Sunday Football

We were about the same age and lived in the same apartment complex, so I'd seen him around.  I didn't know his name, though.  He didn't go to my high school.  Sixteen years-old, I went to Cleveland and was in the tenth grade.  If I'd even thought about it, I guess I'd supposed he either went to a private school or was home schooled.  Then his dad and mine became buddies, probably because they had one of those big screen plasma TV's, you know, one of those you can hang on the wall.

My dad spent Sundays watching Pro football.  From the time the first game came on until the last one was over, he sat in the living room, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, watching football.  I never watched it with him.  I mean, how lame is that -- to waste a Sunday watching football with your old man?  I usually spent my Sundays with Joe, Eric, and some of the other guys, hanging out, just being cool, or seeing what kind of shit we could get into.

And the week before, we got into some shit.  Eric and me got caught trying to boost some mp3 players at Fred Meyers.  They had one of those detectors at the entrance to the electronics department.  I knew they did and had looked on the package for one of those stickers that trigger them, but hadn't seen one.  It must have been inside the package.  They're getting sneaky, putting them inside the package where you can't get at them.

Anyway, when we went through the detector, it beeped, and they found the mp3 players we had hidden in our jacket pockets.  My old man had to come down to Juvee to get me.  He was pissed.  We didn't get along, anyway.  He was always ragging on me about one thing or the other.  My mother left us back when I was ten.  She ran off with another dude; and I ain't seen her since.  Guess my dad didn't like getting stuck with a kid to raise.

Come Sunday, when I was getting ready to go out, my dad said, "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to go hang with Joe and Eric.  We're going to shoot some hoops or something."  It was one of those Indian summer days, sunny and about seventy degrees.  I was wearing a t-shirt, my gym shorts -- cotton knit emblazoned with a Cleveland High logo -- and sandals. 

"You ain't going anywhere," he said.  "You're coming with me over to Ron Wilson's place."

"I ain't gonna waste my Sunday watching football with a couple of old drunks."  That earned me a back handed slap across the face.  I hated my dad.  I couldn't wait until I was old enough to get out on my own.

He held up his hand, as if to slap me again.  "You ain't going nowhere with Eric Robins.  He's a little shit.  Every time you run with him, you get in trouble.  Next time the cops pick you up, I'm gonna let them keep you."

"Be better than living with you," I muttered under my breath.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Nothin."  The old man hit hard.  I didn't want another slap.

He handed me a couple of six packs.  The deal was, he furnished the beer and Wilson furnished the snacks and the TV.  This had been going on for about a month.  He grabbed a couple more six packs.

It wasn't far to Wilson's apartment.  We lived in the upstairs end apartment in one row of apartments, and Wilson lived in the middle upstairs apartment the next row over, close enough for my dad to run back to our apartment for more beer if the one case wasn't enough, which it probably wouldn't be.

Wilson answered the door.  "So this is the kid you were telling me about," he said. 

"Yeah," said my dad, "this is Mike."

"Come in," said Wilson, taking the two six packs from me.  "I'll put these in the fridge."

I wondered what my dad had been telling him about me.  My old man wasn't the type to go around bragging about his kid.

I gave it a try.  I really did, sitting in a chair listening to the two old farts whoop and holler about a meaningless game, while tossing down beer and smoking cigarettes.  If might have been ok if they had offered me one, but they never did, and I knew better than to ask.  Finally, I said, "This is lame.  I'm leaving."

"The hell you say," said my dad.  "You ain't going nowhere."

"Go see Greg," said Wilson, "He's in his room.  You're both about the same age.  He don't like football neither."  He pointed to a closed door off the middle of the hallway. 

So that was his name -- Greg.  Hell, figuring it couldn't be any more lame hanging with him than sitting around with the two drunken old farts, I walked down the hallway to his room, opening the door and walking in without knocking.  Man, was I shocked.  I'd never seen anything like it.

