Words had never been his strong suit. At the scene that opened up before him the fair-haired boy stood spellbound, entranced, speechless.

In all of his short life he had never imagined, still less seen, a more beautiful garden. There were lush green lawns, flowerbeds full of exotic blooms, every variety of shrub and tree in full bloom. There were little pools and rills of sparkling water. In the trees and across the grass, squirrels with bushy tails chased one another.

As he watched, strange uncontrollable feelings came over him as they sometimes did. He reached up inside the leg of his skimpy shorts, his fingers seeking the space at the top of his thighs. He began to fondle the little fold of skin that had once been his scrotum, and his slender penis, hanging limp in spite of the urges that were driving him frantic.

Daniel was a boy-eunuch.

There are countless stories about boys who give graphic accounts of how they were castrated. But Daniel’s operation was no fiction. Drugged beforehand, he knew nothing of how he was being pruned between his thighs to satisfy the conventions of that part of the Arab world: deprived of the two little blobs of flesh that made him a boy. Returning to consciousness he found himself as he would always be: a sexual ‘nothing’, neither boy nor girl, with a tiny limp penis and no balls or scrotum. But his longings remained, stronger than before, now that they were incapable of ever being satisfied.

That was all in the past. Of his journey halfway across the world, less than a month ago, he was scarcely any clearer. It had been an odyssey of boats, planes, trains and automobiles, with many stops, many changes -–some of only a few minutes. Early on in this saga Daniel had been examined by a doctor, who had made him strip off. Without saying a word the doctor had noted that the boy’s private area lacked the usual twin underpinnings, and he wrote “Bilateral orchiectomy” as if he encountered castrated boys every day of the week. Further on in his notes, and after shining his lamp between Daniel’s parted buttocks he had written “Some evidence of anal trauma”.

The final stage of Daniel’s journey had been by a scheduled Gulf Air flight to Geneva International, and then by car to the lakeside villa where, for the time being, he would remain. Arriving, he had faced a panel of men and women, officials of the Red Cross organisation, who had bombarded him with questions – how he came to be on the Arabian Gulf, how and why had he been neutered. Above all, if Daniel was – as he claimed to be – a US citizen, who and where were his parents, or any other relatives who could vouch for him? To all of this Daniel gave the best answers he could.

Days passed. Daniel was not to know that his papers were in the “pending” tray of a junior official of the US Immigration Agency, who, finding that Daniel’s case actually required her to get off her butt and make some enquiries, made sure that she had something better to do each day. Daniel’s file remained “pending”. Meanwhile, what of Daniel himself? He had a comfortable bed to sleep in; meals were regular, the food excellent. Most important, there was nothing he was going to be made to do – or forbidden to do. He had no complaints – not at first.

The villa stood in its own grounds which were park-like: lawns with winding paths and big shady trees. In all of this, Daniel was free to roam around. He was equally free to go off by himself into the city, which was unlike any other he knew – though in that regard his experience of other places was limited. Solitude was no problem- he was by nature a loner through and through.

At first the city enticed him: the lake, blue and sparkling in the sunshine, the white and gold paddle-steamers that ploughed their majestic way to the other lakeside towns, the backdrop of mountains, that stupendous, iconic fountain, the “Jet d’eau” - that dominated the western end of the lake. Away from the lakeside the chic cafés, the ultra-smart shops.

It was while pressing his nose against the plate-glass window of one of these – a window full of gold Rolexes – that Daniel saw a reflection that chilled his blood. From the entrance of a big hotel opposite emerged a group of men – in Arab costume. Daniel had seen all of the Arab world that he wanted to. Already they had taken from him the things that boys treasure above all else. What might they do if they recaptured him? Daniel had heard stories about limbs lopped off, eyes put out with hot irons….

Quick as a flash Daniel dived into the shop next door: a bizarre choice for a thirteen-year-old boy: the window was full of mannequins displaying lingerie, red satin thongs, bras, garter-belts. Others showed off fishnet panti-hose or hold-ups.The saleswoman looked at Daniel enquiringly. Thirteen-year-old boys were not her usual customers! Opposite, the Arabs boarded a black limousine with darkened windows and were driven away. Daniel nodded to the woman and slipped out.

It was Daniel’s first and last venture into the city on his own. From then on he kept to the villa and its grounds. And at night he slept with his windows closed and his door locked.

It was not only his sexual longings that had survived Daniel’s operation. Losing his testicles had not impaired his inquisitiveness. The villa garden was a maze of winding paths, arbours, gazebos; driven by curiosity Daniel explored them all. And then there was the lakeside itself.

Standing as it did on a little promontory, Daniel’s new world was bounded on two sides by water. On the third side and separating Daniel from his neighbours – whoever they might be – was a ten-foot-high stone wall. All he could see over the top of this were the tops of some trees. More frustratingly there were times when he could hear young voices.

