Simon Loses Everything

Not for the first time, just when I’d counted on having a quiet drink, here he was again, scruffy as usual, mouse-brown hair unbrushed, dirty white trainers and no socks, grubby T-shirt and worst of all, white cotton PE shorts. Why he wore them in preference to jeans I couldn’t imagine. They were too wide-fitting and when he squatted down, as he did now, I had a full view right up his leg….

He had that look on his face that meant he wanted to ask me a lot of searching questions – no doubt about something embarrassing. Not long before, he’d confided that he had the smallest penis in the third form. This was probably true. Simon was pushing twelve but his equipment seen through the leg of his shorts amounted to two little blobs the size of my thumbnail, and a pink acorn that would not have been out of place on a four-year-old.

I was right. “Uncle Carl, can I talk to you please? Can we walk along?” (The “uncle” was a courtesy title. The true relationship was something like 4th cousin many times removed.)

I wished I didn’t find Simon such an unattractive kid. The fact was, no one wanted him. The only child of a remote relation of mine, who happened to be a missionary in South Africa, he had come to Britain over a year ago, to live with the Saundersons, also relations of mine, and who were business people, with three children of their own. His parents had claimed that they – the Saundersons – would not be out of pocket, since Simon was so bright academically, and had such a perfect soprano voice, that he would certainly get a choral scholarship.

In the event the entrance exam revealed that Simon was really rather stupid. The results of his audition by the choirmaster were even worse – his voice was weak and husky, scarcely the material of which choristers – let alone choral scholars – were made. I thought, not for the first time, that a quick snip by a surgeon would do his singing voice the world of good .

His unwilling guardians found themselves out of pocket by several thousands in school fees. Meanwhile Simon’s parents seemed to have disappeared from human ken.

I abandoned all hope of an ice-cold g-and-t and got up. Simon set off in our usual direction, the kitchen garden. Laid out on a big scale by an earlier generation, much of this was now abandoned, paths threading a wilderness of unpruned trees and derelict sheds. Which was why Simon chose it now. “Uncle Carl” he piped up in his whiny voice, after we’d been going some time “At school we’ve been learning, in biology, how babies come. But what they didn’t tell us, and what I don’t understand is, why do boys and girls love doing the thing, that starts a baby? You know, don’t you?” He gave me a strange sideways look, a leer, almost.

I did my best, but what does “the most wonderful feeling in the world” mean to an underdeveloped 11-year-old? Or the thrill of anticipation, or the magic moment of getting your girl’s knickers off? Least of all this, when in the Saunderson household at bath time, not only Simon but 13-year-old Sue, 10-year-old Vikki and 7-year-old Charlie all ran around in the nude. (In Sue’s case they were going to have to think again pretty soon, since she was getting quite a figure).

I finished at last, rather lamely. “So then the girl has a baby” Simon concluded. “But suppose she’s still at school or something – how does she manage then?”

I was spared from having to explain about the Pill, or condoms, by a distraction. We were now on a path that paralleled the boundary fence of a paddock, the home of Sue’s pony, a New Forest bay gelding called Mustang. This beast now came trotting over, but suddenly felt a call of nature. Planting his hooves foursquare, he let down half a yard of rubbery, mottled penis, and deluged the turf with a steaming yellow flood. Then, finding the other end of the paddock more interesting he trotted off again, flaccid member wagging from side to side.

“What a strange piss-piss Mustang has, Uncle Carl” Simon laughed, pointing. “It’s not a bit like a boy’s. Where are his balls?”

“He’s lost them” I replied. “They were cut off by the vet., when Mustang was still a young colt. It’s something that every young horse has to face, apart from a very, very few that are kept for breeding. Once a colt is three years old the vet comes round and uses special instruments to cut out his balls. Afterwards he can never do the thing with a mare, that makes a new foal. Anyway, don’t call it a piss-piss; the word is “penis”.

“How mean!” exclaimed Simon. “Doesn’t the horse mind?”

“I think some do” I replied. “Sometimes you’ll see a young horse that’s recently had it done to him, mounting a filly and trying to get it in. And he can’t, because his penis remains soft, however hard he tries”.

Simon was quiet for a few moments then came out with “Is that operation ever done on humans, Uncle Carl? I mean, on boys?”