Naked -- his front toward the door -- he was standing in the middle of his room, his head turned to one side, looking at himself in a full length mirror.  I got a shot of full frontal nudity, as they say on the porn sites on the Internet.  His crotch was bare, not a hair on it, but that wasn't all.  He didn't have a cock or balls neither.  He wasn't no girl.  He didn't have no pussy.  He didn't have nothing, just smooth skin.

"Get out," he screamed, dropping his hands to his crotch and turning away, so I was staring at his ass instead.  He looked back over his shoulder at me.  I didn't get out, but I did close the door.  My pecker was making a tent out of my shorts.  It'd become hard as soon as I'd seen his crotch.  "Why don't you leave?" he said.  "I told you to get out."

I walked over to him.  "I just want to see," I said.  He was a tall dude, maybe a couple of inches taller than me and out weighed me by twenty pounds or more.  He might could have whipped my ass, but somehow, I didn't think he would try.  He was staring at the tent my cock was making in my shorts.  "Let me see," I said, taking him by the shoulder and turning him around.  He let me, pulling away his hands so I could see.

Looking closer, I could see a scar which ran down the bottom of his crotch.  I guessed where his cock and balls had been, but they sure weren't there any longer.  I mean, except for the scar, you wouldn't have thought he ever had either.  "When?" I asked, running my hand over his scar.

"A year ago," he said.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Sixteen."

"Me, too," I said.  "How come you don't have any hair?"  Even I knew that, if he'd only been castrated a year before, he should have hair.

"I pull it out," he said.

"Why? Doesn't that hurt?"

"I like the way it looks better without any hair, and the more I pull it out, the less hair grows back, so, if I keep it plucked, it doesn't hurt much.  I even pull the hair out of my armpits," he said, raising one arm, showing me a hairless armpit.  I wasn't paying much attention to his armpit, though.  I was running my hand between his legs, where I encountered a small hole.

"Is that where you pee from?" I asked.  The hole was between his legs, below where his balls must have been.

"Yeah," he said, "that's my pee hole."

He must have liked what I was doing, because his head was tilted back and his eyes were closed.  With my hand still on his crotch, I looked at his face.  He was a good looking dude, black hair, and I'd noticed that he had gray eyes.  Now, I'm not queer or anything.  If he'd been a normal boy, I wouldn't have even noticed whether he was good looking or not, but he wasn't a normal boy, was he?  Was he even still a boy?  Didn't a boy have to have a cock to be a boy?

With one hand still on his crotch, I reached up with the other, pulling his face down to mine -- and kissed him.  I even gave him some tongue.  He kissed me back, running his tongue into my mouth.   Then, he slid one of his hands beneath the waist band of my shorts and grabbed my cock.  I shot as soon as he did, pumping my spunk into my shorts.  I'd never been so hot in my life, but then, all I'd ever done was beat off.  I'd never fucked a girl.  Oh, Eric and I beat off together sometimes, but he'd never touched mine, and I'd never touched his.

Still kissing me, he pulled down my shorts, then pulled me onto his bed.  My dick, about half hard, was becoming stiff again.  It wasn't real big when hard, not even five inches, which is why I guess I'd never tried to make it with a girl.  Eric's was at least two inches longer than mine and bigger around.  He always made fun of my little cock.  I was afraid any girl I tried to hump would, too.

When we were down on the bed, he pulled my t-shirt up.  I raised my arms, letting him pull it over my head.  I kicked off my sandals.  We were both naked.  He rolled me over so I was on top of him.  Our mouths were still joined, so tightly we could have been Siamese twins.  My cock was hard -- throbbing once again.  He raised his legs.  I felt him grab my cock again, felt the head of it nuzzle at his hole, his asshole, I realized.  With a thrust of my hips, I plunged my cock into his hole.  Hot and tight, it felt great, better than I could have imagined.

