Simon Learns to do Oral

By Maxwell G Riche

Too often, stories about boy-eunuchs are just that: stories, set against a background of fantasy or the remote past. These few lines set out to break the mould. Castrating young boys is not exotic; on the contrary it is commonplace, and the motives for the operation are more often than not, of an entirely sexual nature.

During a tour of duty in one of the Gulf states I found out quite early that castration was written into the penal code as the prescribed punishment for juvenile delinquent boys. Whilst youths and adult men might be committed to prison or flogged, young boys made a one-way trip to an approved clinic. The upshot was that perhaps one boy in twenty – possibly more possibly less – lacked two of the bits he was born with, and in the country districts there was an abundance of ploughboys and lemon-pickers with high voices and no trace of beards.

The popular opinion was that it was the most appropriate treatment for naughty boys, not least because the castrated ones were made figures of fun by those who had escaped.

Originally the operation was purely surgical: the doctor made two diagonal cuts in the boy’s scrotum under local anaesthetic, and these were closed by stitching after the balls had been removed. But in the 90’s, researchers in the USA came up with an inorganic compound, which if injected direct into a pre-pubescent boy’s balls, had the property of attacking and destroying all hormone-bearing tissue, as well as the spermatic cords and the nerves that control erections.

The impetus for the research came from plantation owners in Central America who employed a large amount of child labour. In the field, more time seemed to be spent in juvenile sexual intercourse among the banana-trees than doing any work. Trials were carried out on a number of young Hispanics with sturdy penises and large, lax scrotums. Days after the injection of the drug, the boys’ testicles had withered to about one-tenth of their former size (in time the pouch virtually disappeared) and their penises resembled those of six-year-old children, 2 – 3 centimetres only, and less in cold weather. The success of the trials fuelled the demand, and soon in orphanages all over the sub-continent, boys were routinely castrated in this way. Not only were they totally incapable of having sex with girls (or with each other, and masturbation was also impossible) but like young farm horses after being gelded, castration seemed to make the boys stronger for work.

All this I had known for some time. But it took a stay in London for me to realise that the operation was also available in Europe – at a price.

Last year, having nowhere else to use as a base, I wished myself on a female cousin in her early 40’s, who had a flat in West Kensington. Gwenda is a hard, fashionable sort of woman, with expensive tastes, catered for by the large fees earned by her husband Robert who is a Lloyds Name and holds directorships in this and that. For some years they had been the legal guardians of a boy called Simon, whose own parents seemed to have lost touch. By now, Simon was twelve going on thirteen, a well-built kid, with fair hair cut very short and brown eyes set in a round and rather pretty face. Compared with some others of the same age I'd come across, who were always skateboarding or roller-blading or otherwise taking the place apart, Simon seemed to have very quiet tastes. Another curious thing was, that in an age when denim jeans are the regular uniform for toddlers upwards, Simon went around in white mercerised cotton P E shorts.

The truth dawned one afternoon when one of Gwenda’s friends – Lorna - called round. She and Gwenda were very much two of a kind – hard as nails. Lorna had brought her daughter in tow, a prematurely sophisticated little piece called Wendy. Simon was quickly sent for, and told to entertain Wendy whilst the women went in for a bit of character-assassination.

“Will they be alright?” enquired Lorna. “I mean S – E – X” (she mouthed the letters). “Wendy knows she’s got something inside her knickers that boys want, and given the opportunity…”

“Oh my dear girl!” rejoined Gwenda with a gust of coarse laughter. “Simon’s entirely harmless in that direction. We had him seen to nearly a year ago.”

“You mean – doctored?” asked the other in an incredulous whisper.

“Of course. Only it’s done by injection now. All very simple. You see, Simon had been growing more and more impossible. Moody, ill tempered, lazy, destructive – I could go on for ages. So I went for counselling and they asked, had I thought about castration? Simon was bound to be difficult with all those male hormones beginning to slosh around. Just remove two little lumps between his legs and – presto! I hadn’t dreamed of castration till then, but the more I considered it, the more I liked it. After all it’s not as if he was really ours.”

“How ever did you get Simon to agree?” asked Lorna, intrigued.

“Robert was marvellous with him” replied Gwenda. “He just took him on one side and said, he knew, didn’t he, that when a young horse reaches a certain age, he often becomes nervous and jumpy and difficult to handle, and then he has to have a little operation, which is done on his privates. Well, it’s often done on boys too, and they are much happier afterwards. If he, Simon, had it done then he could choose a new personal computer with all the software and games he wanted. There wasn’t very much to the operation – it was like an inoculation really; but afterwards he would never be able to get married or have children.

“Well, do you know – he agreed at once! All he really wanted to know was how soon could he be “done” so he could go and choose his computer. The consultants had given me the number and name of a specialist, a Dr Syed, a Moroccan – who was the best expert in Britain. Well, I rang him. The fee he quoted was horrendous, but my mind was made up, and Simon was “done” one morning, and had the afternoon to rest and keep still while the drug took hold, or seemingly it might just disperse.

“Well, the results were amazing. After three weeks his what-nots which had been quite big and plump before, were like raisins, and his willie shrank up into a sort of little acorn, which he could hardly get out of his trousers when he wanted a wee. That’s why he goes round in P E shorts, they are loose in the leg. But now it’s time for a playback. Simon’s room is wired for sound.”

Gwenda began fiddling with the hi-fi controls and presently the voices of Simon and Wendy were heard.

“What are you doing, Wendy” I can see your knickers”.

“ I’m going to pull them off. Then you can put your willie in me, front way or back way, whichever you want. Front way is nicer, but you mustn’t let anything go inside me if you do. Perhaps you ought to put it up my bottom. That’s perfectly safe. Have you got some vaseline?”

“But Wendy, I can’t”.

“Rubbish Simon – of course you can. All boys want to”.

“But I’ve had this operation and I can’t!” (Simon’s voice was growing shrill with exasperation).

“Let me feel”. (A pause.) “I do believe you’ve had your balls cut off – and your willie’s the smallest I’ve ever felt – like a baby’s. They do that, don’t they – they cut boys’ balls off so they can never do anything with a girl, and it helps them to sing better”.

“No they don’t” was Simon’s reply. “These days they prick a boy’s balls and inject a drug, and they dry up. The effect is just the same”.

Wendy began chanting “Simon’s had his balls pricked, Simon’s had his balls pricked. Can’t get his willie up, isn’t it a shame”.

By now the two women were in fits. Gwenda recovered herself enough to say “I’ve got that room wired for CCTV also. Let’s see what they are up to”.

A screen flickered into life. It showed Wendy on Simon’s bed, on her back. She had taken her tight white knickers off and her legs were spread. Simon was cradling his face between her open thighs, doing – apparently expertly – with his mouth, what he could never do with his penis.