David's Castration

by Maxwell G Riche

The doorbell rang as I was finishing my tea. Pushing the tea things to one side I went to answer it.

“Help me with my maths homework, Uncle Max?”

The speaker was round-faced and plain, with a pudding-basin haircut, and I knew him. He was my neighbour-across-the-road’s ward, David. Actually my neighbour-across-the-street, Joan, was some sort of cousin of mine, and David a sort of nephew of hers. He was about twelve, and she had got lumbered with him a few months before. So “Uncle Max” was OK if you took a few liberties with the family tree.

There was more to “Help me with my maths homework” than met the eye. It meant that Joan had gone out and would I please see that David did his prep and had his bath in good time - if it meant doing his maths for him, then so be it. (As a recent maths scholar to Cambridge I was a soft target). In return I could help myself to Joan’s gin. That was a long-standing deal.

I locked up and followed David across the road. I tried to explain the principles of his maths- quadratic equations- but might as well have talked to a brick wall. David was really very stupid. Joan was trying to get him into a boarding prep school but it was proving hard work. I ended up doing all the equations and making him copy them out. At nine o’clock I sent him for his bath.

At nine-thirty it occurred to me that he must still be there. A faint noise of splashing indicated he was still in the water, so I followed the noise.

If any of you are hoping I’ll go on I bent David over the side of the bath, forced his buttocks open and sodomised him, then you’ll be disappointed, My inclinations are wholly hetero and were fixed years before, when I was barely sixteen. Some freak of the school timetable had resulted in being alone with a classmate, Sue, in a remote, unused part of the buildings. Before the hour was up, Sue’s school skirt hem was round her waist, her Aertex knickers round her feet, and my penis was right up her vagina. I’d thought there could be no sensation to match what I was doing, even through the rubber Sue had made me put on to save her starting a baby.

I’d had no reason ever to alter my view of what made god sex. Only days before, at a college end-of-term dance, my partner Lucy had whispered “I’ve got the hots for you - let’s find an empty room”. We hadn’t found one; instead we’d found a garden lounger, where Lucy had hoisted up her ball gown and pulled her tiny black thong to one side. A few seconds’ joyous thrusting followed, before we returned to the dance floor, respectively with an aching prick and a tingling fanny, the only evidence a used and knotted durex in a flower-bed.

But I digress. I had been on my way to get David out of the bath. “You’ve been in there long enough” I called out, as I marched in. David stood up in the bath, and said “Look, Uncle Maxwell” and I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

There was no other way of putting it. David had no balls. He had a penis, or rather a tiny pink acorn that was more suited to a four-year-old. Beneath it, a ridge of what looked like scar tissue. Trying not to look or sound interested I told him to dry himself. When he got as far as his inadequate genitals it was no use pretending. “What happened to you?” I asked, jerking a finger in that direction. “It was like this, Uncle Max” he began, stuttering out the saga of his castration.

David’s story was a combination of bits of bad luck. It was a coincidence that on that particular day, on the beach near Cape Town, there had ben a plague of sandflies, and another one that these particular insects were notorious for carrying a bacterial infection of a particularly vicious kind, such that people who got bitten on a hand or foot invariably got blood poisoning and might lose fingers or toes. One of these flies had found its way up the leg of David’s shorts and when he tried to brush it away it had bitten him on his scrotum.

At first his organs merely became red and swollen, but a day or two later he was running a high temperature and was in great pain from his genitals which had begun to turn black. By the time he was admitted to hospital, necrosis had advanced too far. His temperature dropped only after the surgeon had cut out both the dead and diseased testicles and cleared up most of the surrounding infected tissue with a laser-gun. Like a slave-boy of an earlier time, David returned home as a boy-eunuch. “And now I won’t ever be able to get married or have children” he finished. He looked up at me, dewy-eyed.

“Well” I said, “you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last”.

He brightened up at that. “Is it often done on boys?” he asked.

In response I felt in my notecase for the print I always carried: a picture attributed to Caravaggio

which illustrated the emasculation of a boy, the artist’s favourite- a curly-headed urchin of twelve or so - some time in the 15th century, when any barber’surgeon included among his basic skills, that of removing boys’ testicles. The story went that Caravaggio was violently in love with the boy and demonstrated this by having him gelded, a strange way of showing affection, given the crude surgery of those times.

In the picture the young patient lay on a table, his legs held well apart on an iron frame, and secured with straps at the knee and ankle. He had no pubic hair but a well-filled scrotum and a sturdy penis, held out of the barber’s way by a decorative clamp ornamented by a lion's head Nearby, the barber reached for his castrating-irons, to stretch the boy’s scrotum and make it easier to cut out the testicles, while in a small brazier, other irons were heating, to burn out the cords and destroy his manhood. After he was healed, he would pose as Cupid, his penis reduced to a neat little acorn that would never do anything so rude as becoming erect, to offend the artist’s clients.

David studied it carefully. “That boy has big balls” he said. “What are they going to do to him?”

“He’s going to have them taken right out” I said “because they don’t want him to be able to do the thing with a girl, that makes her start a baby.”

“But that looks a long time ago, from their clothes” objected David. “What about nowadays?”

