frankly preferred young boys.

He’d had me a couple of times – the first soon after I came to Britain and long before I got my balls pricked. The second in his hotel room not long ago, in term time, jamming his penis up my bottom and groaning aloud as he shot his load into my guts. Lastly it was he who had wished me on the Knight-Foxes. So I had very mixed feelings about Uncle Carl.

Three days dragged by. On the afternoon of the fourth I was kicking stones round the patio when I heard the engine of a car in the lane, making a lot of noise. It was the Hamilton family Landrover, being driven by Melanie, very badly. She scrunched to a stop and switched off. “You’ll get run in,” I said.

“No I won’t. There’s only a few yards of road between your gate and mine. All the rest’s private land. Anyway, the stuff’s come! It arrived this afternoon, special delivery. I waylaid the postman in the lane”.

Together we opened the package, very carefully. There was a small phial of surgical spirit, cottonwool swabs, and three hypodermics, clearly marked. One was a local anaesthetic. The other two were Neutersol Plus. There were also instructions and diagrams. The diagrams showed that because a testicle was more or less egg-shaped, the needle had to be put in longways, not from the top. It showed the correct way to hold the testicle while doing it, to make sure that the needle didn’t slip out and go right through the scrotum and out the other side. And much more.

“Simon, if you like, I can do all that” Melanie said. “I’ve done an advanced First Aid course and practised giving injections.” I agreed at once.

“When do you think?” asked Melanie.

“Tonight” I said. “About eleven. Roddy will have been in bed for some time, and will still be drowsy. He’ll scarcely even notice”. We agreed on that. I said nothing to Roddy, who was once again keeping to his room much of the time.

So it was late that same evening when I once again heard the Landrover chugging fitfully up the lane, and the scrunch on the gravel as Melanie braked too hard before switching off. Together we went very quietly to Roddy’s room, finding him, as we hoped, fast asleep. Carefully we drew back the covers. Roddy, like me, slept bare, which helped things. Roddy stirred in his sleep then settled again.

I had a pencil-torch that threw a narrow concentrated beam. When Melanie was ready I shone this on Roddy’s private area, for Melanie to inject the Novocaine into the fold of his crotch. Five minutes ticked by.

“That should do it” Melanie whispered. She took the first Neutersol needle and with quick deft fingers inserted it into Roddy’s left testicle. Slowly, steadily, she depressed the plunger. Roddy didn’t stir.

As Melanie replaced the hypodermic in the tray a curious twisted expression passed over her face. Her lips compressed, and her eyes closed and opened again. Then the spasm, whatever it was, passed and was gone. Carefully selecting the second needle she injected it into Roddy’s other testicle.

It was done. Roddy was a boy-eunuch.

We replaced his bedclothes and crept downstairs. I put the carton with the empty needles into the hot-water furnace in the kitchen, where they would burn away before morning.

Roddy was a boy-eunuch. That thought kept pounding through my brain.

“What happened just now?” I asked Melanie. “I mean after you’d done his first ball and before the second? You seemed to be in some sort of pain. Were you?”

Melanie smiled. “Pain, no. Oh no! I told you, once, that I loved to see young colts getting their balls cut out, that it gave me a funny feeling between my legs. Well just now I was alright til I’d neutered his first ball then suddenly I realised “Hey, I’m doing this with a real live boy!” and it was the same feeling I get at colt castrations, only so strong that for a minute or two I could think of nothing else. Then when it passed off, I found something terrible had happened. I’d flooded my pants! I need to get home – I’m all wet and sticky down there. I need a wash and clean pants, quickly."

“But we’ve done it. We’ve done what he wanted, and what a lovely little gelding he’s going to make!” She added happily.

“You and your geldings!” I teased, and kissed her cheek, before she left, to drive in fits and starts back to her home. I pitied the poor car.

Next day everything seemed to happen at once.

Roddy, who was never down early, appeared yawning at breakfast time. “Got a headache,” he complained. “Can you find me some Paracetamol, Simon, please? And I’ve got such an itch, down there. And I’ve had such a strange dream, that you and Melanie came in the night, and shone a light. Only I can’t remember any more”.

“That wasn’t a dream. We really did come. And we did just what you wanted, Roddy. That’s why you are itching down there. It’ll pass off soon. Mine did”.

