“Okay, Wilson, let’s have it,” the Old Man said. “What do you have?”

He didn’t say please, not did he have to. He’s the boss; I’m the employee. “Well, sir,” I began reluctantly. The Old Man’s son meant everything to him, and learning that his daughter-in-law had been whoring around while her husband was overseas would likely make him wig completely out. “Sandy dropped Jason off at daycare right at eight, just like always. Then she drove to Springvale and went to the Holiday Motel and entered room 213 at nine-fifteen. She didn’t check in first and she didn’t have a key to the door; she was let in. There was a delivery from Domino’s right after noon, I didn’t see what they ordered, and she left right at three-thirty, headed back here.”

“Did you follow her all the way back?”

“No, sir. She always picks Jason up right at four-thirty, and I didn’t think she’d have time to stop anywhere, so I followed him instead.”

“Good thinking, I guess,” the Old Man conceded.

“He drove directly to a house on North Elm in Springvale and apparently stayed there all evening. I have the address and his license plate number, so it shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.”

“Okay, do it. Nut him. Just the way we talked about.”

“Uh, Sir,” I hesitated. “I don’t think it’s right. Not to another guy, I mean.”

“I don’t give a rusty fuck what you think, Wilson. Either you do it or I’ll get someone else to do it instead of you. I want the entire sport-fucking world to know that my son’s wife is off limits, at least until he gets back from his deployment and is able to deal with the situation himself. Clear?”

It was clear, all right. I knew when I took the job of Special Assistant that my duties included threats and intimidation, and it didn’t bother me a bit when they expanded to include roughing up assholes who had crossed the Old Man and his family, but I had never dreamed that I be ordered to castrate a guy, and if I refused this request it would most likely be my own balls along with my job that would be sacrificed. “Yes Sir, it’s perfectly clear.”

“One more thing, Wilson.” He stopped me half way to the door.

“Sir?” I asked, turning to face my boss.

“Make it hurt.”

Wednesday was Sandy’s day at the motel, so I scheduled my meeting with the Poor Bastard for Tuesday night. I felt sorry for him in a way; Sandy was a good-looking gal who had been without a husband for over a year. She had the body that adolescents fantasize about when they jack off, and watching her eat a banana could induce a corpse into popping a boner. Any normal male would jump at the chance to bed her and her current lover was definitely normal. Her husband, unfortunately, was not. He had his own thing going on the side with a cute young stud in the National Guard, and the two had extended their tour overseas by switching units when theirs’ rotated home. His wife and father didn’t know that of course, but it was the Special Assistant’s job to keep up on such things.

The Poor Bastard was far and away the hairiest human that I’d ever seen. Coarse black hair covered his legs, arms, chest, and belly and his treasure trail was a black rope that extended across his navel and on to his crotch. He was big; over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds, but his dick was small and the circumcised head barley extended out of the mass of curls. His scrotum, by contrast, was nearly hairless and his large balls hung loosely, almost shining, in the dense forest between his thighs. He was still five years shy of his thirtieth birthday but his forehead extended far back onto his scalp, indicating that he’d be cue ball bald by the time he was thirty. Or maybe not. Male pattern baldness is supposed to be a function of testosterone, a substance that he will soon lack. Will he continue to lose hair in its absence? Will his body hair fall out? I don’t know.

I couldn’t imagine a guy that hairy fucking Sandy, or anyone else, for that matter. It would be like her coupling with a gorilla or baboon or bear, and I wondered how much hair he might shed onto her bed sheets while rutting. I reached into the mass of hair and put my hand around his nuts. His eyes grew wide and he redoubled his efforts to free himself from the bonds that secured him spread-eagle on his bed. He couldn’t speak; I had gagged him to keep the noise down as well as keep him from biting into his tongue, but now that he was aware of his fate he still continued to grunt as if pleading with me to release him.

Instead, I wrapped a foot long piece of latex tubing tightly around his ball sack and tugged upward on the captive nuts. The Old Man had directed me to make it hurt, but I couldn’t bear the thought of torturing him further, so I knifed his testicles from his body with one quick slice. The room suddenly filled stench as the Poor Bastard, now a eunuch, voided his bowls.

Just thinking about castration is enough to get some guys hard, and they’d probably shoot off if the ever had the opportunity to nut somebody, but it was different with me. I was so filled with self-loathing that I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to get it up again.

“I like working for you, and I appreciate the opportunities that you have given me,” I told the Old Man the next morning, “but I’d like a transfer.”

“Transfer?” The Old Man swirled the glass jar of formalin around a few times before setting it on the corner of his desk.

“Yes, Sir. I understand there’s an opening in Delinquent Accounts. I feel that I’m qualified for the position, and Mr. Toomy had an altercation with a belligerent customer and will be off work for quite a while.”

“Yes, you certainly are qualified,” he conceded, his eyes back on the jar on his desk. “Okay, consider it done. Also. I appreciate that you took the time on your regular day off to bring me this,” he said, referring to the Poor Bastards testicles floating in the jar.

“What’s wrong, Honey? Are you tired?” Sandy asked me later, in the motel. It had taken me longer than usual to get it up and although the resolution had definitely been okay she’d still noticed.

“Just a little problem at work. No big deal,” I said, then changed the subject. “How’s Jason doing?”

“He looks more like you everyday,” Sandy answered. “We’ll have to tell him eventually, you know? And his Granddad too.”

“Let’s wait until after the divorce. If your husband comes home alive, that is.”

“Your first job,” the Old Man told his new Special Assistant, “will be to check up on your predecessor, Wilson. I want to know where he goes and every thing that he does. Is that clear?

“Perfectly, Sir,” the new Special Assistant answered, wondering what the Poor Bastard had done to piss off the boss.