I told him all about the Gulf States, where I’d lived for some years. There, castrating boys was not at all unusual. Youngsters with any form of learning disability, like Downes syndrome, were always castrated. In country districts it was also done to many orphans, to prevent them trying to inherit from more distant relatives in later life (only “entire” men could be validly named in wills.) More importantly it was the lot of juvenile delinquents to be castrated – the State Government thought that this was the most effective way of taking criminal elements out of the gene pool. Ordinary people felt that naughty boys would be better behaved with that part of them gone.

“So they all had their balls cut off” said David.

“It’s a bit different now” I said. “Doctors now prefer to prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug which makes the blood vessels close up and the organs wither away. The effect’s just the same. Boys who were going to be servants, in a house where there were girls, were always taken to have their balls pricked”.

“Because boys who have had their balls pricked can never do anything with a girl” broke in David in an excited voice. “Because their willies shrink up afterwards, and are too short to go into a girl’s thing. Like mine.”

“Too soft, also” I added.

“Yes, that’s right. Mine never goes stiff now. Look”. He took hold of his tiny penis and began trying to wank himself. Nothing happened.

“Let me see that picture again” David asked. I produced the Caravaggio again and he studied it closely. The smoking brazier fascinated him. “After that boy’s balls have been cut off, he is going to be finished off with a flame” he commented, “to make quite sure he’ll never be able to do anything. His willie will shrink up afterwards” He paused, reflecting. “They used a flame on mine, also, but I was asleep and didn’t feel anything.

How this conversation might have gone on, I don’t know, for the front door opened and a high affected “Hilloo! Hilloo!” resounded up the stairs. Joan was back.

A surprise development in the next few weeks was David’s omission to a boarding choir school with, seemingly, flying colours. His academic work was as doubtful as ever but his voice test had been impressive - he had held some amazing high notes. Clearly his operation was having the proverbial effect. Unknowing, the choir school had admitted its one-and-only castrato.

At the end of term he reappeared. “I’ve something to tell you, Uncle Max” he whispered in a confidential way. When he got me alone David confided that one of the prefects had asked him to become his “flower”.

At other schools the term is “bum-chum”. The older boy had treated David as a substitute girl-friend, buying him small presents and treating him to cream teas in the town. In return David used to go with him to a derelict cottage where the prefect would force his enormous rigid penis up David’s bottom and ejaculate into his bowels. “If he does it much more I’ll have a baby” David laughed. I didn’t fnd it a very good joke.

Inevitably the prefect had found out that David had an incomplete set of genitals, which would have done no harm if he’d kept it to himself. But the autumn term was only a fortnight old when events took a tragic turn, due to the prefect blabbing.

David had returned to school to find himself promoted to the front row of the trebles and in line for leading chorister. His “protector” meanwhile had stayed on to try for university entrance. David, unknown to himself, was the object both of jealousy for his privileged position and of curiosity about his operation. There was a disaster waiting to happen.

The occasion was a cross-country run, through woodland, on a track that had once carried a railway line. David, in the junior section, found himself lagging well behind, so much so that he was caught up by the front runners of the senior section, that had started later. Not all the front runners passed him and he found himself being steered along a side path by two hefty fifth-formers.

I got to know about what happened in a variety of ways which it would be a breach of confidence to tell you about. For the same reason I shall refer to the fifth-formers as B******** and T******* which is as good as anything else.

“Well, if it isn’t the ball-less wonder” said T********. “What say we find out the truth - is he or isn’t he?” He reached over and pulled down David’s running shorts. “So it’s true then” he muttered. “Let’s have a better look at you. Turn around. H’mm - nice bum.”

“Fancy him, do you?” asked B*****. “Look, you go first. I’ll keep a look out”.

The path ended at a derelict hut, where David was forced on to his knees whilst the fifteen-year-old dropped his shorts, then thrown on to his face. The bigger boy spat on his hands and rubbed spittle on his penis for lubrication, before forcing his erection into David’s bottom. No sooner had he climaxed than B******** returned, and not alone.

There must have been ten or a dozen boys waiting in the trees, perhaps more. One after another they crouched over David’s sprawling form and penetrated his anus. One after another they pulled up their shorts and ran on, leaving him there

David returned to school two hours overdue and ran straight into the arms of Matron, who at once registered that the seat of his running shorts was a mass of blood, semen and faeces. While he was kept isolated in the sanatorium with warm baths and soothing ointments and enemas, the Headmaster began his investigations.

What guided his actions was the thought that, whilst sodomy was widespread in the school it was also a criminal offence, and there would be no winners if half the senior year was dragged off to Youth Custody. In the end, B******** and T******* were expelled as the instigators of the gang-bang. Besides this, Joan was asked to remove David.

Explaining his motives the Headmaster blamed Joan for breach of faith in placing David in a single sex boys’ school. If he had not been a boy-eunuch he would not have been so inclined to become a senior boy’s sex slave. Without this knowledge it seemed unlikely that the episode on the cross country run would ever have taken place. By the time I got to hear of all this, David was on his way back to Cape Town and my life was poorer for the departure of one of the few boy-eunuchs of modern times.

