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I Am Walking Past
I am walking past a roofed corner in one of the back courtyards of a slavers compound. Turning, I look in. Facing me is the gagged face of a young slave. He is probably around sixteen. The gag cuts at the corner of his mouth. I can see the darkening hair, too, of his upper lip. His eyes are dark and wide. Damp sweaty hair falls over his forehead. He is bent over a table. His arms are outstretched in front of him, secured to the corners of the table by thin rope. I can see the rope is biting into his wrists. Standing behind him are two men. The slave is obviously naked. The men are concentrating on something. Then there is a movement that I cant really see and the slaves face wide jerks into shock. Even with the gag I can hear a muffled guttural sound. Then his eyes are screwed tight and his whole body jerks, almost as if he is fucking the table, in a series of shudders, that dont stop. I realise then, that he has just been gelded and his manhood has just been taken from him. It Must Be Nearly Time It must be nearly time for Manuel to clip you, I had said, a month or so before, my hands between his thighs, his balls warm in my hand. He was one of the household slaves and I had just fucked him, an act he did not enjoy and submitted to only because he was ordered to do so. He was around fifteen, stocky and well-muscled, with a pair of taut buttocks and an aching tight asshole between them. He knew the meaning of the word clip. His already sullen face closed even more. Like all the household boys he knew what would occur to him. He would have his balls cut to become a eunuch and serve the household without distraction. It happened to them all. His hand unconsciously strayed down towards his prickle while mine continued to roll the hardness of his young balls within their skin. Now he lies naked on the bed before me. I have told him to strip and to lie there. Part your thighs, I tell him, and keep your hands out of the way. His throat quivers as he swallows but he follows my instructions. I grope my hand up between his legs. His skin there is soft now, without content. There is nothing inside. He will not look at me. I can see the red scars of the two cuts Manuel has made there, to unman him. I can feel my own prick harden. Now up on all fours, you know how I like it, I say. And slowly he obeys me, his rump curving there, pale in the lamplight, I put my hand up between his legs again, from behind, feeling his soft prick and the empty, slack skin there in the shadows. There Is Nothing To Equal The Shame There is nothing to equal the shame of new eunuchs standing naked in the slave-markets. There are three of them, all of them around sixteen or seventeen, black-haired Italian youths, unmanned perhaps fourteen days ago, and new-healed. They stand there naked in a row in front of the gazes of prospective buyers or the merely curious. They are all ashamed, with anger still lurking behind their embarrassment. In the late morning sun they are hot, a light sheen of sweat on their smooth skins. In their groins curls of pubic hair are glossy. While two of them have prickles of ordinary size, the other, the youngest-looking, has one of good length. But behind their prickles now is empty ball-sacs. The slaver has no consideration for their shame. To any interested buyer he will explain their skills and background, pointing out physical details, and with his cane, lifting their soft prickles, to expose the hanging flap of skin behind. The crowd is the usual one of the markets, men and boys, pausing for a moment to stare and study. Later the new eunuchs will be auctioned on the block, each of them standing there while the auctioneer tries to raise the bids, ordering them to turn, to flex their muscles, to stand their with their legs apart, holding up their prickles to show their cut state He Doesnt Want To Lose Them He doesnt want to lose them, I said. The boy had fought all the way to the block. Now he was stretched out on it, spread-eagled, bonds tight about his wrists and ankles, but still breathing heavily from his exertion. He was around fifteen. His shins were streaked with dark hairs but his thighs were still clean. His pubic hair a clearly-defined patch. His exposed armpits revealed a neat line of underarm hair. I felt his balls, warm and tight, rounded between his thighs. I held his young soft prick, his foreskin smooth over his glans, in one hand and began pulling on his balls, with the other, to loosen them. He was lifting his head to see, his eyes wild. Cover his face, I ordered and one of the other slaves laid a large piece of stained linen over the boys head. He tossed under it but could not shrug it off. I could feel his prick grow slightly in