“Quite often” I replied. “In the country where I used to work it was done to very bad boys, who got in trouble with the police. It was believed to make them better behaved. And in Central America, where they have a lot of children employed in fruit picking and jobs like that. If a boy has only a tiny penis and no balls at all, people think he will be stronger for work, than if he’s always playing with his penis and thinking about girls all the time”.

“I had the end of my piss-piss cut off” said Simon wistfully. “My nice little piss-piss. It was supposed to stop me fiddling with it”.

“You can still get married and have children” I replied. “But when a boy’s balls have been removed that’s not possible”.

We walked on in silence. Presently Simon spoke again. “Uncle Carl, how’s it done on boys – cutting their balls off?”

We had reached one of the disused parts of the kitchen garden, a path bounded by high fences on both sides. Ahead was an area of scrubby bushes, and a door in the wall, that was never opened. “I’ll show you” I said. “Pull your shorts down”.

Simon instantly obeyed. Between finger and thumb I took the knob of his little penis and began stroking it. “That feels nice” Simon murmured. I moved to his scrotum. His balls were like small grapes. Gently I pulled them downwards. “Can you feel they’re on strings?” I asked. Simon nodded. “Well, when a boy has been taken to the doctor to be “done”, the first thing is to take his trousers and pants down, and then the doctor gives him a local anaesthetic, just here (I touched the crease of his groin).

“As soon as it’s taken effect, the doctor takes an instrument which is able to sever the cords of the boy’s balls, without breaking the skin. Once that’s been done, the boy’s balls start to shrivel up. Your own are like grapes now – they would be more like raisins in a day or two afterwards”.

“No more love-juice in them” Simon sniggered.

“And there’s another way” I went on. “Doctors have found a drug that can be injected into the boy’s balls, that makes them wither away. Where I used to work, in the Middle East, boys were often taken to get their balls pricked. The effect’s just the same as if the cords were cut, or the balls taken right out. The boy’s penis shrinks and never goes stiff, and the pouch just dries up”.

“So” commented Simon “boys who have had their balls pricked are not able to fuck girls”.

“Simon, you must never use that word! But yes, quite right, they can’t. And where I used to work, there was a special reason. Quite often, in a wealthy family where all the children were girls, the parents would select a nice-looking little boy from an orphanage, to be a companion for the girls, join in their games, help them at bath time and when they went to bed. So they would often be alone with the girls when they got undressed and so on. Boys like that were always taken to the doctor to get their balls pricked, so that they could never misbehave with the girls.”.

Simon became thoughtful. Clearly he was thinking about his own position in the Saunderson household. “Don’t the boys mind, Uncle Carl?”

I cast my mind back. “I remember one boy in particular, where I used to work, they called him Anthony, no one seemed to know exactly where he came from. Nice looking kid, fair hair, brown eyes, age about thirteen. There was this family, very wealthy, with a teenage daughter. They wanted Anthony as a companion for her, but Sheikh Abdullah, her father, insisted that Anthony must be taken to get his balls pricked. Afterwards he howled his eyes out”.

Simon said nothing. When he spoke again it was on a different tack. “Uncle Carl, I need to use the toilet”.

“To have a pee, you mean?”

“No, I need to sit on the lav”.

“You can do that here. I’ll show you how the native boys used to manage.” (This was something I’d seen again and again in the marshlands).

“Get right out of your shorts” (they were still round his ankles). “Go over there into that long grass. Right. Now, stand with your feet apart and use both hands to pull the cheeks of your bottom open. More than that – pull them wide apart. Now then, push, hard – push it right out – push!”

As with the boys in the marshlands, so with Simon. A brief jet of urine from his tiny penis, and in the same instant the turd shot out of his anus and into the grass. And of course he had to comment about it. “Gosh, Uncle Carl, that was clever! My bum-hole’s perfectly clean. Just look”.

“Show me” I said. Simon came over, turned around and held his buttocks open.

Now, make no mistake – I love fucking girls and a boy’s bottom is no substitute. But all of a sudden I wanted sex, and I wanted it now. I felt in my pocket for the tube I always carried, for dry skin, chapped lips and so on. “This is just ordinary cold cream” I said as I squeezed some on to my fingertip. I smeared a liberal amount around his anus, then undid my zip.

“Uncle Carl, what are you doing? Oh Uncle Carl, you rat!” But Simon wasn’t distressed or angry, he was laughing. Laughing when his sphincter-muscle popped open, laughing when my penis slipped up his rectum, laughing when I shot my load into his bowels. It was all over in seconds.