DAVID’S STORY

by Maxwell G Riche

The doorbell rang as I was finishing my tea. Pushing the tea things to one side I went to answer it.

“Help me with my maths homework, Uncle Max?”

The speaker was round-faced and plain, with a pudding-basin haircut, and I knew him. He was my neighbour-across-the-road’s ward, David. Actually my neighbour-across-the-street, Joan, was some sort of cousin of mine, and David a sort of nephew of hers. He was about twelve, and she had got lumbered with him a few months before. So “Uncle Max” was OK if you took a few liberties with the family tree.

There was more to “Help me with my maths homework” than met the eye. It meant that Joan had gone out and would I please see that David did his prep and had his bath in good time - if it meant doing his maths for him, then so be it. (As a recent maths scholar to Cambridge I was a soft target). In return I could help myself to Joan’s gin. That was a long-standing deal.

I locked up and followed David across the road. I tried to explain the principles of his maths- quadratic equations- but might as well have talked to a brick wall. David was really very stupid. Joan was trying to get him into a boarding prep school but it was proving hard work. I ended up doing all the equations and making him copy them out. At nine o’clock I sent him for his bath.

At nine-thirty it occurred to me that he must still be there. A faint noise of splashing indicated he was still in the water, so I followed the noise.

If any of you are hoping I’ll go on I bent David over the side of the bath, forced his buttocks open and sodomised him, then you’ll be disappointed, My inclinations are wholly hetero and were fixed years before, when I was barely sixteen. Some freak of the school timetable had resulted in being alone with a classmate, Sue, in a remote, unused part of the buildings. Before the hour was up, Sue’s school skirt hem was round her waist, her Aertex knickers round her feet, and my penis was right up her vagina. I’d thought there could be no sensation to match what I was doing, even through the rubber Sue had made me put on to save her starting a baby.

I’d had no reason ever to alter my view of what made god sex. Only days before, at a college end-of-term dance, my partner Lucy had whispered “I’ve got the hots for you - let’s find an empty room”. We hadn’t found one; instead we’d found a garden lounger, where Lucy had hoisted up her ball gown and pulled her tiny black thong to one side. A few seconds’ joyous thrusting followed, before we returned to the dance floor, respectively with an aching prick and a tingling fanny, the only evidence a used and knotted durex in a flower-bed.

But I digress. I had been on my way to get David out of the bath. “You’ve been in there long enough” I called out, as I marched in. David stood up in the bath, and said “Look, Uncle Maxwell” and I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

There was no other way of putting it. David had no balls. He had a penis, or rather a tiny pink acorn that was more suited to a four-year-old. Beneath it, a ridge of what looked like scar tissue. Trying not to look or sound interested I told him to dry himself. When he got as far as his inadequate genitals it was no use pretending. “What happened to you?” I asked, jerking a finger in that direction. “It was like this, Uncle Max” he began, stuttering out the saga of his castration.

David’s story was a combination of bits of bad luck. It was a coincidence that on that particular day, on the beach near Cape Town, there had ben a plague of sandflies, and another one that these particular insects were notorious for carrying a bacterial infection of a particularly vicious kind, such that people who got bitten on a hand or foot invariably got blood poisoning and might lose fingers or toes. One of these flies had found its way up the leg of David’s shorts and when he tried to brush it away it had bitten him on his scrotum.

At first his organs merely became red and swollen, but a day or two later he was running a high temperature and was in great pain from his genitals which had begun to turn black. By the time he was admitted to hospital, necrosis had advanced too far. His temperature dropped only after the surgeon had cut out both the dead and diseased testicles and cleared up most of the surrounding infected tissue with a laser-gun. Like a slave-boy of an earlier time, David returned home as a boy-eunuch. “And now I won’t ever be able to get married or have children” he finished. He looked up at me, dewy-eyed.

“Well” I said, “you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last”.

He brightened up at that. “Is it often done on boys?” he asked.

In response I felt in my notecase for the print I always carried: a picture attributed to Caravaggio

which illustrated the emasculation of a boy, the artist’s favourite- a curly-headed urchin of twelve or so - some time in the 15th century, when any barber’surgeon included among his basic skills, that of removing boys’ testicles. The story went that Caravaggio was violently in love with the boy and demonstrated this by having him gelded, a strange way of showing affection, given the crude surgery of those times.

In the picture the young patient lay on a table, his legs held well apart on an iron frame, and secured with straps at the knee and ankle. He had no pubic hair but a well-filled scrotum and a sturdy penis, held out of the barber’s way by a decorative clamp ornamented by a lion's head Nearby, the barber reached for his castrating-irons, to stretch the boy’s scrotum and make it easier to cut out the testicles, while in a small brazier, other irons were heating, to burn out the cords and destroy his manhood. After he was healed, he would pose as Cupid, his penis reduced to a neat little acorn that would never do anything so rude as becoming erect, to offend the artist’s clients.

David studied it carefully. “That boy has big balls” he said. “What are they going to do to him?”

“He’s going to have them taken right out” I said “because they don’t want him to be able to do the thing with a girl, that makes her start a baby.”

“But that looks a long time ago, from their clothes” objected David. “What about nowadays?”

