It was an oppressively hot Saturday in September 1977. I was a well-behaved 20 year old, sent around to Mrs Ratcliffe's with some clothes and instructions not to return until they'd all been pressed. Mrs Ratcliffe was a childless widow in her late 40s, who lived just two streets away. To supplement her income, she took in clothing from her friends and neighbours and ironed it, charging a modest fee for her services. In truth, most of the neighbourhood women could easily have ironed their clothing themselves. In fact, it would have been quicker and more convenient but they wanted to help Mrs Ratcliffe out, so most dropped piles of clothes off, arranging to pick it up later that day or at some other time in the ensuing days ahead.

My father was Vicar of the local Anglican church and this was how we'd got to know Mrs R., as she was a member of the congregation. I'd been taking clothes around to her for several years now and, despite the disparity in our ages, we'd struck up a good relationship and we used to get through many cups of teas, as we chatted about all manner of things as she worked her way through the always-huge piles of clothing, before I went home again, several hours later.

On this particular Saturday, I put the plastic laundry basket on the floor, as instructed and sat down in the leather chair opposite the ironing-board, as Mrs Ratcliffe continued to iron. She was a very 'proper' lady and there was no 'queue jumping' or 'favouritism'. Just because I'd shown up in person to wait for our household's ironing didn't mean we'd get preferential treatment. Oh no: the clothes would go to the bottom of the pile, which was why I was always at least two hours before I returned home.

I kicked my white plimsolls off and sat there, bare-footed. "We'll have our usual cup of tea in a minute, Adrian" Mrs Ratcliffe informed me. The conversation then moved on to what a scorcher it was that day. "You look very hot. Why don't you take your t-shirt off and I'll iron that as well? I won't charge extra for doing so!". I protested that it was OK; I was alright, really but Mrs R was determined. I'd always been brought up to be obedient, no matter how disagreeable the situation, so I reluctantly removed my t-shirt and handed it over. I was now naked to the waist and one of my shameful secrets was out.

My large, torpedo-head shaped 'boobs' were on plain view, wobbling and jiggling about. As I reddened, Mrs R., as if reading my thoughts, said "oh, it's no real secret, Adrian! The other ladies and I have often commented on your bust. Bust! How I hated that old-fashioned term! The way your upper clothing hangs down from your bustline in a straight line has long been evident to all of us, no matter how loose and baggy a top you might have on, to try and disguise your figure. In fact, we all think Janice must be quite envious of you". (Janice Coblett was my long-term girlfriend, with whom, much to her frustration, I'd had a platonic relationship. And my 'male boobs' were just one of the reasons, although I never explained why, of course).

To my utter horror, I'd developed 'breasts' about 2 years before. Apparently, this was fairly commonplace in some boys undergoing puberty, as I was then, but in 99% of all cases, these disappeared within a few months. In the unfortunate 1% of cases, they remained and were known as gynecomastic breasts. Guess who'd been in the infinitely smaller percentage group? Games and PE lesson as school were always a torment, as one side often had to go without tops and all the jibes came readily from my classmates, such as "Macrow's got tits" and "you're bigger than my sister". I was a very quiet boy anyway, without confidence and the appearance of my womanly upper half just served to further increase my justified feelings of unmanliness and inferiority.

Mrs Ratcliffe carefully placed my surrendered t-shirt under a large pile and I thought that would be an end of it. No such luck! "May as well do your shorts too, while I'm at it" she continued. I again murmured protests but soon acceded, handing these over to join my t-shirt. I now had only my white cotton y-front pants on. Yes, Mrs Ratcliffe decided to go for 'the set'. "Let me have your pants now, Adrian, please". I looked stunned but there was a firmness in her voice that told me she'd brook no arguments whatsoever. "Oh, there's no need to be modest! I've seen little boys before, you know". Leaving aside the implied insult of the 'little boys' phrase, I thought yes, but I haven't been seen naked before. Not by a neighbour - or anyone else, for that matter. Not since I was about six years old, anyhow.

I reddened still further but dropped my pants to knee, then ankle level before thrusting them in Mrs R's direction and hastily sitting down, contriving to cover my boobs with my folded arms and crossing my legs to hide my genitalia. But my other embarrassing secrets could not be hidden from the inquisitive eyes of Mrs Ratcliffe, who was efficiently ironing garment after garment and folding each neatly, as she continued to speak.

