A Meeting of Minds

I don't know how it happened.  Sometimes I wonder if it really happened.  Could it have been a dream -- a hallucination of sorts.  But, it seemed so real, as real as anything I've ever experienced, as real as being alive now.  If it wasn't real, is anything real?  If it were a dream, is life itself a dream?

You see -- I traveled back in time, fifteen years to be exact.  There -- I met -- me, the twelve year-old boy I was then.

They had recently moved to Dallas, Texas.  His parents called him Johnny, but because there was another Johnny in his class, his teacher called him John.  From then on, when people asked him his name, that's what he would tell them.

I had found myself in a car driving along a narrow, seldom traveled, road beside a creek.  That's when I saw him -- me -- playing in the creek.  No one else was around.  No one else would come.  Somehow, I knew they wouldn't.  Did I know it then?  But, then is now.  I shake my head, awed by the knowledge that this had already happened, but was yet happening.  I had been here before, not only as the boy, but as the man.  I have the boy's memories of this meeting, and I'm experiencing it at the same time as a man.

"Hi," I call down to the boy, "I'm lost, can you help me?"

"Sure," he says, eager to please.

"Hop in," I say, opening the door.  He steps into the car, sitting next to me.  "What's your name?" I ask.

"John," he says, as I knew he would.  John, not Johnny.

"That's my name, too," I say.  He doesn't recognize me.  He doesn't recognize the man he'll become.

I look at him -- at me at twelve -- knowing how innocent he is about sex, which he knows absolutely nothing about, even though he went through puberty the year before and has erections constantly.  He doesn't yet know what to do about them; he hasn't yet masturbated.  The thought makes me hard.  Should I show him how to masturbate?  I've often wished I'd learned about masturbation earlier.  As it is, I didn't masturbate the first time until I was fourteen.  I place my hand on his crotch, feeling his penis beneath his clothes.

It frightens him.  "I have to go," he says, "Some of my friends are meeting me here.  They'll be here any minute."

I know it's a lie.  It was a lie when I'd said it fifteen years before.  None of his friends are coming.  No one knows he's there.  He told no one where he was going.  That's when my memories and what happened next diverged.  When I'd said that as a boy, I'd been let me go, running home as fast as I could.  This time -- I don't let him go.  "It's OK," I say, "No one's coming.  We both know that.  I'm not going to hurt you.  I just want to show you something.  You'll like it.  I know you'll like it."  At that moment I have no intention to hurt him.  After all, we are one and the same, separated though, as we are by fifteen years.

I unbuckle his belt, then unbutton his jeans, his 501 jeans -- although no one called them that then -- sliding them and his white briefs off, down to his knees.  His cock -- my cock, little changed over the years -- is flaccid.  He's scared, not aroused.  I bend over, taking it into my mouth.  "What are you doing?" he asks.  Maybe he thinks I'm going to eat it.  He know nothing about blow jobs.  But I no longer know what he's thinking.  As I said, in my boy's memories of the meeting, the man let me go.

He sits, rigid, his hands stiff at his sides, his back pressed against the back of the front seat, as his cock grows in my mouth.  I taste him, taste the precum leaking from his cock.  It won't be long I know before I'll taste something else, his spunk, his first ejaculation, one he wouldn't have otherwise had until his first wet dream two years hence.

"Oh -- oh," he says, as his hot cum hits the back of my throat, involuntarily thrusting with his hips, shoving his cock into my mouth, pounding his curly pubic hair against my lips.  He knows nothing about fucking, but he's fucking my mouth.  His body knows fucking, even if he doesn't.  It knows what it wants to do.

I've taste my cum.  I tasted it long after I'd first jacked off, catching it in my hand and putting it in my mouth, but it wasn't the same, not hot out of a boy's cock as it was now.  I want more of it.  I know I'll have more of it, before I let him go.

"Wha -- what happened?" he asks as I look up at him, wiping a drop of his cum from the corner of my mouth.