I pumped away, shoving my cock into his ass until I shot again, this time into his ass.  It was good.  If fucking a girl was any better, I would be able to stand it -- it was that good.  I did him three or four more times before I rolled off him.  "Shit," I said, "that was fucking great.  Did you like it?"  I wondered whether it felt as good to get fucked in the ass by a boy as it did to fuck a boy.  If it did, I might have to try it myself.

"Yeah," he said, "it was ok, better than usual.  I liked doing it with you.  The others are too old; besides they're usually drunk.  Even my dad is usually drunk when he fucks me."

"YOUR DAD FUCKS YOU?"

"Yeah, didn't you know?  Didn't he send you in here to fuck me?  He's always letting his friends fuck me.  I think he makes them pay to do it.  I have to fuck your father every Sunday when he comes over to watch football."

"You fuck my father?"  This was really blowing my mind.  I mean, fucking this kid was one thing, but having seconds after my old man was something else."

"I thought you knew.  When my dad said you were coming over with Jim (My father's name) I figured you knew.  Then, when you didn't leave when I told you to, I figured my dad had told you that you could fuck me."

"Is that why you let me?" I asked.

"At first," Greg said, "but after you kissed me, I wanted to do it.  Your mouth doesn't taste like cigarettes and beer like theirs." 

Then, changing the subject, he asked, "Have you ever had a blow job?"  I shook my head.  "Do you want one?"  This time I nodded.  I didn't know if it would feel as good as fucking, but I wanted to find out.  "Lie back," he said.  I'll get a wet wash rag to wash you off."

He walked out his door, still naked, leaving the door open to go to the bathroom at the end of the hall.  I'd seen it.  The door to it had been open when I walked down the hall to his room.  Both my dad and Wilson were sitting on the couch with a full view of the hall, but he didn't seem to mind.  I did.  They would know I'd been messing around with him.  At first, I was afraid my dad would accuse me of being queer, but then, he'd fucked him, too, hadn't he?  If I was queer, he was, too.  Still, I expected him to storm into the room, but he didn't. 

In a moment, Greg came back carrying a wet washcloth in one hand and a small towel in the other.  He shut the door behind him, which provided me some relief from the anxiety I was feeling about his old man and mine knowing I was fucking him.  At least they hadn't heard me when I had climaxed.  I had been pretty noisy when I had come, but the TV was turned up loud.  No way they could have heard me over it.

The washcloth was wet and warm.  Greg must have soaked it in hot water.  It felt good.  He soon had my cock clean and dry.  It was hard.  It'd been hard since he'd first mentioned blow job.  I had a lot of questions for him, but -- for now -- I wanted him to use his mouth for things other than answering my questions, so I put off asking them.

First, he licked my cock, around the head, around the rim at the back of the head.  Then he put the head of it into his mouth, just the head of it no more.  I could feel his teeth.  I think he wanted me to.  They gently scraped against the sensitive head of my cock.  I could feel his soft lips, his tongue, as he darted it into my pee hole.

He teased me, taking only the head of my cock into his mouth, but about the time I was ready to grab his head to shove it all into his hot mouth, he took all my cock into his mouth, burying his nose in my pubic hair, then, bobbing his head, pumped my cock with his mouth.  It wasn't too long before I came again, this time into his mouth.  He swallowed it.  Shit, I thought he'd spit it out or something, but he swallowed it.  I wondered what it taste like. 

I'd thought about tasting my own come before, but always -- once I'd shot -- I'd lost interest in tasting it.  Once you've shot into your hand -- once the cream is sitting in your hand and you're no longer horny, it no longer seems like a good idea.

Looking up at me, he grinned.  A drop of my spunk was on the corner of his mouth.  "Did you like it?" he asked.

I had liked it.  I had liked it a lot, almost as much as fucking, but I didn't tell him, instead I kissed him after first licking the drop off the corner of his mouth.  It really didn't have that much of a taste, maybe because it was cold and there wasn't much of it.  Perhaps -- hot out of a cock -- it would taste different.  I thought maybe I'd taste it in his mouth when I kissed him, running my tongue into it, but I didn't.  He tasted just the same as he had before.