To Daniel, as a town-bred boy, a wall was not a barrier but a challenge: something to be climbed over, burrowed under or got through in some way. Over a period of days he explored the possibilities. On the landward side the wall extended as far as the road: nothing to be done there. At the other end it was actually built out into the lake for some yards. Daniel searched on – and half hidden by the ivy that cloaked the wall for most of its height, he found a rusty iron door.

The lock was rusted into shards – no problem for determined fingers. The old door groaned on its quoins but yielded. Very, very cautiously Daniel edged through.

“Oh, wow!” he said at last, under his breath. As we saw at the beginning, words were never his strong suit.

One of the first principles of Daniel’s streetcraft was “See, but don’t be seen”. The archway where he stood was too conspicuous. Cautiously peering out, he saw a tool-shed or summerhouse not five yards away. It had latticework in place of windows and this he made his observation post.

He hadn’t been there above two minutes when the silence was broken by high-pitched shouting and laughter, and a crowd of ten or a dozen pretty children burst upon the scene. They seemed to be making straight for the water’s edge. Craning his neck Daniel could now see that a bathing-place had been made, separated from the lake only by a barrier. Gathering round this place the children at once began taking all their clothes off.

Daniel eagerly watched for an exhibition of mixed-sex skinny-dipping, maybe of snogging also. The nearest girl was only a few feet from where he was hiding. Her boobs, he could tell, were just starting to come, and before she turned away to jump into the water, he got a glimpse of the dimpled, downward-curving vee of her love-mound. Then he saw the boys….

Two of them were having great fun, seeing who could push the other into the water. And now Daniel could see that there was no possibility – none whatever – of any juvenile sex-play. Unless the boys had been born ball-less, then they must have had their testicles taken out. They had tiny hairless penises and nothing else.

But before Daniel could speculate further, he noticed something else. Not far away and coming along the path, were two large men in suits, wearing dark glasses. Each was leading, on a chain, a large dog. Daniel knew them for Rottweilers. Nearer and nearer they came. Below the window was a sort of cupboard or locker; Daniel tried to force himself into it. The heavy footsteps were passing close enough for Daniel to hear the panting of the dogs……

They passed by.

But what to do next? The doorway through which he’d come was in full view of the bathing place. Only one thing for it. Crouching down below the level of the bushes Daniel made for the lakeside – and slipped into the water.

He was a good swimmer and kept his face low. If only he wasn’t so fair-haired. Maybe his blond head might look like floating weed to a casual observer. His best plan was to swim underwater for a few strokes, round the end of the wall and out of sight. Then – disaster. His hands met something, slimy and overgrown, but unyielding. A stout underwater barrier of wire mesh.

Spluttering, he surfaced and looked distractedly around him. Miraculously the children in the pool were all too involved with some game, and the dog handlers were facing the other way. But someone else had spotted him. Someone who had suddenly come into view in a black rubber inflatable with an outboard motor. Someone who now spoke to him, quietly but audibly:

“Swim across it in the centre. It’s lower there”. The speaker had a pleasant, light voice. (The accent Daniel had learned in the last few weeks to recognise as British.) He sounded to be young.

Daniel did as he was told, passing easily across the sagging net. He swam up to the inflatable. “Now” said his rescuer “catch hold of this rope and hang on tight, while I get us to hell out of here!” He opened the throttle and roared off, Daniel gasping and choking in the wash.

Out of sight of the swimmers and their “minders” Daniel’s rescuer – or whatever he was – cut the engine. Strong hands grasped Daniel’s wrists, pulling him over the gunwale. Lake-water filled Daniel’s ears but through the buzzing, the pleasant voice spoke again. “Careful or you’ll have us both in the drink. There now! Welcome aboard!”

Daniel lay in the bottom of the inflatable on his tummy, water pouring from his sodden clothes. Water-weed streaked his face and arms. Looking up, he saw the face of his rescuer for the first time. A round, very good-natured face, very young-looking. Light brown hair, very tidy and neat. All in all, what Daniel would have called an “Ivy League” look.

“The first thing to do is to get you dry” said this individual. Daniel found a hand clasping his own. “My name’s Scott, by the way. Call me Simon”.

Narrative continued by Simon

I’d meant to spend the afternoon fishing. That spot over on the far side of the lake under the trees, with a big garden behind it, looked ideal for zander (pike-perch to you!) and zander are very nice grilled and served with herbs and cheese sauce. But having boated across there I felt lazy, content to just pootle about. Besides, I was watching something else.

In the third year at school we’d had to learn a boring poem about a silly girl who got cut off by the tide in the River Dee. There was the line “O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?” Well, not far from the bank there was a something which was trying to disguise itself as a clump of straw. It was the right colour for straw but was certainly hair, and from the way it was progressing, in quick erratic jerks, the hair belonged to a swimmer who was trying to escape from someone – or some thing, keeping his, or her, face down….