my grip, swelling. Then I slipped the noose over his balls and locked it, high up, where they join the body. Id be cutting his balls from him, just below the leather noose, and then cauterising the wound with an old flat knife blade already hot in the charcoal brazier. On his stomach the boys prick lolled and continued to grow, until it was taut-hard, his foreskin slipping down over the head exposing it. Little bastard, I said. He had needed cutting for some months, having got to that stage of adolescent male slaves when they presume too much. I pulled on his balls again. He was still young enough to be tender there. It is easy to cut them when theyre young. As I pulled on his balls his stiff prick stood and fell. Hes got a good pair, I said, feeling his balls there. I pulled the knife from my belt. The boy was still moving his head under the stained linen and I could hear his gagged impotent grunts. Lets get them off then, I said. He could hear me and his whole body tensed then as if he was trying to heave himself free of the bonds that had immobilised him. I gently pulled on his balls. His prick raised itself from his stomach, waving loosely. Then I slipped the knife down between his thigh and his balls, placing it exactly and carefully. His muscles were straining as if he would close his legs. In my left hand his balls were hot and damp. I began to cut him. You do it in a series of cuts, one after the other, deeper until you are through. With that first slice he spat seed from the end of his prick, the white spurts going everywhere over his stomach as his prick swayed in the air. His body was clenching and thrusting. The gag had muffled most of his noise. Then I was through, holding the cut handful in one hand wetly now. Well thats him nutted, I said, and hell be better for it. The Girls All Liked Him The girls all liked him. He was a pouty seventeen year old, with dark black hair, licks of which hung over his forehead to be tossed back. He had a wide mouth with a full underlip. His eyes were narrow and dark. He was in the back courtyard with other household slaves, deliberately jostling them and laughing. Like them all, in the heat, hed taken off his shirt. He wasnt overly muscled, but his skin was taut and smooth. His low-slung trousers, when he turned around, hung right on the edge of his buttocks. He elbowed another of the slaves in the side and stood back, his legs straddled just that little bit, his hands on his hips. At that moment I decided that I would get one of the slavers men in the next day, to have him gelded. It would be safer having him around then, without his balls. He wouldnt like it. They never do. For a month or two hed be sullen and angry but then hed ease himself into the placidity of a eunuch, unstirred by desires, with no need to compete. It would do him good. He Was My Body-Servant He was my body-servant and tended to all my needs whether it was the running or a message or pouring me my wine. He helped me to dress in the morning and he slept in my bed in the night. He was around sixteen. I had purchased him in the markets around six months ago. He was part of a group of twenty of thirty new-gelded slaves from the northern borders. They stood there in a corner of the slave-markets, heads bowed and ashamed. I had him taken out so I could examine him. He is still in good condition. His blonde hair was a dark blonde. He had not yet begun to shave, nor would he ever. His stomach was flat and his buttocks neatly rounded. He had been completely cut. Like all the others, his balls had been tied in some remote slavers yards, and theyd been cut right off. Later, when he was easier with me, I asked him how they had been done. He flushed with embarrassment and would not look at me but I gradually pieced together a story of his capture, a long journey of many days in a train of slaves until they came to a small port town on a river. There they had been sorted into groups and hed been crowded into a pen with others, his hands tied behind his back, and they theyd watched as one by one they were taken out into the yard, held down on the dirt, there legs apart while a man knelt down and cut their balls. At night when we stripped for bed he was always modest, turning away from me, sliding in between the sheets. Some nights, though, when the mood took me, I would throw back the covers and order him to jerk me off, making him reveal himself too, his uncircumcised prick limp there in its tidy bed of hair, and no balls beneath it. Sometimes when I had difficulty coming to orgasm in his hand, I would take over myself, demanding that he spread his thighs wide so that I could clearly see between his legs to where the cut of the slavers knife had nutted him, and I study this as I pull myself to ejaculation. |