"Do you miss having a cock?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess.  Wouldn't you miss having a cock?  But I don't miss it as much as I did at first.  Since I don't have any balls either, I don't need sex like I did before.  I used to jack off all the time, at least two or three times a day.  I had to have it.  I thought I'd go crazy if I couldn't do it; but I don't even get turned on any more.  Today -- with you -- was the first time I even enjoyed fucking.  I never like it with my dad or his friends."

"You don't like it with my dad?"  I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to fuck my dad.  I couldn't really blame my mom for leaving him.  I just wish she'd taken me with her.

"Naw, he's just like the others, no better or no worse."

"Why do you let them do it?  Why don't you go to the cops?"

"Then what?  They'd put me in some foster home and everyone would know I was a freak and that my own dad and all his friends had been fucking me.  There'd be a trial and everything.  Hell, even your dad would probably go to jail.  Would you want that?  Would you want to live in a foster home? 

I'll be eighteen in two more years.  I can stick it out until then.  It's not so bad.  My dad only fucks me a couple of times a week anymore and I don't usually have to fuck more than a couple of his friends a week. 

Hell, your dad's the worst.  He always wants to fuck at least twice when he comes over on Sunday.  If you weren't here, he would have already been in once.  At least, he's not so drunk the first time he does it. 

It's really not so bad.  It's not like I get turned on by them, and everyone, but my dad, has to use a rubber.  At least I don't have them shooting in me.  Even when I give them a blow job, I make them use a rubber."

"You didn't make me use one."

"You're young.  I wanted you.  I wanted your come inside me.  I wanted to taste it.  Besides, I figured you for a virgin.  I didn't think there was much of a risk of catching anything from you."

I still had a hard time believing that my dad had been fucking Greg.

"How did it happen?" I asked, running my hand over his empty crotch.  "How did you lose your cock?"  I wondered if it had been some terrible accident, or maybe even cancer.  I hoped it had been an accident.  I didn't know how I'd feel about fucking someone who had cancer.

"My dad had me cut."

"YOUR DAD HAD YOU CUT?"

"He and I used to fight all the time.  I guess I was a little shit.  He used to live on a ranch.  He told me they used to cut colts to quiet them down and make them into better horses.  He figured that castrating me would quiet me down some."

"Did it?"

"Yeah.  I don't get all hot and bothered about things as I did before."

"Your dad had you cut?  He didn't do it himself."

"No, he had a cutter do it."

"A cutter?  What's that?"

"It's a guy who makes his living cutting off guys' balls and cocks, mostly on guys who want it done.  Some guys want to have their balls cut off.  Since I've been a eunuch --"

"A what?" I asked.

"A eunuch.  That's a guy who at least doesn't have balls.  If you have everything cut off like I do, you've been nullified.  So, I'm a nullo, a guy who's been nullified.  Some guys want to have it done. 

There's a site called Eunuch.org.  They have a bunch of stories about castration and a message board where other eunuchs post.  I can't post anything there because I'm only sixteen.  You have to be eighteen to use the message board.  I can read the stories and what others have posted, though.

"So, how did this cutter do you?"

"Well," he began.  This is the story as he told it:

* * *

My dad had locked me in my room.  We'd had a big fight and he'd actually put a padlock on my door so I couldn't get out.  He was always threatening to have me castrated, but I always thought it was just talk.  I had no idea he'd really go through with it. 

Actually, my main jerk off fantasy was imagining that I was being castrated.  I guess because he'd said it so much.  Even when I was a kid, he used to talk about cutting off my balls; and sometimes he said he was going to cut off my wiener, too. 

I had kind of a castration fixation.  After reading about it on the Internet, I realize I might have had it done myself when I was older.  Maybe that's why I'm not so pissed off that he had it done.  Maybe he saved me a lot of trouble.  A lot of guys want it done, but can't find anyone to do it.  I kind of wish I'd been able to make the decision for myself, but -- in some ways -- I'm glad it happened.