Roddy’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and his face grew pinker and pinker. “You mean I’ve been...that I’m...oh, gosh!" And that was all he managed to say. He wandered off into the garden.

Mrs. Hodges appeared with the “Daily Telegraph”. “You’d better read this, Master Simon. And then explain it to Master Roddy, about his brother”.

Headed “Hampshire Tearaway Jailed” there was a summary of Malcolm’s trial. Under a new Home Office initiative called “Fast Track” this had been brought forward. Instead of weeks to prepare a defence, the Knight-Foxes’ lawyers had had a few hours. Not that it made much difference. The jury took twenty minutes to find Malcolm guilty as charged on all counts.

Summing up, the judge was very severe with the Knight-Foxes. It was fortunate for them that they, too, were not on trial, because their failure to control Malcolm was the main cause of the tragedy. He referred to “elements known to the police” – no doubt a reference to the Southampton bum-boys Malcolm had knocked about with. The Defence case – that the hobo should never have been in the bus shelter and the whole thing was an accident, was manifestly absurd (the judge’s words, not mine). As for Malcolm, there was a minimum sentence which he – the judge – had no power to modify. Malcolm would go to a Young Offenders’ Detention Centre for a minimum of two years. Leave to appeal would not be recommended.

'Quite right too,' I thought, after the way Malcolm had treated poor Roddy. They got some rough types in YOC’s. Locked in after hours, they would bugger him rotten!

I folded the newspaper away and called Roddy in. “You can stop worrying now,” I said. “Malcolm won’t be coming back for a long time. They’ve locked him up”.

“Oh gosh!” said Roddy again. “Good riddance.” Then, in a different tone “Simon, have I really had my balls pricked? What happens now?”

“All you’ve got to do is wait,” I said. “In a few days they’ll start to shrink and dry up. Finally they’ll disappear completely. Though it takes longer, your cock will shrink up also. Because you were never circumcised as a baby, there may be quite a lot of loose skin down there. It’ll probably grow out as you get bigger and taller. If it doesn’t, you can have it taken off. But no need to worry about it just yet. Right?”

Roddy nodded and skipped out into the garden again. Not long afterwards I heard him singing. He had quite a good voice. He might improve still further, as a castrato. But at least he seemed happy.

A bit later, for the third time in twenty-four hours, I heard the poor Landrover grinding up the drive. Melanie got out. She had a very short yellow sun-dress on. “Hi” she said. “How’s our new gelding?”

“Singing his heart out,” I said. “How’s our new castratrix?”

“What’s one of those?”

“A female castrator,” I said. “I’ve just read the paper. They’ve put Malcolm away for two years.”

“That’s what I’ve come about,” said Melanie. “That trial was two days ago and things have moved on since then. Uncle Carl has been on the phone. He’s coming over this afternoon, early, to sort a few things out, he says”.

“It’s eleven now,” I said. “What shall we do in the meantime?”

“Find a room with a bed in it,” said Melanie.

In my attic bedroom, we stripped bare. “Let’s do sixty-nines,” said Melanie. “We haven’t done that for a long time”.

The bed was narrow, but we managed. I buried my face between Melanie’s thighs as she took my tiny cock in her mouth. I felt with my tongue for the tiny button that gave Melanie so much sex-pleasure, as she began to suck my penis and caress it with her tongue. She was quivering all over. I knew I could never have an orgasm but the wonderful feelings got stronger and stronger, coming to a sort of peak. In the same instant Melanie ground her love-mound against my face, her soft adorable thighs squeezed my head and she had a massive climax.

“That was wonderful,” I said.

“Wonderful isn’t the word for it,” breathed Melanie.

Girls, girls, girls! Their bras and boobs, their thighs and knickers, their rosy nipples and sugar-pink cunts. Girls were what sex was all about. Even with a four-year-old’s cock and no balls, I wanted sex with girls. Having another boy’s prick up my behind was all in the past.

Melanie’s love-juices were all over my face. We washed and tidied-up and went to wait for Uncle Carl.

He arrived not long afterwards though not in his well-remembered XJS. He now had a metallic grey Aston Martin. But no doubt about it, he was Melanie’s Uncle Carl as well as mine. He called the three of us together. “First of all,” he said, “Harold and Celia (the Knight-Fox parents) “have gone to New Zealand, for good. Poor old Harold would have been cold-shouldered in the Square Mile after all this, but one of his companies had a vacant slot in New Zealand. When Malcolm is released in two years’ time he’ll go straight out there.