I looked beyond the swimmer towards the garden. In the foreground a bunch of kids were playing around in a swimming pool. No one else – oh yes there was. Two big blokes with guard dogs. Not looking this way, though. Good.

The swimmer was getting caught up on a chickenwire barrier, no doubt designed to stop people like me landing and having picnics. The centre of this, I could see, had been broken down – no doubt by people like me landing and having picnics. Keeping my voice down I managed to guide whoever-it-was towards the gap. As he-or-she safely negotiated this and came towards me, I saw a glimpse of a pale frightened face. Definitely a boy.

I cautiously edged the boat in between him and the shore. The kids in the pool were no danger by themselves, but I didn’t want them to start screeching and attract the attention of the two heavies. The boy was quite close now. The boat had loops of rope all round it, like a big lifebuoy. I told him loop his arms through the rope and hang on tight – VERY tight. I looked towards the garden one more time. The two big men were now looking my way, so I gave them a cheery wave, which they didn’t acknowledge, and then I opened the throttle. The little inflatable shot away in a flurry of spray.

Once I was out of sight of the garden I cut the engine. My protégé was still hanging on – just. I took his hands. “Soon- have you- aboard” I panted as I eased him over the gunwale. The inflatable was unsinkable, but that’s not to say it couldn’t get swamped. Still, I managed it in the end. A slim boy with very blond hair, streaked with waterweed – and a very beautiful face.

“First priority is to get you dry!” I said, unnecessarily, because my new passenger closely resembled a drowned rat. Besides which, I’d nothing to dry him with. I opened the throttle again and pointed the inflatable towards the “rade”. With nothing to do but keep in a straight line I took a good look at the blond boy.

He was sitting sprawled on the bottom of the boat, eyeing me, trying to work out who I was and what I was. Time to make myself known. “My name’s Scott” I said, taking his wet cold hand in mine. “Call me Simon. What’s yours?”

“Daniel”.

“Just Daniel?”

“Yeah. Just that”.

I didn’t press him. Presently he raised his knees, with his legs open, giving me a full view between his thighs. Under his soaking wet shorts he’d not been wearing any underpants. More than that, he lacked two of the bits he’d been born with. All he had left was a very small, very limp penis, rendered smaller still by the cold water. Who was he, this good-looking – indeed very good-looking neutered boy, who sounded vaguely American?

Behind Geneva’s ultra-respectable façade all kinds of things are possible. He might have been some rich pervert’s bum-boy, escaping from a life of domination. Any boy who drifted into that profession could expect to have his balls out before he hit puberty, to keep him smooth and pretty.

Or more likely he might have been raised in an orphanage, where all the best-looking boys – the sort that girls on the edge of puberty drool over- get to lose their balls at a young age, to prevent them being overcome by temptation if a girl flashed her knickers. The less good-looking ones may stay intact for a tad longer.

Who was he? The answer would have to wait. After all, boys get castrated for all sorts of reasons- take me for example! My mind went back six years to that encounter with my guardian’s eldest girl, Sue, on the landing of her home. The horrible girl had begun teasing me. She looked me up and down, eyeing my schoolboy erection, and said “You’re growing up fast!”. She was being sarcastic of course, aged eleven I had all of two inches when hard!

All she had on was a pair of black nylon briefs – very small and pulled right up tight to show off her fanny.“You can rub that against my pants but only the back way” she’d said, getting down on doggie-fashion and sticking her bum out. I began rubbing the knob of my cock between her bum-cheeks till it felt it was going to burst. Front way or back way, I was desperate to get it inside her. I began picking at the stitching of her pants, trying to make a hole……

Oh, I’d been horny then, all day and every day. So, just as if I’d been a randy colt, the verdict had been to get me neutered right away to prevent me “getting it up”. How it was done and what happened afterwards you know (or if you don’t, read “Simon tells it like it was).

Before I could reminisce any more, we reached the moorings and I was edging the inflatable in among the hundreds of other boats. I tied-up, snapped the padlock, immobilised the engine, and, followed by a still-dripping Daniel, led the way to where my Vespa was parked.

Telling him for the second time that day to hold on tight, I gunned the motor and we sped off to the Place des Eaux-Vives and the apartment which for the next few weeks was “home” to myself, Ricky and Roddy. You didn’t know? No, of course you don’t, so I’ll fill you in.

Roddy was filming. Pinewood Studios were doing a musical blockbuster about a kid and his bloody dog, allegedly in North Yorkshire. The child star, well-known to movie-goers, called Ronnie Romayne, couldn’t sing a note, so Roddy had been released by his company to do voiceovers whenever the kid was supposed to be singing. Roddy’s name would be in small print somewhere in the credits. Ronnie Romayne’s would fill an entire screen.