I heard him unlock the door.  There was another man with him.  David Peter, my dad called him.  I thought later that it was an appropriate name for a cutter.  "What do you want?" I asked, pissed because he'd locked me in.

"David's here to cut you," my dad said.

"What do you mean, he's here to cut me?"  I had no idea what he was talking about.

"He's going to castrate you.  I'm tired of your shit.  You don't deserve to have balls, so he's going to take them from you.  You'll be better off without them.  Just like some horses can't handle having them, some boys can't either.  You haven't been worth a shit since you hit puberty."

"Like hell, you're going to castrate me," I said, not really taking him seriously.  He'd threatened me with it so many times before.  But, even as I said it, I had a hard on.  As always, the prospect of being castrated turned me on.

I started to push past him, but both of them grabbed me, taking me into the dining room.  The dining room table had been moved and another table had been set up.  It was covered with vinyl and had a series of straps attached to it.  My dad and Mr. Peter strapped me to it.  I fought, but they were too strong for me.  Then, Mr. Peter injected something into one of my veins.  I was still awake.  I knew what was going on, but it was like I was super stoned and didn't care.  All I could do was giggle.

Then, he injected me again, this time in my balls, and around my cock.  With the drugs, I was no longer hard.  I remember thinking, he really is going to castrate me this time, but the thought just made me giggle.  How funny.  I wonder what it will be like to have no balls.  At the time, that's all I thought they were going to take.   My dad had just said he was going to castrate me, he hadn't said anything about cutting off my cock, too.

Mr. Peter stuck a pin into my balls and into my cock.  "Do you feel that?" he asked.

"No," I said, quite apathetically.  With the drug he'd initially given me, I couldn't work up any concern about being castrated.  Let him cut off my balls for all I cared.  I didn't need them.  I'd jacked off plenty of time, imagining that they were cut off.  I was just a little sorry that I couldn't now, that they were actually about to be cut off.  My ultimate fantasy about to come true, and I couldn't even feel my cock.  That whole area felt dead.

"The whole works?"  Mr. Peter asked my dad.

"Yes," said my dad.  "Everything."

"That's extra," said Mr. Peter.

"I know," said Dad.  He handed him a check.

After putting away the check, he started on me, first shaving my entire crotch area and the inside of my legs.  I wasn't very hairy anyway, just a patch of curly pubic hair around my dick and some hair under my arms.  My legs were pretty hairy -- they aren't so much now -- but I didn't have any other body hair.

Once I was shaved, he spread some brown antiseptic all over my crotch, my balls and my cock.  I still thought he was just cutting off my balls.  Once he started, I watched.  It was all I could do to raise my head, but I wanted to see.  I had imagined it so much in my fantasies that I wanted to see if my imagination was anything like the real thing.  I don't know what he'd given me, sodium pentothal, probably, but it was a cool high.  Everything seemed funny.

He slit open my sack from top to bottom.  I wondered about that.  What I'd seen on the Internet, they usually just cut slits big enough to pull out one of the nuts.  I couldn't feel anything when he cut my sack open, but I could feel the blood running down my legs.  I could see my balls, although, covered by blood as they were, I couldn't tell much about them.  I could see that they were attached to cords, though, and they were moving, like they do sometimes in your sack, but more violently.  I wondered if they knew they were about to get cut off and were trying to escape.

Then, he picked up one of my balls and pulled, stretching the cords, clamped a hemostat across the cords and tied them off.  Then he did the same to the other ball.  "Well, Greg," he said to me, picking up a small pair of scissors, you're about to become a enunuch.  What do you think about that?"

"Cool," I said.

"I wonder if you really think that," he said, "or if it's just the drug talking.  No matter.  Here goes."  He snipped off the first of my balls, the right one, I think, placing it into a bowl.  "Half way there," he said, then he snipped off the other one, placing it into the bowl with the first.