Sensing her next question, I surprised even myself by blurting out the fact that I'd never had any body hair, as I'd never been able to grow any. I was completely smooth-skinned, with no arm, leg, under-arm, chest, back or pubic hair at all. "I think a boy looks better that way" beamed Mrs R., before requesting me to stand up, so she could take a look at me. ("Might as well see what you really look like, Adrian, now I've got the chance").

I was told to stand with my hands clasped at the wrist behind my back. That way, my last pitiful secret was truly uncovered. To whit, my woefully undersized penis. Classmates used to talk about 6 inches erect being the norm but I was only 1.5 inches when flaccid. Erection was very difficult for me to achieve, unless my penis was subjected to severe handling and even then, the resultant increase of 0.5 inches made a hardly noticeable 2 inch todger. As a result, my normal flaccid state showed what looked like a very rumpled foreskin only - akin to the end of a knot in a balloon. Underneath were two equally undersized testicles, with dimensions like marbles, rather than the golf balls or hens' egg of most boys. Although hugely ashamed by now, I remained as limp as ever.

"Well, maybe Mother Nature was giving you something 'extra' up top to make up for what she'd deprived you of down below" Mrs R commented. "I'm surprised though, with you being a Vicar's son and given the Biblical precedent, that you haven't been circumcised. Penises are not attractive at the best of times but circumcision does improve their look slightly, I feel. Come here".

As I moved towards her, she came from behind her ironing-board and using her right thumb and forefinger yanked my foreskin back. I winced and half-cried with pain, as there was nothing gentle in her gesture. No was there anything remotely sexual. Throughout that fateful day, her attitude was simply that of a superior and elder being towards an inferior, younger one. Yes, she hugely enjoyed my shame and discomfort but she obviously never remotely entertained any sexual thoughts towards me. I was simply a child, to be guided by an adult in whichever direction the adult decided was appropriate.

"That's better!" she beamed, retreating behind her board again and picking up her iron. "Try to make sure you keep your willy like that in future, Adrian. It not only improves hygiene but it's better to see the little mauve mushroom on show. Now, how about making those cuppas?". I went off into the kitchen and soon returned with two cups of tea. I was relieved to sit down - although still acutely aware of my nakedness - and even more relieved when the conversation turned to other, far less intimate, much more ordinary topics. I knew it would be at least two more hours before my clothes were ironed and I could dress again and I equally knew I'd have to expose my whole body at least three more times during that period, making more tea but at least I could keep myself kind of covered up in the chair at all other moments. Strangely, Mrs Ratcliffe had made no reference to the microphallic sizing of my genitals - not that I kidded myself for one second that she hadn't noticed - but I certainly wasn't going to draw her attention to her omission.

About ninety minutes later, the accumulated effects of three large cups of tea made themselves felt upon my admittedly small-capacity bladder. I asked Mrs Ratcliffe's permission to go upstairs to her bathroom and use her toilet. To my surprise, this was refused. "I don't think that would be appropriate, Adrian, as I've got things in there it wouldn't be right for a young boy to see". I took this to mean she had some of her underwear hanging over the bath, drying. "But I don't want you wetting yourself, so we'll go to the kitchen door".

The kitchen door was flung open. There were two high stone steps leading to the garden, a few feet beneath. "The fences are fairly high on both sides and at the back, Adrian. Squat back, leaning on your hands. Open your legs and you can wee directly onto the lawn". It was obvious she was going to stand there, watching me. Naturally, my inadequate equipment meant I failed to make the lawn. Instead of the intended arc onto the grass, I merely dribbled onto both the steps. Mrs Ratcliffe was not pleased. "You silly boy! Stand up!". I did so, although I still had to finish peeing. She slapped my tiny penis hard with her calloused left hand, causing it to swing wildly from side-to-side (but still remain unerect). We then went back inside and I knew my chance to finish voiding my bladder was gone. I would just have to hold out until I went home. That ‘failure’ was to have far-reaching consequences for me in the future.

It was another hour before all our clothing was pressed, including my clothes I'd been wearing when I arrived. I was finally able to dress again but Mrs Ratcliffe's parting words struck a chill into my heart. "Now I'll mention circumcision to your Mother, Adrian. I must have a word with her about other changes too".. Saying "goodbye" politely, I was still slightly shaking my head in puzzlement when I got back, some two minutes later. If I'd known what Mrs R was thinking, I'd have given her parting remarks much more thought, instead of forgetting about them within a day or two.