"You came," I say, "Did you like it?"

I can see that he's confused.  Although I don't have memories of what he's thinking, I think I know what he's thinking: he liked it; his body liked it; but it frightened him, too.  I smile, trying to reassure him.  Don't worry.  You're not dying or anything.  It's all a part of growing up.  All boys come sooner or later.  I gave you a blow job; I sucked you off.  Haven't you ever heard anyone say, 'Suck me?"

"No," he says, and maybe he hasn't, or at least, if he has, it didn't mean anything to him.  I can't remember when I heard it the first time. 

I start up the car, pulling it off the road, driving until we can't be seen from the road.  Since I have no memories of this, I can't be certain that someone won't drive down the road, and I don't wish to be disturbed.  I'm not finished.  One blow job isn't enough.  I can see he wants out, but his pants are down around his ankles, and I grab his hand when he reaches for them.  "Not yet," I say.  "I have other things to show you."

I pull into a clearing well off the road.  "Lift your arms," I say.  He starts crying.  "I'm not going to hurt you.  I just want to undress you."  I want to see him naked, to see if he matches the pictures I have of him in my mind.

I pull his t-shirt off.  He's a skinny kid.  I was until I joined the army.  Only then, did I start to gain weight.  I reach down untying his shoes, sliding his jeans over his feet.  He's naked, except for his socks.  Maybe I'll leave them on.  "Crawl into the back seat," I say.  The car is a two-door.  Once in the backseat, he won't be able to get out, not that I think he'll try, not without his clothes.  I know, at his age, I would have been more afraid of being seen naked by everyone in my neighborhood, than I would have been to stay in the car.

Besides, he'd liked the blow job.  It might have frightened him; but he'd liked it.  At least, his body liked it.

He sits, huddled in the back seat, one arm across his chest, one hand covering his crotch.  I pull off my shirt.  My chest is hairy.  His is still smooth.  Other than pubic hair, the only body hair he has grows under his arms.  Even the hair on his arms and legs is just beginning to turn dark.  In another year, he'll grow hair on his knuckles -- he'll hate that -- but he doesn't have any yet.

He watches me undress.  He's never seen a grown man naked before -- not that I can remember -- not even his dad.  I kick off my shoes; then -- lifting my hips -- slide my jeans off, along with my boxers.  My cock, freed from the waist band of my boxers, slaps against my belly.  He stares at it -- the first hard cock he's seen -- other than his own.  Little does he know that it is his own.  His eyes on my cock, his gets hard. 

I crawl into the back seat with him.  I kiss him, running my tongue into his mouth, his first French kiss, four years earlier than the one he would get from Jean Claiborne at sixteen.  At first he tries to close his mouth, shutting out my tongue, but when I grab his cock, he lets my tongue into his mouth.  I run it across his teeth, feeling the irregularity of his front teeth.  They're cooked.  His parents will never get braces for him.  I always hated his teeth, but I don't mind them now, not as I run my tongue across them.

As I kiss him, I pull on his cock, jacking him off.  He throws his head back as he cums, disengaging his mouth from mine, "Ummph, oh, oh," he says.  He shoots onto his stomach, only a couple of inches.  He never will be able to shoot for distance, maybe a few inches, if he hasn't jacked off for several days, but his cum will usually just ooze from his cock.

I pull him on top of me, feeling him, hot against my body, the sticky load he just shot smearing against my belly.  I kiss him again.  This time, he kisses me back.  Whatever he's thinking, he's given in to his body's desires.  It wants more, whether he does, or not.

Spitting on my hand, wetting my fingers, I rub them on his hole, lubricating it, sliding my finger inside it, as I continue to kiss him.  Surprised, he turns his head away, disengaging his mouth from mine.  "It's OK," I say, sticking my middle finger in farther, rotating it, feeling for his prostate.  I find it, and finding it, massage it. 