I told him all about the Gulf States, where I’d lived for some years. There, castrating boys was not at all unusual. Youngsters with any form of learning disability, like Downes syndrome, were always castrated. In country districts it was also done to many orphans, to prevent them trying to inherit from more distant relatives in later life (only “entire” men could be validly named in wills.) More importantly it was the lot of juvenile delinquents to be castrated – the State Government thought that this was the most effective way of taking criminal elements out of the gene pool. Ordinary people felt that naughty boys would be better behaved with that part of them gone.

“So they all had their balls cut off” said David.

“It’s a bit different now” I said. “Doctors now prefer to prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug which makes the blood vessels close up and the organs wither away. The effect’s just the same. Boys who were going to be servants, in a house where there were girls, were always taken to have their balls pricked”.

“Because boys who have had their balls pricked can never do anything with a girl” broke in David in an excited voice. “Because their willies shrink up afterwards, and are too short to go into a girl’s thing. Like mine.”

“Too soft, also” I added.

“Yes, that’s right. Mine never goes stiff now. Look”. He took hold of his tiny penis and began trying to wank himself. Nothing happened.

“Let me see that picture again” David asked. I produced the Caravaggio again and he studied it closely. The smoking brazier fascinated him. “After that boy’s balls have been cut off, he is going to be finished off with a flame” he commented, “to make quite sure he’ll never be able to do anything. His willie will shrink up afterwards” He paused, reflecting. “They used a flame on mine, also, but I was asleep and didn’t feel anything.

How this conversation might have gone on, I don’t know, for the front door opened and a high affected “Hilloo! Hilloo!” resounded up the stairs. Joan was back.

A surprise development in the next few weeks was David’s omission to a boarding choir school with, seemingly, flying colours. His academic work was as doubtful as ever but his voice test had been impressive - he had held some amazing high notes. Clearly his operation was having the proverbial effect. Unknowing, the choir school had admitted its one-and-only castrato.

At the end of term he reappeared. “I’ve something to tell you, Uncle Max” he whispered in a confidential way. When he got me alone David confided that one of the prefects had asked him to become his “flower”.

At other schools the term is “bum-chum”. The older boy had treated David as a substitute girl-friend, buying him small presents and treating him to cream teas in the town. In return David used to go with him to a derelict cottage where the prefect would force his enormous rigid penis up David’s bottom and ejaculate into his bowels. “If he does it much more I’ll have a baby” David laughed. I didn’t fnd it a very good joke.

Inevitably the prefect had found out that David had an incomplete set of genitals, which would have done no harm if he’d kept it to himself. But the autumn term was only a fortnight old when events took a tragic turn, due to the prefect blabbing.

David had returned to school to find himself promoted to the front row of the trebles and in line for leading chorister. His “protector” meanwhile had stayed on to try for university entrance. David, unknown to himself, was the object both of jealousy for his privileged position and of curiosity about his operation. There was a disaster waiting to happen.

The occasion was a cross-country run, through woodland, on a track that had once carried a railway line. David, in the junior section, found himself lagging well behind, so much so that he was caught up by the front runners of the senior section, that had started later. Not all the front runners passed him and he found himself being steered along a side path by two hefty fifth-formers.

I got to know about what happened in a variety of ways which it would be a breach of confidence to tell you about. For the same reason I shall refer to the fifth-formers as B******** and T******* which is as good as anything else.

“Well, if it isn’t the ball-less wonder” said T********. “What say we find out the truth - is he or isn’t he?” He reached over and pulled down David’s running shorts. “So it’s true then” he muttered. “Let’s have a better look at you. Turn around. H’mm - nice bum.”

“Fancy him, do you?” asked B*****. “Look, you go first. I’ll keep a look out”.

The path ended at a derelict hut, where David was forced on to his knees whilst the fifteen-year-old dropped his shorts, then thrown on to his face. The bigger boy spat on his hands and rubbed spittle on his penis for lubrication, before forcing his erection into David’s bottom. No sooner had he climaxed than B******** returned, and not alone.

There must have been ten or a dozen boys waiting in the trees, perhaps more. One after another they crouched over David’s sprawling form and penetrated his anus. One after another they pulled up their shorts and ran on, leaving him there

David returned to school two hours overdue and ran straight into the arms of Matron, who at once registered that the seat of his running shorts was a mass of blood, semen and faeces. While he was kept isolated in the sanatorium with warm baths and soothing ointments and enemas, the Headmaster began his investigations.

What guided his actions was the thought that, whilst sodomy was widespread in the school it was also a criminal offence, and there would be no winners if half the senior year was dragged off to Youth Custody. In the end, B******** and T******* were expelled as the instigators of the gang-bang. Besides this, Joan was asked to remove David.

Explaining his motives the Headmaster blamed Joan for breach of faith in placing David in a single sex boys’ school. If he had not been a boy-eunuch he would not have been so inclined to become a senior boy’s sex slave. Without this knowledge it seemed unlikely that the episode on the cross country run would ever have taken place. By the time I got to hear of all this, David was on his way back to Cape Town and my life was poorer for the departure of one of the few boy-eunuchs of modern times.