Dashed Hopes

If I'd hoped Mrs R would keep quiet about my humiliation, I was soon proved wrong. Just five days later, I was out with my Mother as she was shopping in Wood Green. I loathed accompanying her, finding it boring but she insisted, so I had to go. I was there to carry all the bags home. On this occasion, we bumped into Mrs Ratcliffe outside the Co-op and the two of them were soon deep into conversation, ignoring me as I stood there, for all the world as if I was no more animated than a lamppost.

"I want to thank you again for also ironing the clothes Adrian was wearing" Mum said. So she knew about that! Mrs Ratcliffe had obviously telephoned her at some stage. "Oh, that was no trouble. A pleasure, in fact. I'll do the same each time he calls in future". Oh great. I'll be humiliated every visit from now on. Mrs R continued. "If you don't mind me mentioning it, I noticed Adrian wasn't yet circumcised and I thought, given Biblical teachings...?" Mum took up the theme. "It was recommended to me way back, by the midwife at his birth in fact but I somehow never got around to it". This was so embarrassing - here they were, talking openly in the street, about my most private concerns, as if I wasn't there. And anybody who cared to could overhear!

To my chagrin, Mrs Ratcliffe then when on to calmly mention my breasts and the smallness of my genitalia, adding that my bladder control wasn't very good, either. I could have died. The long conversation ended with my Mum allowing Mrs R to arrange 'matters' but what these 'matters' were to be I didn't know, as the two ladies said they'd phone one another shortly. Knowing better than to ask questions, despite bursting with curiosity, I remained silent and the shopping then continued.

Adopted

I was sent to Mrs Ratciffe's the Wednesday after this Wood Green meeting. Mum wouldn't tell me why; just saying Mrs R would inform me when I got there. I learned that my parents were going abroad for two years, as Dad was taking up a clergy posting in France. (I knew this already, although I hadn't been sure how soon his posting would occur). What I hadn't known until that moment was that, as I was staying behind, it wasn't felt right that I should be in the Vicarage on my own. Besides, it wouldn't be possible anyway, as the temporary incumbent that was to replace my Father would need it for his family.

Mrs R informed me that I'd be staying with her for the duration and that she was to become my legal Guardian! This had apparently been discussed at some length with my Mother and Mum had been perfectly content to cede all authority over me to Mrs Ratcliffe. I felt just like a chattel: unconsulted and passed from one person to another. Our neighbour explained that Guardianship meant she'd be much more than simply in loco parentis. It meant she'd have carte blanche to make any and every decision affecting my life, should she choose, from what I wore to the way I looked, to what I ate and how late I stayed out at night and many other matters. She emphasised again how Mum had given her complete authority over me and warned that she was a very old-fashioned, Victorian sort of Guardian. As her Ward, I would be expected to show her due propriety and refer to her as 'Mrs Ratcliffe', never anything cosily and - in her opinion - inappropriately familiar, such as 'Auntie Joan' or suchlike.

She then gathered her keys from the hall table and told me we were going out. "Where?" was my question. To the solicitors, Tyler & Roxburgh in Turnpike Lane, was the answer. There was a legal contract waiting to be signed, ratifying the entire process. When we got there and were shown in, I was surprised to see Mum there. She smiled and explained she also had to sign the contract in the presence of lawyers but thought it best to get here before we did. "Besides, you'll be seeing your Guardian from now on, not me, so I thought it best if you got used to Mrs Ratcliffe explaining the situation to you".

The actual contract-signing didn't take long. Formalities completed, copies of the contract were made and handed to both Mum and Mrs R and the original kept 'on file' in the Tyler & Roxburgh safe. We then all travelled home, I with my Mum this time and Mrs R with the other two ladies.