“I’ve let my cottage to tenants and I’ve taken a short lease on this house. I’ve got to do an inventory of all their stuff and ship out the things they want. I’ll try to spend more time in the U.K. than I’ve been doing. Somebody has to visit Malcolm after all.

“So that’s about it. Only something’s been nagging at the back of my mind. “Simon, you and I have some unfinished business”.

If he wants to take me upstairs and pull my pants down, nothing doing, I thought. But it wasn’t that.

“A long time ago – you’ll remember when, we agreed on a trip to Disneyworld, but never made it”. (I certainly did remember. It was part of a bargain for losing my balls: a new desktop and a trip to Disneyworld. I’d felt totally let-down when we didn’t go.)

“Well, time to catch up, I’d say. Your term starts next week and by the way, Roddy, you’ll be joining Simon at his school. You can’t go back to where you were. It’s all arranged. Where was I? Of course, Disneyworld. I don’t think there’s time to get to Orlando, but would you settle for Eurodisney, that’s the Paris one? With Melanie and Roddy of course”.

So that was decided on. As I said once, Uncle Carl always did what he said he would – more or less. I could have done without the photos of me in the mouse ears-hat though, that somehow got loose at school later!

That’s almost the end of the story.

Back at school a week later, Roddy had been taken in hand, upon his arrival, by the Roebuck twins; their gentle appearance concealed the fact that they were both Black Belts in judo. They brought him to me to let me know. I wanted him to meet as many of my friends as I could get together so I got the word sent around and found an empty room.

All the familiar faces: Mark, professional singer, successor to Aled Jones; shy and diffident Colin Hislop, maths genius, and his younger brother Calum; Manchit Khanna, who had survived a crude village castration and the horrible life of a “hijra” to become a demon fast bowler, and cheeky Graham Elliott, who preferred to be called Jack and had never lost his Geordie accent, and a few others who had apparently had their balls pricked over the summer holidays and were still coming to terms with it.

Jack Elliott was telling a dirty story. “There was this dirty old Vicar, see, and there was a choirboy he fancied something rotten. He took the lad to one side and said “Do a turn, do you – all the way in?” and the boy said “Sure thing, fifty quid.” “Twenty-five,” said the Vicar. They argued a bit and finally the lad said “OK then, you can have me all the way for twenty-five."

“So they went to the vestry and the Vicar pulled the boy’s pants down and bent him over a chair to shove his prick up his bum. Only when it was right in, as far up as possible, the lad clenched his muscles so that the Vicar couldn’t pull out again and said “Right, guv’nor – fifty quid, or I’ll fart, and burst your bollocks”.

There was a shout of laughter. Jack turned and saw me. “Oh hello, boss!” I introduced Roddy to him. “This is Jack Elliott, always life and soul of the party”. Jack put an arm round Roddy’s shoulder. “You’ll be alright with us, Roddy. There isn’t a single pair of knackers in the room!”

Roddy blushed.

“Elliott, how many more times have I got to say ‘Don’t be crude’," objected Mark Maitland. (Mark’s neutering had left him with the smallest penis I’d ever seen. He had to pee sitting down and had taken to wearing girl’s knickers). He put out his hand. “Welcome to our club, Roddy”.

Roddy shook hands with all in turn. As Jack had said, he’d be alright with them.

The first Sunday of term; nearly the end of morning service. I was in my special pew in the school chapel on the “Cantoris” side, as Head Chorister; Mark was directly opposite on the Decani side. The organ made a sort of snoring noise: Dr Jolly, the Music Director, was a rotten organist – and we were off into the recessional hymn “Crown Him with Many Crowns”. I knew this backwards and inside out, so I could afford to look around.

Roddy was in the row behind Mark. They had discovered within hours that Roddy could sing and put him straight into the second trebles. I ran an eye along the two rows of choir stalls. All the front row had had their balls pricked, and half the second row. Did old Jolly know something, I wondered?

I thought about warning him about Matron later, but figured I'd not ruin the surprise.

“Crown him the Lord of Love”

So much had happened, in less than a month. I’d never have believed it possible.

“Crown him the Lord of Years”………….

Roddy joined the rest of the choir in a soaring descant. His eyes shone. He’d come home.

THE END