"Oh..." he says, shutting his mouth against my tongue, biting his lower lip as he does.  His eyes are closed.  He likes how it feels.  I know. I did -- years later when someone massaged mine for the first time.  I like it still.  I'd rather be fucked, than fuck.  He'll like it, too.  Knowing that, I continue to loosen his hole, adding first one finger, then another, stretching it out.  He grimaces, but doesn't ask me to stop.

After several minutes, his hole, still clamped around my fingers, is tight, but it should be loose enough to admit my cock.  I nuzzle the head of my cock against it.  His eyes open wide as I press.  "Easy," I say, "it might hurt at first, but you'll like it.  Trust me.  You'll like it."  With my hands clamped around his buttocks, I pull, shoving my cock into his ass. 

"It hurts," he says, but that doesn't stop me.  My cock slides past his sphincter, into his hole.  I pull his knees forward until they're under him, my cock fully inserted in his ass, my crotch butted up against the cheeks of his ass.

I take his hand, placing it around his cock. "Like this," I say, sliding it up and down on his cock, as I thrust mine into his hole.  As I fuck him, he jacks off.  When he shoots, I do, too, my climax brought about by the sight of spunk oozing from his cock.  It oozes -- doesn't shoot, but I didn't expect him to shoot far.  He's already cum twice.  This is his third.  He'll have more before I'm through, I expect.

I let him fuck me next.  With no hesitation when I align his cock with my hole, he plunges it inside me.  He has a six inch cock.  I should know.  I've measured it often enough.  This time, I jack off while he fucks me.  He cums before I do.  I let him finish me off with his hand.  He watches, seemingly entranced by the spunk oozing from my cock.

I've taught him jacking off.  I taught him more than jacking off.  But there's something more I can do for him.  For years now, I've wished I was castrated.  I don't know when I first became obsessed with the idea of it, but it was probably soon after I first jacked off at fourteen.  I've always wanted it, attempting to castrate myself many times, always backing out at the last minute, unable to actually cut my balls off, not because I was afraid of the pain -- I had Lanocaine and a bander -- but because I was quite able to go through with it.  I've banded my balls, injecting them with Lanocaine, but haven't been able to make the cut.  The idea of cutting my own flesh stops me every time.

Couldn't I do it for him?  If he were castrated, wouldn't I be, when I returned to my own time?  He is me.  Although he is a kid, he is me.  I have just fucked a kid, but actually, I have fucked myself.  Isn't that just another form of masturbation?  If I cut him -- if I cut this kid -- wouldn't I just be cutting myself?  I can cut him.  I know I can do it.  Although we are one and the same, separated only by time, I can cut him, knowing he is me, even though I can't cut off my balls while they are attached to me.

Won't that solve my dilemma?  He might not understand now, but someday he will.  Someday, he'll be grateful that I castrated him.  Someday, I'll be grateful I did.

He's exhausted, having cum at least ten times, shooting most of his spunk up my ass.  "Want a Coke?" I ask,  "There's some in a cooler on the floorboard."  He nods.  I dig a Coke out of the ice in the box and hand it to him.  He takes it.

I lean over the front seat, taking something out of the glove box, some fast acting sleeping pills I have.  "Does your ass hurt?" I ask. 

"Yeah, a little," he says.

"Take these." I hand him two of the pills.  Half of one usually knocks me out.  "They'll make you feel better."  He pops them into his mouth, washing them down with Coke.

We're a mess -- sweaty -- both covered with spunk, his and mine.  "Let's go down to the creek and wash up," I say.  He follows me.  After all we've done, what's a walk to the creek in the nude?

After washing off, we sit in the shallow water of the creek.  It's a hot summer day.  The cool water feels good.  He yawns.  The pills are working.  "Tired?" I ask.  He nods. 

In a few moments, he's asleep.  I carry him back to the car, lying him across the front seat, his legs draped over the edge, hanging out the door.  I have a elastrator in the trunk -- Lanocaine and a scalpel as well.

He stirs -- but doesn't awaken -- when I inject his balls with Lanocaine.  I wait, ten -- fifteen minutes.  That should be enough time.