A Return Visit

It wasn't long before I was returning to 5 Outram Road with another pile of washing to be ironed. "This will be your last visit before you're living here permanently" Mrs R said, as I again took the loaded laundry-basket into her living-room. "Come and see the room I've got ready for you. Oh, before we do that, get undressed". Get undressed? Again? Then I recalled how Mum said Mrs Ratcliffe could press my clothes each time. Sighing and blushing, I slowly stripped. I was wearing trousers, socks and so forth this time, as the weather was cooler but the result was the same: me, naked and humiliated. "That's better! Now come upstairs with me". I was shown a box-room, painted stark white, with bare floorboards, also painted white. There was a sash window but the only furniture was an old-fashioned cast-iron framed bed. There were no cupboards or dressers for my clothing. 'Spartan' was the only adequate word to describe it.

“Oh, before I forget. Better ‘pull the curtains’” she added. This term had nothing to do with real curtains but was her expression for making certain my foreskin was fully retracted and my purple glans exposed. She reached forward and yanked the ‘curtain’ back, causing me to wince. “Better still!” she said. “It’s as important to dress properly ‘underneath’ as ‘on top’ where things show” she said. “It’s an ugly thing but curtain-pulling at least improves its look marginally”.

She went on. "Look under the bed, Adrian. What do you see?" I bent down and squinted into the near-gloom, not believing my eyes. "It looks like a, like a...potty" I said. "Well, fetch it out then!". It was a metal potty with a carrying-handle, also of metal. On the outside, in small black print, it said 'Capacity to inner line - 1 fluid pint'. The line was in red just below the top on the inside. On the turned-over rim itself in large red capital letters was painted my name. "I had it 'personalised' specially! You won't be using the house WC for weeing, as that'll be off limits to you, so this will be your receptacle. Obviously, once the line has been reached and the potty's full, that'll be the end of your toilet privileges for the day. You will be allowed to empty it first thing each morning and be responsible for keeping it clean. If you've been naughty, you won't be permitted to empty it and you simply won't be able to use it again until I say so. Got that?".

I 'got' it but had many more questions about my so-called 'toilet privileges', which Mrs Ratcliffe was delighted to answer. Despite me being 17, she saw this regression to infant toilet techniques as a vital part of the toilet training she had briefly mentioned a fortnight earlier. I was only permitted to pee when in full sight of Mrs R and there was to be a four hour minimum period between each use of my potty, to allegedly teach me better bladder control and restraint. Other than this, I was not to wee (her term!) unless specifically ordered, as it might be that I was allowed to go if out in the country or similar places. If I did not have my potty with me at others' houses, I was not to use their toilets at all. Mrs R said she'd contact all the neighbourhood ladies to inform them of the situation. "What if she had guests or visitors and I wanted to go?" I asked plaintively. It transpired I would simply have to hold on for however long it took or accept that I'd be performing my urinary functions in front of others as well.

My bedroom door was to be locked each night, too and bedtime was from 10 o'clock until 6 o'clock the following morning. I mentioned the lack of any wardrobe or similar and was brusquely informed there was no need. Mrs Ratcliffe would keep my clothing in her bedroom and would dole out whatever clothing she deemed necessary. "We're going shopping on Monday, in fact" she said, brightly. "I'm taking you uptown to a very exclusive store and buying you some new clothes. It'll be my treat for you! So most of the stuff you've got now won't be coming over with you - or even being left at the Vicarage. It's been arranged for the local charity shops to have most of it shortly after you move in here".

The rest of the visit passed uneventfully. Well, as uneventfully as any visit where there's a stark naked 20 year old sitting talking to a 49 year old neighbour can be. I was again pleased to get dressed and take the clothing back. It transpired I would be moving in with my Guardian in less than a week, which was news to me but I was rapidly learning that I was now normally the last to learn anything.

Downsizing

A week before my 21st birthday, Mrs Ratcliffe mentioned the subject of my birthday itself. "In some countries, it is customary for the birthday boy or girl to give presents, rather than receive them. I think this is a wonderful tradition, as it teaches children graciousness, so that's what will happen here: you will give me something. However, I won't stipulate what I require and you won't have to make any arrangements. I will sort everything out and you can just provide. You'll find out more on your day of birth itself".

So it was that, on 22nd September 1978, we set off. By now, my Guardian had to admit we were going to The Gainsborough Clinic, a 'specialist' clinic in Harley Street. She wouldn't reveal any more, saying I would be informed when we arrived but the penny dropped. I was going to be circumcised. It would be typical of Mrs R to have me circumcised, in the guise of a 'birthday present'. Both the psychology and the gesture, the unwilling gesture, would appeal to her. As so often in my life at this point, I was wrong. Or only partially right, at any case.