DAVID’S STORY

by Maxwell G Riche

The doorbell rang as I was finishing my tea. Pushing the tea things to one side I went to answer it.

“Help me with my maths homework, Uncle Max?”

The speaker was round-faced and plain, with a pudding-basin haircut, and I knew him. He was my neighbour-across-the-road’s ward, David. Actually my neighbour-across-the-street, Joan, was some sort of cousin of mine, and David a sort of nephew of hers. He was about twelve, and she had got lumbered with him a few months before. So “Uncle Max” was OK if you took a few liberties with the family tree.

There was more to “Help me with my maths homework” than met the eye. It meant that Joan had gone out and would I please see that David did his prep and had his bath in good time - if it meant doing his maths for him, then so be it. (As a recent maths scholar to Cambridge I was a soft target). In return I could help myself to Joan’s gin. That was a long-standing deal.

I locked up and followed David across the road. I tried to explain the principles of his maths- quadratic equations- but might as well have talked to a brick wall. David was really very stupid. Joan was trying to get him into a boarding prep school but it was proving hard work. I ended up doing all the equations and making him copy them out. At nine o’clock I sent him for his bath.

At nine-thirty it occurred to me that he must still be there. A faint noise of splashing indicated he was still in the water, so I followed the noise.

If any of you are hoping I’ll go on I bent David over the side of the bath, forced his buttocks open and sodomised him, then you’ll be disappointed, My inclinations are wholly hetero and were fixed years before, when I was barely sixteen. Some freak of the school timetable had resulted in being alone with a classmate, Sue, in a remote, unused part of the buildings. Before the hour was up, Sue’s school skirt hem was round her waist, her Aertex knickers round her feet, and my penis was right up her vagina. I’d thought there could be no sensation to match what I was doing, even through the rubber Sue had made me put on to save her starting a baby.

I’d had no reason ever to alter my view of what made god sex. Only days before, at a college end-of-term dance, my partner Lucy had whispered “I’ve got the hots for you - let’s find an empty room”. We hadn’t found one; instead we’d found a garden lounger, where Lucy had hoisted up her ball gown and pulled her tiny black thong to one side. A few seconds’ joyous thrusting followed, before we returned to the dance floor, respectively with an aching prick and a tingling fanny, the only evidence a used and knotted durex in a flower-bed.

But I digress. I had been on my way to get David out of the bath. “You’ve been in there long enough” I called out, as I marched in. David stood up in the bath, and said “Look, Uncle Maxwell” and I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

There was no other way of putting it. David had no balls. He had a penis, or rather a tiny pink acorn that was more suited to a four-year-old. Beneath it, a ridge of what looked like scar tissue. Trying not to look or sound interested I told him to dry himself. When he got as far as his inadequate genitals it was no use pretending. “What happened to you?” I asked, jerking a finger in that direction. “It was like this, Uncle Max” he began, stuttering out the saga of his castration.

David’s story was a combination of bits of bad luck. It was a coincidence that on that particular day, on the beach near Cape Town, there had ben a plague of sandflies, and another one that these particular insects were notorious for carrying a bacterial infection of a particularly vicious kind, such that people who got bitten on a hand or foot invariably got blood poisoning and might lose fingers or toes. One of these flies had found its way up the leg of David’s shorts and when he tried to brush it away it had bitten him on his scrotum.

At first his organs merely became red and swollen, but a day or two later he was running a high temperature and was in great pain from his genitals which had begun to turn black. By the time he was admitted to hospital, necrosis had advanced too far. His temperature dropped only after the surgeon had cut out both the dead and diseased testicles and cleared up most of the surrounding infected tissue with a laser-gun. Like a slave-boy of an earlier time, David returned home as a boy-eunuch. “And now I won’t ever be able to get married or have children” he finished. He looked up at me, dewy-eyed.

“Well” I said, “you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last”.

He brightened up at that. “Is it often done on boys?” he asked.

In response I felt in my notecase for the print I always carried: a picture attributed to Caravaggio

which illustrated the emasculation of a boy, the artist’s favourite- a curly-headed urchin of twelve or so - some time in the 15th century, when any barber’surgeon included among his basic skills, that of removing boys’ testicles. The story went that Caravaggio was violently in love with the boy and demonstrated this by having him gelded, a strange way of showing affection, given the crude surgery of those times.

In the picture the young patient lay on a table, his legs held well apart on an iron frame, and secured with straps at the knee and ankle. He had no pubic hair but a well-filled scrotum and a sturdy penis, held out of the barber’s way by a decorative clamp ornamented by a lion's head Nearby, the barber reached for his castrating-irons, to stretch the boy’s scrotum and make it easier to cut out the testicles, while in a small brazier, other irons were heating, to burn out the cords and destroy his manhood. After he was healed, he would pose as Cupid, his penis reduced to a neat little acorn that would never do anything so rude as becoming erect, to offend the artist’s clients.

David studied it carefully. “That boy has big balls” he said. “What are they going to do to him?”

“He’s going to have them taken right out” I said “because they don’t want him to be able to do the thing with a girl, that makes her start a baby.”

“But that looks a long time ago, from their clothes” objected David. “What about nowadays?”

