The Boy -- A Vignette

He was beautiful -- perfectly formed and of perfect proportions -- with an angelic face, framed by soft brown curls.  I'd paid a high price for him -- a talent in gold -- but he was worth it.  I might collect four times that much, once he was prepared.

It wouldn't do to cut him.  I wouldn't risk that.  Only one of every four boys survived cutting.  Fortunately, he was young, about three or four. 

I don't know where the slavers found him.  They didn't say.  Perhaps they stole him.  Perhaps they bought him from his parents or other slavers.  None of that mattered.  He'd found his way to me.  That's all that mattered.

What country he was from was also a mystery.  His language was unfamiliar to me; and he couldn't understand mine.  Boys that age learn language quickly, though.  He'd be speaking mine in no time -- most likely without an accent.

He was frightened.  I picked him up.  He cried.  "Shhh, little one," I said, kissing away his tears.  It seemed to calm him.

I lowered him into the warm bath, feeling the water first to make certain it wasn't too hot.  "Doesn't that feel good, little one?"  He was dirty.  Only the gods know when he'd last had a bath.

My smile seemed to reassure him.  He sniffled, but stopped crying.  I washed his face with a cloth, then kissed him.  "You're beautiful -- a treasure," I said.  He smiled back, a shy, tentative, smile.

I rubbed his back, then his chest, before sliding my hand between his legs, finding his little pickle.  It was smaller than my little finger.

It became hard as I caressed it.  "Do you like that, little one?" I asked. 

Even though he couldn't understand me, he smiled.  I've never found a boy that didn't enjoy having his pickle caressed.

After a moment, I slid my hand down to the pouch containing his orbs.  The warm water had relaxed it, allowing his balls to descend.  I called one of the eunuchs over.  He knew what to do.  "Gently," I told him.  He grasped the boys shoulders. 

Frightened, the boy whimpered.  "Shhh," I said, smiling as I said it.  It seemed to reassure him.

I had one of his balls between my thumb and first two fingers.  It wasn't any wider than my thumb.  I squeezed, grinding it between my thumb and fingers.  He screamed.  I didn't want to hurt him, but it had to be done.

He struggled, but the eunuch held him.  I continued to grind his ball, until nothing was left of it but mush.  Then I started on the other one.  I didn't stop until I couldn't feel anything solid in his pouch, then I picked him up out of the water, caressing his hair, kissing his tears, feeling their salty taste in my mouth.  "There, there, little one," I said.  "It's all over now.  No one will hurt you more."

I handed him to the eunuch.  "Care for him.  If he dies, so do you."

The boy's pouch was swollen to twice its previous size for over a week.  I visited him every day, checking on it.  After a few weeks, most of the swelling had gone down, and he no longer whimpered when I touched it.  I could feel nothing solid inside the folds of his pouch.  His balls were completely gone; but I had expected nothing less.  I seldom had to do a boy twice.

"Good," I said, "Now, you'll always be beautiful."