“Oh Uncle Carl, I liked doing that – it felt funny at first but then I loved it”. His face was shining with just-discovered sex. “I felt all of it going in. Good thing there’s no chance of a baby, up my bum. I feel just like a girl”.

On the way back to the house Simon kept giving me sidelong glances as if to say “We know a thing or two, don’t we?

I disappeared off the scene for a few days, and then one evening, quite late, the phone rang. It was Jennifer Saunderson, Simon’s guardian, and she sounded distraught. She said her children were depraved and was at her wits’ end what to do. I arranged to meet her, in her car, in the lane at the side of the house.

For a while Jennifer just smoked nervously, but then screwed herself up to tell me her story. It amounted to this. That Simon was a dirty-minded kid, I already knew. I also knew that despite his underdeveloped genitals he was capable of getting an erection, because he’d told me. (“All I have to do is keep pulling my piss-piss till it goes stiff”) He had wasted no time in putting his newly-acquired knowledge into practice. Jennifer had come upstairs unexpectedly, and found Simon rubbing the end of his penis up and down the crease of 13-year-old Susan’s behind.

As sexual misbehaviour went, this was very mild indeed – Susan had even kept her knickers on – but it had got to Jennifer in a big way. For at least the tenth time she said “Carl, what am I going to do?”

I lit a cigarette. “You can’t blame Sue” I replied. “At her age it’s perfectly natural to be curious. And it’s not as though any harm’s been done. But Simon’s a different matter. Have you ever thought of getting him neutered?”

Jennifer goggled at me. “Neutered – you mean, making him a sort of – sort of eunuch” She began blushing. I could see what was bothering her. She was seeing nightmare visions, beautiful young boys taken into slavery, their testicles burned out with red-hot irons. “You’ve been reading too many books “ I replied. “There’s no surgery involved” I went on. “Just an injection”. I outlined the process, how a doctor was able to inject a drug directly into a boy’s testicles so that the blood supply closed off, causing the organs to wither away, and just as importantly to atrophy the nerves controlling erections, so that the boy’s penis remained, at best, flaccid and soft. More often it shrank to only an inch or so.

I went on to paint her a picture of the fruit farms in Central America, of the boys who were sent to work there after a quick visit to the neutering clinic: their sturdy thighs, their vestigial scrotums and minuscule penises, like young, gelded horses, with none of their energy squandered on producing sperm or testosterone. I told her of the messenger-boy at the hospital where I’d worked, an uncontrollable young tearaway until being neutered at the age of eleven. Now, happy, contented and well-fed, the only thing he would never be able to do, was to put his penis up a girl’s vagina.

Jennifer’s mouth was becoming set in a hard line. I could see that she was making her mind up. “It’s irreversible, of course” I said. “But what of it? It’s not as though he were your own child”.

There was a slight pause before Jennifer replied. “Where can I get him done” she asked. “Not in Britain, obviously”.

“If I were you, I’d take him to the U S” I said. “Search the Internet for a specialist – there should be any number. The original research was done in Milwaukee, I think: it was there they came up with a drug called Neutrasol or something like it, but there’s been a lot of work done since”.

“Thanks” said Jennifer. “I will”. I got out of the car and went home, and thought no more about it.

When I called round a few days later, Jennifer wasn’t there. Nor was Simon. The first person I encountered when I explored upstairs was Sue, and her appearance rocked me on my heels. She had on – and it was all she had on – a matching set of incredibly, for a 13-year-old - sophisticated black underwear. She had developed large enough boobs to fill the bra, and the knickers were the sort that consist of a triangle back and front, joined at the waist by ribbon.

“Hello” I said. “All on your own?”

“Dad’s at a meeting. Charlie’s doing his homework. Mum’s away”.

“And Simon?”

“Mum’s taken him to America. He thinks he’s going to Disneyland, but I know – I know, that he’s been taken to have that operation you’re not supposed to talk about. To get his balls pricked. He won’t ever be able to do anything with a girl, afterwards”.

So it had happened.

“Do you like my new bra and knicker set? I only got it today”.

“Very much” I lied. Inwardly I thought what a little slut she looked.

Sue moved over to the bed, lay down and with a deliberate movement, spread her legs, watching me through half-closed eyes. Through the transparent material her vagina-lips stood out clearly. She spoke again. “When I pop my cherry I want it to be with a REAL boy. That little rat would never do”..

If I stayed, I should do something I was sorry for, so I blew her a kiss and left.