I told him all about the Gulf States, where I’d lived for some years. There, castrating boys was not at all unusual. Youngsters with any form of learning disability, like Downes syndrome, were always castrated. In country districts it was also done to many orphans, to prevent them trying to inherit from more distant relatives in later life (only “entire” men could be validly named in wills.) More importantly it was the lot of juvenile delinquents to be castrated – the State Government thought that this was the most effective way of taking criminal elements out of the gene pool. Ordinary people felt that naughty boys would be better behaved with that part of them gone.

“So they all had their balls cut off” said David.

“It’s a bit different now” I said. “Doctors now prefer to prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug which makes the blood vessels close up and the organs wither away. The effect’s just the same. Boys who were going to be servants, in a house where there were girls, were always taken to have their balls pricked”.

“Because boys who have had their balls pricked can never do anything with a girl” broke in David in an excited voice. “Because their willies shrink up afterwards, and are too short to go into a girl’s thing. Like mine.”

“Too soft, also” I added.

“Yes, that’s right. Mine never goes stiff now. Look”. He took hold of his tiny penis and began trying to wank himself. Nothing happened.

“Let me see that picture again” David asked. I produced the Caravaggio again and he studied it closely. The smoking brazier fascinated him. “After that boy’s balls have been cut off, he is going to be finished off with a flame” he commented, “to make quite sure he’ll never be able to do anything. His willie will shrink up afterwards” He paused, reflecting. “They used a flame on mine, also, but I was asleep and didn’t feel anything.

How this conversation might have gone on, I don’t know, for the front door opened and a high affected “Hilloo! Hilloo!” resounded up the stairs. Joan was back.

A surprise development in the next few weeks was David’s omission to a boarding choir school with, seemingly, flying colours. His academic work was as doubtful as ever but his voice test had been impressive - he had held some amazing high notes. Clearly his operation was having the proverbial effect. Unknowing, the choir school had admitted its one-and-only castrato.

At the end of term he reappeared. “I’ve something to tell you, Uncle Max” he whispered in a confidential way. When he got me alone David confided that one of the prefects had asked him to become his “flower”.

At other schools the term is “bum-chum”. The older boy had treated David as a substitute girl-friend, buying him small presents and treating him to cream teas in the town. In return David used to go with him to a derelict cottage where the prefect would force his enormous rigid penis up David’s bottom and ejaculate into his bowels. “If he does it much more I’ll have a baby” David laughed. I didn’t fnd it a very good joke.

Inevitably the prefect had found out that David had an incomplete set of genitals, which would have done no harm if he’d kept it to himself. But the autumn term was only a fortnight old when events took a tragic turn, due to the prefect blabbing.

David had returned to school to find himself promoted to the front row of the trebles and in line for leading chorister. His “protector” meanwhile had stayed on to try for university entrance. David, unknown to himself, was the object both of jealousy for his privileged position and of curiosity about his operation. There was a disaster waiting to happen.

The occasion was a cross-country run, through woodland, on a track that had once carried a railway line. David, in the junior section, found himself lagging well behind, so much so that he was caught up by the front runners of the senior section, that had started later. Not all the front runners passed him and he found himself being steered along a side path by two hefty fifth-formers.

I got to know about what happened in a variety of ways which it would be a breach of confidence to tell you about. For the same reason I shall refer to the fifth-formers as B******** and T******* which is as good as anything else.

“Well, if it isn’t the ball-less wonder” said T********. “What say we find out the truth - is he or isn’t he?” He reached over and pulled down David’s running shorts. “So it’s true then” he muttered. “Let’s have a better look at you. Turn around. H’mm - nice bum.”

“Fancy him, do you?” asked B*****. “Look, you go first. I’ll keep a look out”.

The path ended at a derelict hut, where David was forced on to his knees whilst the fifteen-year-old dropped his shorts, then thrown on to his face. The bigger boy spat on his hands and rubbed spittle on his penis for lubrication, before forcing his erection into David’s bottom. No sooner had he climaxed than B******** returned, and not alone.

There must have been ten or a dozen boys waiting in the trees, perhaps more. One after another they crouched over David’s sprawling form and penetrated his anus. One after another they pulled up their shorts and ran on, leaving him there

David returned to school two hours overdue and ran straight into the arms of Matron, who at once registered that the seat of his running shorts was a mass of blood, semen and faeces. While he was kept isolated in the sanatorium with warm baths and soothing ointments and enemas, the Headmaster began his investigations.

What guided his actions was the thought that, whilst sodomy was widespread in the school it was also a criminal offence, and there would be no winners if half the senior year was dragged off to Youth Custody. In the end, B******** and T******* were expelled as the instigators of the gang-bang. Besides this, Joan was asked to remove David.

Explaining his motives the Headmaster blamed Joan for breach of faith in placing David in a single sex boys’ school. If he had not been a boy-eunuch he would not have been so inclined to become a senior boy’s sex slave. Without this knowledge it seemed unlikely that the episode on the cross country run would ever have taken place. By the time I got to hear of all this, David was on his way back to Cape Town and my life was poorer for the departure of one of the few boy-eunuchs of modern times.