It wasn't long before we were both sitting in a small room at the Clinic. Doctor Fahmy, a Pakistani lady of about 45 with dark hair in a ponytail and a traditional long white medical coat on, introduced herself and sat at her desk before fixing her gaze upon me and addressing me. "Now, Adrian, you probably know that your Guardian, Mrs Ratcliffe, here has long been concerned about a certain area of your body. I know it is embarrassing to you to even have to mention it but facts must be faced and that particular area, or part, is your penis. As you know, you're very undersized, compared to most males of your age. I understand you'd compare unfavourably to even a six year old. However..." here, she cleared her throat, clearly gearing herself up to impart the real meat of her message. "...things can be changed. No, I'm not talking about giving you a larger penis. In recognition of the fact that your organ will never act as more than a mere urinary tube; a hosepipe if you will, Mrs Ratcliffe has requested that you be ah...'downsized' or 'reduced'. And this is where the Gainsborough Clinic comes in”. Whatever did the woman mean?

"Although you never knew it, your Mother chose not to have you operated upon and reclassified as a ‘Female’ when it was recommended, after one of your school Medicals, when you were 13 years old. It is something she regretted subsequently. Fortunately, that can be righted, albeit a few years late.Not that you are going to be feminized in any way now. The recent European laws now recognise other genders than ‘Male’ and ‘Female’. ‘Androgyne’ is one of these and these it what you will become, Adrian.

An Androgyne is a person without any primary defining male or female sexual charecteristics or organs. Secondary organs remain but the androgynous body is bereft of those parts that divide most people into ‘Males’ or ‘Females’. Let me elaborate further and in greater detail. To start at the very beginning, I've discussed the topic with your Guardian, Mrs Gee, Mrs Wright, Miss Carley and others - oh, so even my ex-girlfriend was part of my 'Superiors' now, was she? Sitting in judgement of me like the others - and we all strongly felt that, in view of its microphallic dimensions, your penis should be removed in its entirety.

Let me explain still further. Amongst the sound medical reasons, first amongst these are the reasons of inadequacy and undersizing. The modern adage has it that size does not matter but this is a complete falsehood, albeit a falsehood spread out of misguided kindness to those under-endowed males such as yourself. The simple fact is that from many angles, your penis appears to be just simply foreskin, with no penile stalk at all. It is unsurprising that he finds extremely difficult to achieve any kind of erection. An increase from 1.8 inches (flaccid) to a mere 2.2 inches (erect) is minimal. The practicality is that your urinary functions will be unimpaired. Hygiene is also of paramount importance and the egress-hole means less chance of stray urine droplets falling onto your groin or legs and no penis also means far less maintenance, when it comes to washing, bathing and/or showering.

Many Mothers and Guardians also feel the unobstructed groin looks much better from an aesthetic viewpoint and all of us were unanimous in agreeing this to be the case with you. Self-discipline is also an issue and lack of a penis will mean you cannot indulge in penetrative intercourse, masturbation or father children, though all these are extremely unlikely, I admit. From a penile perspective, your virginity will be forever assured, although there are, of course, many other forms of sexual activity".

Not for the first time, I was stunned but couldn't summon up anything to respond with. Dr Fahmy continued. “Your testicles and scrotum will be removed completely as well, of course. There are many aspects of your conversion, so you’ll be staying here for a few days until they’re completed but the initial genital amputation will be carried out whilst you are still awake. . "Right, if you'd like to go back to Reception? You'll both be called when everything's ready. It shouldn't be too long a wait". We both trooped off in silence and remained without speaking to each other, both lost in our respective thoughts, for the duration of our wait.

The Process Begins

Which was just fifteen minutes. The tannoy announced "would Adrian Macrow please report to Room 4 for his operation". Mrs R knocked on the door and we were bade 'enter'. Doctor Fahmy was inside, along with a young SRN Nurse of about 22, whom she introduced as SRN Anne Lucas. "I won't be performing your operations today, Adrian" she explained to me. "Your Guardian - here, she glanced at Mrs Ratcliffe and smiled - has specifically asked that a female Clinic employee do so. Nurse Lucas here will be performing her first such operations but you'll find her as professional and competent as any other staff members". With that, I was motioned away by Nurse Lucas, behind a screen in the corner"

Doctor Fahmy continued to speak as I stood behind the screen. “Though she is young (23), Anne is a very experienced and accomplished member of staff. She has a brusque, unsympathetic manner and will brook no nonsense or argument from you, Adrian”. I wasn’t thinking of giving her any!