I was a eunuch.  I no longer had balls.  I had been castrated just as my dad had threatened me for all these years, and I was too high for it to bother me.  "Do you want me to save them for you?"  Mr. Peter asked me.

"Cool," I said again.

Once he determined that the cords weren't going to bleed, he let go of them and they popped up into me somewhere.  I was getting a little antsy.  I think the drug was beginning to wear off.  I think I started whining, so he gave me another shot.   Everything was fine again, cut away, I thought.

Before long -- I guess, I'd lost all track of time -- he inserted a catheter into my dick, way into it, clear to my bladder I guess, because pee started flowing out of it.  Once it stopped flowing he started cutting again.  He had my balls, I thought.  Why was he still cutting?

This time, he cut the skin loose around my cock at the base, and made a slit from above my cock down, extending the cut which had slit open my ball sack down toward my ass.  It dawned on me.  He was going to cut off my cock.  I asked him, only a little more concerned than I'd been when he'd cut off my balls.  "Are you going to cut off my cock?"

"Yes," he said.

"Will that make me a better boy?" I asked.

"It'll make you a better person," he said.  Without a cock and balls, you won't really be a boy, will you?  But that's a good thing.  You'll be a eunuch, a nullo -- that was the first time I ever heard the word -- That's much better than being a boy."

I didn't say, cool, that time.  There was so much blood, I wasn't feeling so hot.  I kind of drifted in and out throughout the operation, but I was awake when he lifted my cock off, all in one piece, not only what sticks out, but that part you feel inside when you have a hard on.  It was about half again longer than it had originally been.  He made me  the pee hole you've seen, pulling the catheter through it, then stitched the two halves of my scrotum together.  I had stitches running from above where my cock had been down below where my ball sack had been.

* * *

Greg had finished with his story.  "Did it hurt?" I asked.

"Not when he cut it off.  I didn't feel anything when he cut off either my balls or my cock, but it sure hurt afterward.  You don't get cut like that without it hurting.  I ate a lot of painkillers during the next week, but by then, it didn't hurt so much.  It was sore -- sore for a couple of months, but it didn't hurt so bad that I couldn't stand it."

"Did you save them?" I asked.

"My balls?" he asked. I nodded.  "Yep," he said, "do you want to see them?"

"Sure," I said, so he went to his dresser and pulled a small bottle from the drawer.   He held it up for me to see.  Two oblong white objects, cords attached, floated in a liquid.  Those are really your balls?"

"Yep," he said.

About that time, the door to his room opened.  My dad, his dad, and another man were at the door.  "Have you boys had fun?"  Mr. Wilson asked.  I didn't know what to say.  I'd spent the last couple of hours fucking his kid.  I didn't know how he would feel about it.

"Hello, Greg," said the stranger.  "How've you been?"

"OK, Mr. Peter," said Greg.

Mr. Peter -- shit.  This was the guy who had castrated Greg.  What was he doing here?"

"Have you drained him for me, Greg?" asked Mr. Peter.

"He shot his wad about six times."

That was me he was talking about.  What the fuck was going on?  I knew.  I just didn't want to admit it, even to myself.  My dad intended to have me done, too.  Well, Gregg might have had castration fantasies, but I never had, although my cock grew hard at the thought.  "You're not castrating me," I said.

"Actually," Mr. Peter said, "the term is nullification.  Your dad wants you done like Greg.  I'll be doing you here.  Then you'll be staying with Greg until you're well enough to be up and about."

"Like shit," I said, looking for a place to run, but with the three of them blocking the door, there was no place to run.

"No use fighting," said Greg.

"You asshole.  You knew," I said.

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What could you have done?  They wouldn't have let you leave; and you would have just fretted about it while we were waiting for Mr. Peter to get here.  Wasn't it better this way?  You got to fuck me and I sucked your cock.  If I'd told you, you would have been too scared to do it.  I had fun doing you.  If I'm not mistaken, you did, too."