DAVID’S STORY

by Maxwell G Riche

The doorbell rang as I was finishing my tea. Pushing the tea things to one side I went to answer it.

“Help me with my maths homework, Uncle Max?”

The speaker was round-faced and plain, with a pudding-basin haircut, and I knew him. He was my neighbour-across-the-road’s ward, David. Actually my neighbour-across-the-street, Joan, was some sort of cousin of mine, and David a sort of nephew of hers. He was about twelve, and she had got lumbered with him a few months before. So “Uncle Max” was OK if you took a few liberties with the family tree.

There was more to “Help me with my maths homework” than met the eye. It meant that Joan had gone out and would I please see that David did his prep and had his bath in good time - if it meant doing his maths for him, then so be it. (As a recent maths scholar to Cambridge I was a soft target). In return I could help myself to Joan’s gin. That was a long-standing deal.

I locked up and followed David across the road. I tried to explain the principles of his maths- quadratic equations- but might as well have talked to a brick wall. David was really very stupid. Joan was trying to get him into a boarding prep school but it was proving hard work. I ended up doing all the equations and making him copy them out. At nine o’clock I sent him for his bath.

At nine-thirty it occurred to me that he must still be there. A faint noise of splashing indicated he was still in the water, so I followed the noise.

If any of you are hoping I’ll go on I bent David over the side of the bath, forced his buttocks open and sodomised him, then you’ll be disappointed, My inclinations are wholly hetero and were fixed years before, when I was barely sixteen. Some freak of the school timetable had resulted in being alone with a classmate, Sue, in a remote, unused part of the buildings. Before the hour was up, Sue’s school skirt hem was round her waist, her Aertex knickers round her feet, and my penis was right up her vagina. I’d thought there could be no sensation to match what I was doing, even through the rubber Sue had made me put on to save her starting a baby.

I’d had no reason ever to alter my view of what made god sex. Only days before, at a college end-of-term dance, my partner Lucy had whispered “I’ve got the hots for you - let’s find an empty room”. We hadn’t found one; instead we’d found a garden lounger, where Lucy had hoisted up her ball gown and pulled her tiny black thong to one side. A few seconds’ joyous thrusting followed, before we returned to the dance floor, respectively with an aching prick and a tingling fanny, the only evidence a used and knotted durex in a flower-bed.

But I digress. I had been on my way to get David out of the bath. “You’ve been in there long enough” I called out, as I marched in. David stood up in the bath, and said “Look, Uncle Maxwell” and I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

There was no other way of putting it. David had no balls. He had a penis, or rather a tiny pink acorn that was more suited to a four-year-old. Beneath it, a ridge of what looked like scar tissue. Trying not to look or sound interested I told him to dry himself. When he got as far as his inadequate genitals it was no use pretending. “What happened to you?” I asked, jerking a finger in that direction. “It was like this, Uncle Max” he began, stuttering out the saga of his castration.

David’s story was a combination of bits of bad luck. It was a coincidence that on that particular day, on the beach near Cape Town, there had ben a plague of sandflies, and another one that these particular insects were notorious for carrying a bacterial infection of a particularly vicious kind, such that people who got bitten on a hand or foot invariably got blood poisoning and might lose fingers or toes. One of these flies had found its way up the leg of David’s shorts and when he tried to brush it away it had bitten him on his scrotum.

At first his organs merely became red and swollen, but a day or two later he was running a high temperature and was in great pain from his genitals which had begun to turn black. By the time he was admitted to hospital, necrosis had advanced too far. His temperature dropped only after the surgeon had cut out both the dead and diseased testicles and cleared up most of the surrounding infected tissue with a laser-gun. Like a slave-boy of an earlier time, David returned home as a boy-eunuch. “And now I won’t ever be able to get married or have children” he finished. He looked up at me, dewy-eyed.

“Well” I said, “you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last”.

He brightened up at that. “Is it often done on boys?” he asked.

In response I felt in my notecase for the print I always carried: a picture attributed to Caravaggio

which illustrated the emasculation of a boy, the artist’s favourite- a curly-headed urchin of twelve or so - some time in the 15th century, when any barber’surgeon included among his basic skills, that of removing boys’ testicles. The story went that Caravaggio was violently in love with the boy and demonstrated this by having him gelded, a strange way of showing affection, given the crude surgery of those times.

In the picture the young patient lay on a table, his legs held well apart on an iron frame, and secured with straps at the knee and ankle. He had no pubic hair but a well-filled scrotum and a sturdy penis, held out of the barber’s way by a decorative clamp ornamented by a lion's head Nearby, the barber reached for his castrating-irons, to stretch the boy’s scrotum and make it easier to cut out the testicles, while in a small brazier, other irons were heating, to burn out the cords and destroy his manhood. After he was healed, he would pose as Cupid, his penis reduced to a neat little acorn that would never do anything so rude as becoming erect, to offend the artist’s clients.

David studied it carefully. “That boy has big balls” he said. “What are they going to do to him?”

“He’s going to have them taken right out” I said “because they don’t want him to be able to do the thing with a girl, that makes her start a baby.”

“But that looks a long time ago, from their clothes” objected David. “What about nowadays?”