“Nurse Lucas is not one for flattery – even if it were merited, which it plainly is not, in this instance – and her comments on your physique will be forthright. You must remain silent at all times, unless nodding in agreement or being told to speak. Anne has another brief matter to attend to after you have both checked in, so once Adrian has stripped, he will be required to remain standing on the floor, hands behind head, for approximately 30 minutes, until Anne returns and can begin”.

Mrs Ratcliffe was shown to a leather couch and invited to sit. She was also offered a cup of coffee, which she accepted. No such offers were made to me and I remained standing until Dr Fahmy said “Go over into that cubicle in the corner, Adrian. Undress and don’t come out until you’re in your birthday suit. I don’t want to see you wearing your watch or anything else! When you’re ready, just come out and I’ll deal with you”.

No matter what people think, being seen naked never becomes matter-of-fact with repetition. The next time is always as humiliating and awful as the first, whether that ‘next’ is the hundredth, thousandth or even higher. I could hear other lady customers talking as I pulled the curtain closed and undressed. I’ll have to step out there starkers and all the ladies will see me I glumly thought. But the realist in me knew nothing could be done to prevent such an outcome. I lingered over my disrobing but, after ten minutes, knew I couldn’t stretch it out or delay the moment any longer, so I pulled back the cubicle curtain and stepped out onto the main Salon floor.

I was met by Nurse Lucas (who told me to call her ‘Nurse’ when I was to speak). I noticed also that she unsuccessfully stifled a giggle when she saw my undersized state. Now in the middle of the Salon floor, she ordered me to place my arms behind my back. I was then bound into a straitjacket, leaving my arms pinioned behind my back. ("Simply to stop you accidentally moving them and interfering with the operations. It's for your own good") and Nurse Lucas then cradled my entire genitalia in her hand. How tiny it all looked, in her right palm! How tiny it all was, in fact.

My utter lack of any body or pubic hair was inevitably commented upon. Without speaking further, SRN Lucas picked up a syringe from a side table and jabbed it into my perineam, emptying it. "It’s coagulant, to stop any bleeding. It means any exposed surfaces will have the blood drying instantly, when exposed to the air. It’s an immediate chemical reaction between blood and oxygen and means there’s no mess at all. It’s marvellous stuff” Well, I wasn’t sure about that but the injection itself damn well hurt.

Pumped

A pump cylinder was shoved right over my still limp cock. This had a curly lead coming out of the other end and was plugged into a socket. Nurse Lucas flicked a switch on the side and the pump instantly moulded itself to my penis. It was very painful, very tight and impossible to remove. “We need to milk you before we can really begin” she said. “Otherwise it’s been known for sperm to be accidentally released at the moment of amputation and that makes a mess we can all do without”.

The pump was sucking at my little member constantly. “I don’t expect great results but it’s better we draw out whatever you do have” she said. Within a minute, a small amount of thin, see-through sperm lay within the pump tube. “Hmm. Just what I thought. Poor stuff – and not much of it. But better to have milked it out of you”. She pressed another switch and hot air filled the pump tube, drying my penis and evaporating all trace of semen either in the tube or the remnants adhering to my organ. Thus dried and cleansed, the pump was switched off, the suction ceased and it was removed,

Dished

“It’s about time we had a closer look at you” SRN Lucas informed me, “they really are small balls, aren’t they?”. Seeing my look of surprise at her usage of such an unmedical term, Nurse Lucas laughed. “Oh, I know what they’re commonly called and I think it sounds so much better than the rather pompous ‘testicles’” she said. Cradling my scrotum in her hand and squeezing the contents with her palm and fingers, she added. “Most boys’ balls are like plums in size by now but yours are like mere grapes. Best get a better look at them, before I pop them off. Got to get rid of this cover first, though”. By which, she meant my scrotum, of course.