  Then, fitting a band on the elastrator, I open it stretching the band, pulling his balls through it, one at a time.  Once the band is positioned against the base of his scrotum, I release it.   The band tightens around his ball sac.  It's good that he's asleep -- that I injected his balls with Lanocaine.  I've banded myself before.  It hurts.  It hurts like hell.

I load another band onto the elastrator, releasing it below the previous band, double banding his balls.  I don't want him to bleed.  He is me, after all. 

Taking out the scalpel, I drop it into alcohol, sterilizing it the best I can.  With the blood to his scrotum cut off, it's beginning to turn blue.   Good.  That means it shouldn't bleed when I cut it off.

Placing the scalpel below the last band, I cut through the skin of his scrotum.  It's easy.  I don't hesitate.  I couldn't castrate myself -- couldn't cut the balls off my own body -- but I won't have difficulty castrating him, cutting the balls off the body I had fifteen years before.  I wonder if mine will be gone as soon as I cut off his, or whether I'll have to return to my own time first.  They should disappear, as soon as I cut his off, shouldn't they?  How can I have balls now, if I cut them off fifteen years before?

But of course I didn't cut them off then, when I met myself the first time.  I will now, though.  When I do, my balls should disappear.

I slice through his scrotum below the second band, exposing his -- my -- balls.  It's too late to change my mind now.  I've cut off his scrotum.  Inside their individual sacs -- the tunica vaginalis, they call them -- his balls dangle from his groin.  I split the sacs open, exposing his balls and their cords.  I could have cut his balls off, scrotum and all, but I wanted to see them first.  I've always wanted to see my balls, always wanted to hold them in my hand, before cutting them off. 

I stare at them in fascination, then pick one up in my left hand, placing the blade of the scalpel against its cords, below the band.

Just a flick.  A mere flick of my wrist, dragging the razor sharp blade across the cords, and they part.  His ball drops into my hand.  A little blood oozes out, but not much.  He doesn't even stir in his sleep.  His balls shot up with Lanocaine, he doesn't feel the cut.  He doesn't realize one of his balls is gone.

Half way there.  We're half way to becoming a eunuch.  I glance down at my ball sac, expecting to see that I'm missing one of my balls, but I still have two.  Maybe I have to return to my own time first, for the change to take effect.

I cut off his other ball.  We're eunuchs now.  Although I still have balls, I don't expect to have them when I return to my own time.  "I love you, Johnny," I say, using the name he no longer uses himself.  I clean him up, cutting away the sacs his balls once hid in.  Below the bands -- other than a little skin, what's left of his scrotum, enough for the bands to hold on to, there's nothing.  I put his balls -- a few inches of cords still attached to them -- into the bottle of alcohol.  I want to keep them.

That's where I want my balls: in a bottle on a shelf, not hanging from my cock.

I drop him off at a corner, making certain first no one's around, leaving his clothes piled beside him.  I could have dressed him, but I want them to immediately know the extent of his injuries, that he's been castrated, so they can give him the care he needs.  He should be OK.  I'm still alive, aren't I?  How could I have come back to castrate him, had he died from it?  The bands are holding.  He's not bleeding.  He just no longer has balls.

I call the police, telling them where to find him, "Bring an ambulance," I say, hanging up when they try to question me.

I'm back now -- back in my own time.  I still have my balls.  I haven't been castrated.  That's why I wonder if it were a dream.  But, if it were, whose balls are in the bottle of alcohol in my medicine cabinet?  I put his balls in the bottle, intending to keep them.  I have them still.  If I didn't castrate him -- castrate myself -- whose balls are they?

Perhaps -- as some say -- there are alternative universes.  Perhaps, I traveled to one, castrating the boy I was in that universe.  Maybe that's why he's castrated and I'm not.

I wonder -- does he thank me for it?  Is he glad I castrated him?  Did the boy in that universe want it as much as I do?  I guess that's something I'll never know.

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