I told him all about the Gulf States, where I’d lived for some years. There, castrating boys was not at all unusual. Youngsters with any form of learning disability, like Downes syndrome, were always castrated. In country districts it was also done to many orphans, to prevent them trying to inherit from more distant relatives in later life (only “entire” men could be validly named in wills.) More importantly it was the lot of juvenile delinquents to be castrated – the State Government thought that this was the most effective way of taking criminal elements out of the gene pool. Ordinary people felt that naughty boys would be better behaved with that part of them gone.

“So they all had their balls cut off” said David.

“It’s a bit different now” I said. “Doctors now prefer to prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug which makes the blood vessels close up and the organs wither away. The effect’s just the same. Boys who were going to be servants, in a house where there were girls, were always taken to have their balls pricked”.

“Because boys who have had their balls pricked can never do anything with a girl” broke in David in an excited voice. “Because their willies shrink up afterwards, and are too short to go into a girl’s thing. Like mine.”

“Too soft, also” I added.

“Yes, that’s right. Mine never goes stiff now. Look”. He took hold of his tiny penis and began trying to wank himself. Nothing happened.

“Let me see that picture again” David asked. I produced the Caravaggio again and he studied it closely. The smoking brazier fascinated him. “After that boy’s balls have been cut off, he is going to be finished off with a flame” he commented, “to make quite sure he’ll never be able to do anything. His willie will shrink up afterwards” He paused, reflecting. “They used a flame on mine, also, but I was asleep and didn’t feel anything.

How this conversation might have gone on, I don’t know, for the front door opened and a high affected “Hilloo! Hilloo!” resounded up the stairs. Joan was back.

A surprise development in the next few weeks was David’s omission to a boarding choir school with, seemingly, flying colours. His academic work was as doubtful as ever but his voice test had been impressive - he had held some amazing high notes. Clearly his operation was having the proverbial effect. Unknowing, the choir school had admitted its one-and-only castrato.

At the end of term he reappeared. “I’ve something to tell you, Uncle Max” he whispered in a confidential way. When he got me alone David confided that one of the prefects had asked him to become his “flower”.

At other schools the term is “bum-chum”. The older boy had treated David as a substitute girl-friend, buying him small presents and treating him to cream teas in the town. In return David used to go with him to a derelict cottage where the prefect would force his enormous rigid penis up David’s bottom and ejaculate into his bowels. “If he does it much more I’ll have a baby” David laughed. I didn’t fnd it a very good joke.

Inevitably the prefect had found out that David had an incomplete set of genitals, which would have done no harm if he’d kept it to himself. But the autumn term was only a fortnight old when events took a tragic turn, due to the prefect blabbing.

David had returned to school to find himself promoted to the front row of the trebles and in line for leading chorister. His “protector” meanwhile had stayed on to try for university entrance. David, unknown to himself, was the object both of jealousy for his privileged position and of curiosity about his operation. There was a disaster waiting to happen.

The occasion was a cross-country run, through woodland, on a track that had once carried a railway line. David, in the junior section, found himself lagging well behind, so much so that he was caught up by the front runners of the senior section, that had started later. Not all the front runners passed him and he found himself being steered along a side path by two hefty fifth-formers.

I got to know about what happened in a variety of ways which it would be a breach of confidence to tell you about. For the same reason I shall refer to the fifth-formers as B******** and T******* which is as good as anything else.

“Well, if it isn’t the ball-less wonder” said T********. “What say we find out the truth - is he or isn’t he?” He reached over and pulled down David’s running shorts. “So it’s true then” he muttered. “Let’s have a better look at you. Turn around. H’mm - nice bum.”

“Fancy him, do you?” asked B*****. “Look, you go first. I’ll keep a look out”.

The path ended at a derelict hut, where David was forced on to his knees whilst the fifteen-year-old dropped his shorts, then thrown on to his face. The bigger boy spat on his hands and rubbed spittle on his penis for lubrication, before forcing his erection into David’s bottom. No sooner had he climaxed than B******** returned, and not alone.

There must have been ten or a dozen boys waiting in the trees, perhaps more. One after another they crouched over David’s sprawling form and penetrated his anus. One after another they pulled up their shorts and ran on, leaving him there

David returned to school two hours overdue and ran straight into the arms of Matron, who at once registered that the seat of his running shorts was a mass of blood, semen and faeces. While he was kept isolated in the sanatorium with warm baths and soothing ointments and enemas, the Headmaster began his investigations.

What guided his actions was the thought that, whilst sodomy was widespread in the school it was also a criminal offence, and there would be no winners if half the senior year was dragged off to Youth Custody. In the end, B******** and T******* were expelled as the instigators of the gang-bang. Besides this, Joan was asked to remove David.

Explaining his motives the Headmaster blamed Joan for breach of faith in placing David in a single sex boys’ school. If he had not been a boy-eunuch he would not have been so inclined to become a senior boy’s sex slave. Without this knowledge it seemed unlikely that the episode on the cross country run would ever have taken place. By the time I got to hear of all this, David was on his way back to Cape Town and my life was poorer for the departure of one of the few boy-eunuchs of modern times.