The Nurse marked my scrotum at the point where it joined my body with a blue flesh pencil. Without further pause, she picked up a scalpel and rapidly, expertly and painfully made an incision, along the line she'd marked. She then slowly moved the scalpel along the line and around the base of my scrotum. It took her eighteen minutes to complete amputate my sac and leave my 'little almonds' (another of Mrs R's terms) permanently exposed. But that was to be a very short-term look, lasting only mere minutes of my life.

“Looks a bit like a piece of turkey neck, doesn’t it?” laughed Nurse Lucas, showing me, Mrs Rats – who’d stood watching the entire operation and others my amputated scrotum, which did, it was true, look like nothing more than a wrinkled, wattled piece of flesh like that found hanging under a turkey’s chin. How odd it was to see my balls, too – two white orbs of limited usefulness. I was shocked by very interested to see how pristine white they were. “Most boys have their left one as the slightly larger and you’re no exception. There again, most boys have regularly-sized gonads and here, you are the exception!”. Dr Fahmy was right about her assistant being forthright and outspoken. I did not appreciate such a trait.

“Now, as Mother Nature has provided you with two of these objects, you can spare one, so let’s take the smaller one, shall we?” Though couched as a question, there was no querying her decision. I was experiencing a horror deeper than I’d ever imagined possible. “Just how small are they, in comparison to most his age?” asked Mrs Ratcliffe. “Oh, to put it in layman’s terms, and as I just said earlier, Adrian’s are mere ‘grapes’, and you’d expect ‘golf balls’ or ‘plums’ from a person his age. They’re the size you’d expect to find in a six year old”.

My Guardian, and Doctor Fahmy had obviously agreed these operations all long in advance. “You might want Adrian gagged?” the Nurse asked Mrs R. It was agreed that this would be wise. Must be bloody painful, then I thought. A baby’s dummy was popped into my mouth. Being strait-jacketed, I could do nothing to resist.

Using scissors, SRN Lucas snipped through the vas deferens cords and placed my ball in the kidney dish. She then removed all the extraneous tubing, leaving nothing more than a pin-sized hole – where the cords had first entered my scrotum – on my groin, where the scrotum had been. “Of course, it looks silly with just one teste left and you don’t want to be lopsided. Do you?” The Nurse repeated her brusque movements and my larger left bollock soon joined its companion in the dish.

Meet The Equipment

“Come over here now”. I followed her to a table at the side. There was a small contraption firmly affixed to it. “What do you think this is, then?” I answered that I had no idea. “It’s a Laser. But it’s a very versatile Laser, with an enormous variety of uses and applications. In this case, it’s going to be used to amputate your penis, of course.”

“The lower block is made of stone and is curved, to fit any size/dimension of penis, thus ensuring a snug fit. A metal gated lock bar can be swung over and locked into place to prevent any movement or attempt at escape. The laser beam is then projected between the twin parts of the lock bar. You will feel pain – a very intense heat – for a few seconds. This is because the beam is simultaneously cauterising your stump as it cuts through, ensuring there is no blood-loss”

SRN Lucas then turned to address my Guardian directly. “As ‘penis donor’, Adrian will be locked into position to ensure that no more than a mere quarter of an inch is left as a stump: this will be removed tonight when he is admitted to our on-site surgery. Adrian will be sedated for this and know nothing of the whittling away until he awakes the next morning. Then, he’ll possess a groin with just a small urethal exit hole in it, marking the spot where his penis formerly was attached.

Not that he’ll see it then, as a permeable plaster will be fixed over this egress-hole, as there will be temporary flesh marking. The plaster will enable him to urinate freely through it but cannot be removed for a month. A return visit here in 30 days time will see the plaster removed and all scarring vanished, leaving just an exit for his voided urine. As previously detailed, his urine will henceforth evacuate in a straight line”.

Mrs Ratcliffe then had a question to ask. “And what will happen to his severed organs and pieces?” SRN Lucas replied “the choice, as ever, is yours. These can be fed into a flesh-macerator, rather like a paper-shredder or the macerators used for disposing of ladies’ sanitary products. You will both be able to see everything being macerated, if this option is selected.