Business took me overseas for a month. Calling round to the Saundersons’ not long after I returned, things seemed much as they had always been. Downstairs as usual was deserted. Upstairs likewise. In Simon’s room I found a bran-new, state-of-the-art PC, far better than mine. I guessed it was a peace-offering from Jennifer. Looking out of his bedroom window I saw Simon himself outside. He looked much the same as he had always done: scruffy trainers and no socks, greyish T-shirt, white satinised gym shorts several days old, and he was kicking stones around the yard.

I suddenly thought of Cecco, who was the painter Caravaggio’s favourite model for Cupid (and incidentally the painter’s bum-chum). When he showed the first symptoms of puberty, in order to preserve his boyish prettiness Caravaggio called in a barber-surgeon and had the boy castrated- a gruesome process involving clamps and heated wires. Cecco survived the crude surgery of the times, but deprived of the means of relieving his sexual longings, he was said at times to be so overcome with frustration that he would spend hours kicking stones round the piazza.

I closed the window and went down, and greeted Simon quietly. “Oh hullo, Uncle Carl” he replied. “I suppose you know. I expect you want to hear all about it. Let’s go somewhere quiet”.

The old potting shed was the ideal place. Lit by a skylight there were no windows and the door could be closed from the inside. “Are you going to let me have a look?” I asked.

With a quick, deft movement Simon pulled down his grubby shorts. The drug had done a thorough job of neutering him. His penis was drawn right in, only the glans showing, and his scrotum had all but disappeared. “I had to keep a plaster on, till my pouch dried up” Simon commented. “But now, my piss-piss is so short that I can hardly get it out of the leg of my shorts when I want to pee”.

A comment I’d heard before from boys on the coffee plantations. “Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.

His shorts still round his ankles, Simon sat down on a box. “Well, Auntie Jennifer took me to Orlando” he began. “Only when we arrived she said we weren’t going to Disneyland. That was OK by me, Disneyland’s for babies. She said that instead, I was going to have a day at a private clinic where they would look at my privates and give me an injection.

“I said I understood everything about that because Uncle Carl had explained it all. Auntie Jennifer looked a bit surprised, but all she said was, if I didn’t make a fuss I could have a new computer”.

“I’ve seen it” I said. “It’s pretty good”.

“Well, she dropped me off at the clinic next day and left me with a nurse, called Mamie, who undressed me and put me into a hospital gown. Next thing, she stuck a tube up my bottom and washed my behind out with hot soapy water. I liked that”.

“It’s often done” I said.

“I knew exactly what they were going to do, because you told me. It was just like you said: the nurse put a needle in the top of my leg, and a short while later the doctor came. He made me open my legs wide, and while the nurse held my shoulders, the doctor gave me two more needles, one in each ball. It didn’t hurt a bit. Then the nurse took me to another room, where there were beds, and told me to rest for a bit.

“Were you all alone?” I asked.

“No; two other boys came at different times. Now Jack, he was nice. He was a member of some temple, somewhere; it was something to do with their religion but nearly all the boys in that place had to have their balls cut off. Jack said that even though it was done properly, by a doctor in a hospital, it was quite painful and kept you in bed for about a week. So he was pleased when he got permission to get his balls pricked, because the effect was just the same. We talked a lot.

“The other was called Mark. He cried all the time. His mother brought him and – what do you think she said? “Now honey-lamb, the doctor’s going to sting those nasty balls out, and then you’ll always be Momma’s sweet darling little boy and have fun”.

“What an awful weed he sounds” I said.

“Yes, he was. Well, later that day Auntie Jennifer came and fetched me. By then the first injection was wearing off and my balls throbbed a bit. Next day, when we flew home, they were red and itchy. Then that wore off too and they looked quite ordinary, only I had to have this sticking plaster on, to help the pouch to dry up. I’ve only just been able to leave it off”.

“Since I’ve been home, Sue has often called for me at bath time. She’s made me wash round her – those fat bits she’s grown, and – and down there, also. Uncle Carl, a girl’s thing is all slippery inside – did you know? And she likes to sing Simon’s had his balls pricked, Simon’s had his balls pricked”.

“I don’t mind though, because I can always do this, with you”.

Simon’s shorts were still down round his ankles. He now got down on all fours, on the dirty floor, and offered me his bare bottom. Very quietly I guided my erection into his anus, feeling for his organ with the other hand.