The next morning, I did not have time to think about the two men at all, as there was a gelding.

Maris does all the cutting herself: she says that she adores it, and that I believe. One of my less pleasant memories involved her face, spattered with blood, her hands like stained white claws grasped around my severed balls. I can’t be sure: through the stinging haze of pain I was not aware of very much, but I though I saw her lick them, and smile at me. I did not like watching geldings, but all the boys must go to a few before they are given responsibilites in the house.

Maris was waiting for me in the gelding room. The boy was strapped down spread-eagled, and his penis and balls were being washed by a courtesan. She was wearing an elaborate garment made entirely of gold chain-links and red ribbon, and she looked up to smile at me as I came in. The warm, scented water that she rinsed him down with splashed from his buttocks and onto the cool stone floor. The boy closed his eyes, relaxed by the sweet herbs that they drink before the castration, and the feel of warm water coursing over his private parts.

“This is your last chance to change your mind, darling,” said Maris, slipping her hands into thin surgical gloves. The courtesan was in the corner, sharpening the castration blade on a small whetstone. Over the soft, rhythmic scraping there was the sound of the boy’s rhythmic breathing, someone playing a guitar in the courtyard, and a whisper of wind from outside.

“No, I’m ready,” said the boy, opening his eyes - and what beautiful, warm brown eyes they were, full of sincerity and love. With his eyes open he looked five years younger. I almost wanted him to be left whole, but then imagined that beauty preserved, ripened, and hoped the pain would not take away his loveliness. Even his genitals were perfectly formed: his penis, already half-hard and quivering, was pale as his skin but for the head, which was pale pink as the inside of his mouth. His balls were of average size and shapely, and the pearly lumps within made me think of what was to come. All this was splayed wantonly for mine and Maris’s eyes, and I felt myself growing a little hard already.

“All right then, petal,” said Maris. She took the honed blade from her handmaiden - I stood back a little, as I was wearing my new silk clothes. The boy looked at me, and gave a little nervous smile. My heart grew faint.

“Daryush-angel, you can hold his hand while I work,” said Maris, and moved to stand between his legs, her knife poised at the base of his penis. The boy exhaled deeply, letting out the last breath of his short-lived manhood, and I took his soft hand in his, the very instant that Maris made the first cut.

His eyes widened; he gave a ragged, shallow gasp, and gripped my hand. I found myself kissing his hair lightly, stroking his hand that now gripped mine. He relaxed a little, but when Maris pulled his exposed ball free, glistening from its socket, he gave a low moan of pain. I saw bright red drops of blood fall on the floor, and join the rivulets of water running towards the drain. Maris was quick and efficient, one of the finest cutters in the world, or so she said, but for the sufferer, the pain was never over fast enough.

To distract him, I kissed him again, on the eyebrow, and on the cheek. He had such fair, soft skin, mottled with fading freckles, like light through leaves. He was beautiful: no, he was beauty, and those gentle eyes now filled with tears of pain almost undid me.

“Ease him,” said Maris, through gritted teeth, as she sliced the ball free. She held it in her bloodied hand, grinning, and I had to look away.

To distract both the boy and myself, I gently kissed his lips, silencing his cry with my mouth, while my hand moved lower. I stroked his tight stomach muscles, all tensed with pain, and his smooth chest. Moving my mouth from his lips I kissed his nipple, then reached further down stroked the length of his penis with my hand. His breathing quickened, and he hardened noticeably, despite his pain.

When Maris sliced open his second ball, he cried out, his voice high and pained, but my stroking was relaxing him. I had to be gentle: if he bucked, the blade might slip, and if he came Maris would have to stop until he was spent, but the soft action of trained fingers on his penis was enough to relax him and ease the pain away. More blood spilt on the floor, as Maris guided her sharp blade through the film of blood and soft testicle-skin to free her prize.

At last, Maris cut the ball free and held both of them in her hands. The courtesan took the castration blade away to be washed, and the boy let out a shaky groan. His cheeks were flushed, and a fine sheen of sweat was on his body. He looked like a fevered angel.

“You did very well,” I reassured him, sponging his face with a damp cloth. “It’s almost done now.” I poured him another cup of the herbal mixture, and held it to his lips: he drank thirstily, licking my finger as I drew it back.

Maris had put on fresh gloves: now she held a needle and thread. She smiled at me. “You also did very well, my dear. You eased the pain for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he fell in love with you, after that.”

I looked at the boy, now becoming drowsy under the influence of the herbal draught. “He is beautiful,” I murmured.

“Interesting,” came a voice from the corner. Surprised, I turned, and there was the strange man from the day before. In the dark of the gelding-room he seemed taller and more menacing, yet he must have been standing in the shadows all the time. A strange client he was! For some reason, the thought that he had seen me ‘easing’ the other boy made me blush.

“It’s always interesting,” said Maris, smiling at him. I concealed my stupefied expression and dropped my eyes modestly, only daring to look at his boots through the curtain of my eyelashes. “No two castrations are the same.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “I should like to see another. Your cutting was excellent, Mistress Maris, and I wish to see this boy attend the sufferer again.”

Maris seemed a little taken aback, but she said: “Yes, of course that can be arranged. I must close the wound now, but we will talk later. She signalled with her eyes to the courtesan, who laid a light hand on my back.”

“Come on, Daryush,” the girl said, “you’ve blood on your face. Let me wash it off.”

Dumbly, I let her lead me away, my thoughts of the angelic boy tormented and replaced by the face of that dark, devilish man.