Alternatively, if preservation is desired, at a small extra charge, Adrian’s sac can be turned into a drawstring coin-purse and his amputated testes as somewhat unusual earrings or key-ring adornments, with his penis as a paperweight or some such usage. These options can be discussed and decided whenever you wish. Though his penis won’t hold much paper down!” she concluded, eliciting more laughter from my Guardian

You have always asked for my own opinions on Adrian and I feel you should take up the jewellery options available. It means a greater outlay but what better way of reminding it of its former gender? Obviously the testicle-earrings would be a slightly different size (Adrian’s left ball being marginally bigger) but when gold-plated and hanging from chains, these will look very pretty – and you’ll certainly have a unique pair of earrings! You’ll also be able to tell your lady friends that your earrings are, in fact, the undersized balls of your Ward.

I would urge similar courses of action for both the drawstring coin purse and the penile paperweight. The latter can have a plaque attached, explaining the circumstances to every visitor who idly picks it up. May I suggest something like The penis of Adrian Macrow. Removed due to lack of use and inadequacy followed by the date and actual penis dimensions? Who knows? Piqued, your visitor(s) may ask if they can see the site of the amputation on your Ward, though it will be your decision whether you make him remove his trousers and pants, of course.

.

Mrs Ratcliffe obviously wanted more information about my future re-genderising as an Androgyne, so the Nurse went on. “As a future Androgyne, a few facts should be established and myths debunked at this stage. Just as with Eunuchs, and contrary to popular conception, the voice does not become higher-pitched. It will remain the same. A higher pitch only occurs if Castration is effected before puberty.

Neither will Adrian become obese or fatter: body-weight remains unaltered, aside from the few ounces lost due to the removal of genitalia. All body and other hair will cease to grow, leaving a permanently smooth skin. Head hair remains unaffected but facial hair for beards/moustaches/sideburns/stubble ceases to appear, too. There again, your Ward has no body or pubic or axillary hair to begin with, so this will make no difference whatsoever.

One of the truths is that it is commonplace for Androgynes to experience a small increase in chest size. This normally manifests itself in the shape of two tiny bud-like structures: so small as to be unnoticed when the subject is clothed. The excess oestrogen (female hormone) which has already resulted in Adrian having breasts rather than a male chest, mean a larger increase: likely to be 2"-3". This increase will occur rapidly. His breast shape will not change, despite overall enlargement”.

Amputated

“Right, let’s get on with it”, SRN Lucas grabbed me by my flaccid todger and placed said body part on top of the curved block of the Laser. She locked me into place, still limp. “Oh dear, we’ll have to stiffen you somehow”. She placed small crocodile clips either side of my foreskin. These connected to a small machine. I yelled, as many volts of electricity passed into my member. But it did the trick: I was erect – such as my ‘erection’ was.

“You’ll last long enough like that to be ‘cut down’” Nurse Lucas informed me. “Ready? These are your last few seconds as a Male. OK, here we go”. She pressed a button and I felt a burning sensation. I hadn’t been aware, until that moment, that Nurse Lucas was cradling my erect penis, until she moved her hand away and brightly exclaimed “and here it is now, no longer attached to you but a separate part!”. Aghast, I stared at the small fleshy thing in her palm, which had reverted to its flaccid state. It looked like a tiny slug. No matter how tiny one’s cock, there is an ineluctable sadness at seeing it like that, separated and no longer ever to be part of you...

The Nurse put it down and told me I could move away from the Laser now, as there was nothing physically attaching me to it anymore. Until she said that, I had been too awe-struck and horrified at the sight of my todger in her hand to realise I was no longer locked into position. I stepped back a few feet and looked downwards. My groin seemed an awfully vacant space, now there was no scrotum, testicles or penis attached to it.

“Welcome to Andogyny! We’ll get that stump removed tonight too, Adrian” reiterated the Nurse. “But you’ll be in overnight for that operation. As you know, you’ll be staying with us for about four weeks, until it all heals up. Then you can have your first look at your fully Androgynised body”. I was offered my severed penis to hold momentarily. “It’s not everyone who can hold their penis above their held, r behind their back or anywhere else” but I quickly returned it to the Nurse, who placed it back in the dish. Weird didn’t begin to do justice to my feelings.

My amputated penis was placed in the kidney dish with my balls and scrotal skin, and these were taken away, so they could be preserved by freezing. Mrs Ratcliffe smiled at me and said she’d decided to have each part put to use, as suggested. My sac would serve as a drawstring coin purse, my balls as a keyring attachment and my willy as a tiny paperweight. Great. I didn’t know what to say in reply, so just wanly smiled, although I was feeling far from happy.

(To be continued…)