I tried to run for it, knowing I had no chance.  I never made it through the door.  They carried me to the dining room, strapped me to the table, and Mr. Peter gave me a shot.  In a matter of seconds, I felt just as Greg had described, high, with a case of the giggles, and not overly concerned that they were about to cut off my cock and balls.  I didn't want them to do it.  I just couldn't work up any righteous indignation about it.

My operation proceeded just as Greg had described his.  I was prepped: shaved, cleaned, and antiseptic smeared on my crotch.  A catheter was inserted into my cock  I watched as Mr. Peter split open my ball sack from top to bottom.  I saw my own balls for the first time.  They looked much like Greg's in his bottle, but they were too bloody for me to see whether they were white like his.

Mr. Peter picked on of them up in his hand.  "Are you ready, Mike?" he said.  "Are you ready to become a eunuch?"  He must ask that every time.

I didn't say, cool, like Greg.  That's lame.  I said, "I'd rather not," but not with much conviction.

"Sorry, boy," he said.  "They've got to go.   You'll be better off.  You'll see.  Greg doesn't mind it now, do you Greg."

"No," said Greg.  "It's not so bad.  You'll see, Mike.  It's not so bad being a nullo.  At least no one can lead you around by your cock if you don't have one."

"Do you want to keep  them?" asked Mr. Peter, holding a small pair of scissors up to the cord on my right ball, the one that didn't hang down so much as the left ball.

I nodded.  I could feel tears running down my cheeks.  I felt high, and not that concerned, but I still didn't want to lose my balls.   When he asked me if I wanted to keep them, I nodded, meaning that I wanted to keep them in their sack where they belonged, but knew, even as I nodded, that wasn't what he meant.  He meant, did I want to keep them in a jar?  Well, I guess I did.  If that's the only way I could keep them, it would have to do.

He snipped through the first one, placing  it in a bowl.  "Half way there," he said.  He must never change his patter, but then why should he?  Each person only had two balls to lose.  He wouldn't be doing the same person a second time.  I only knew what to expect because Greg had just described his nullification to me.

He picked up my left ball, the one that hung lower.  Well, it would hang no more.  "This is it, Mike," he said, "one little snip and you're a eunuch.

I didn't hear it or feel it.  You'd think that becoming a eunuch would be more momentous.  I just saw my ball drop into his hand.  He, in turn, dropped it into the bowl with the other one.  "It's all over, Mike," he said, grinning.  You're ball-less.  You're a eunuch.  Now, for the hard part."

I didn't have the stomach for it that Greg had.  When I saw all the blood, I fainted.  I woke up from time to time, took one look and fainted again.  By the time I was fully awake, my cock was gone and I had stitches running down my crotch.  "Can I see it?" I asked, wanting to see how much longer my cock was when the inner part was included.

He showed me.  I was disappointed. Soft, it wasn't a lot longer than the external part had been when hard.  Well, no one would tease me about having a small cock any longer.  I didn't have any cock.

In a couple of months I was healed, and my curiosity about what it was like to get fucked was satisfied.  My dad was the first to fuck me, then Greg's dad.  The four of us moved from the apartments to a house together.  That way, the two men could fuck whomever they wished.  They brought by their friends.  I fucked them, too.

I thought at first I'd turn them into the police, but like Greg had said, what good would it do?  The deed had already been done.  I was a nullo.  Going to the cops wasn't going to change that; and I didn't want to live in a foster home, having everyone know I was  freak.  It'll only be for a couple more years; and we all got along pretty well.  No knock down, drag out, fights like before.  I guess -- without balls -- I was easier to live with.

Greg and I sleep together.  All we do is cuddle and kiss -- like what else are we going to do?  But it feels good.  Somehow, it's enough.  Being a nullo isn't as bad as I had thought it would be.

I hardly ever look at my balls.  Once in a while, I'll take them out of the drawer where I keep them, trying to recall how it felt to have them -- how it felt to be turned on -- to shoot my wad -- but it's getting harder all the time to remember.