Pinewood had proposed that Roddy should stay at the 5-star Hôtel du Rhône, to which idea he’d given a very dusty answer. It was at that point I’d stepped in and hired the apartment. Roddy had flown out with the film crew and I’d driven down in the Aston Martin taking Ricky along for company. “And Melanie?” you ask. Melanie has a life of her own and had gone pony-trekking with friends.

“Here’s where we are” I said to Daniel as I unlocked the apartment door. “That noise you can hear (actually, rather beautiful singing) “is my friend Ricky Silva. Those wet things of yours will have to go through the wash, you can’t just dry them off or you’ll smell. The lake’s clean but not that clean”. I opened the door leading from the lounge to the bedrooms and bathroom, and called “Hi, Ricky! RICKY!!”. The singing stopped.

“I’m sending Daniel in to you. He’s been in the lake. Show him how the shower works and lend him some dry things of yours. He's about your size”.

“Okay” came Ricky’s voice in reply. “I’m just going to take a shower myself”.

“Through there” I said to Daniel, shoving him through the door. I waited for a while, hearing snatches of conversation.

“Oh hi! I’m Ricky. You Daniel? Glad to know you, Daniel”.

(Suspiciously)“Hi. You British?”

“No, American.”

(In a more friendly tone) “Say, is that so?” Then, in an altogether changed voice “But, say, you’re….you’ve been….”

I closed the door, unable to repress a smile of relief. Presently I heard water running, and then I heard shouting, splashing – and happy laughter!

Some time later they both emerged, Daniel in a spare pair of Ricky’s Giorgio Armani jeans and matching T-shirt. He was wearing a big grin and had his arm round Ricky’s shoulders. “Hey, Simon, we’re buddies!” he shouted, as he came into the room.

“Yeah, we’ve a lot in common” Ricky agreed.

Obviously it had taken Daniel no time at all to see that Ricky lacked a boy’s usual set of parts, and that he and Ricky were two of a kind. I hoped – and later found out I was right – that Ricky might be able to draw Daniel out of his shell – who he was, where he came from. Daniel’s story might even resemble Ricky’s own, I thought, though in this I was a bit wide of the mark.

(At the time he was “done” Ricky had been very naïve: he knew there was some sort of connection between balls and babies but couldn’t have explained what it was. His innocence made it easy for the perverted doctor into whose clutches Ricky had fallen, to convince him that he had to be neutered as a legal necessity.

He’d had it done then and there, under local anaesthetic, and had actually watched his testicles being shelled out of his scrotum, his spermatic cords snipped through, and his erectile nerves zapped).

“Daniel’s a hero” said Ricky admiringly. But before we could hear about his heroism there came the slam of a taxi door outside, and then the apartment front door burst open and Roddy crashed through it, white-faced. He flung himself down on the sofa.

“God!” was all he would say at first. “God!” He was shaking with rage. I went to the drinks trolley and fixed him a Harvey Wallbanger – Roddy’s drink of the moment – and pressed it into his hand. Roddy drank it off just as if it had been natural orange juice.

“This movie’s going to bomb, Simon” Roddy said, when he’d recovered speech. (He still hadn’t actually said Hello, or asked who our guest was). “I’ll tell you that for a start”.

I waited.

“Everything that could go wrong with it, has. For starters, you know it’s supposed to be set in North Yorkshire. The screenplay writer seems to have thought “The north of Britain, say, isn’t that all mountains?” So we’re filming on Mount Salève, on bare rock and scree. Well, you know what it’s really like up there, around Fountains, or around Richmond. Green hills, farming country”.

I nodded. Roddy was absolutely right. Mount Salève was absolutely wrong.

“And then there’s that – that boy! That-little-SHIT!” He spat the word out.

“I take it you’re referring to Angelic Ronnie Romayne”. (This was how reviewers usually described the child-star).

“Angelic my ass. Listen: I’m surprised his dialect coach hasn’t committed suicide. You should just hear the little creep. North Yorkshire indeed! Anyone would think, from the way he speaks his lines, that North Yorkshire was the country around Dudley. His Yorkshire accent is unrelieved West Midlands. But that’s not the worst of it”.

I paused again. Roddy was clearly building up to something.

“Do you know what he called me? Do-you-know what he called me? “That extra, who does the singing stuff”. That extra! Me! Here, give me a refill”.

Roddy’s indignation was understandable. When Ronnie Romayne was still in junior school, Roddy already had a serious music career opening up before him. And he was already a castrato.

I mixed Roddy’s refill. “Before you drink this, Roddy, say hello to Daniel. Earlier today I fished him out of the lake where he’d ben taking an impromptu swimming lesson. Since then, he and Ricky have been swapping notes. Isn’t that so, Daniel?

But Daniel was blushing scarlet and it was left to Ricky to begin the story that he’d heard from Daniel while they were both under the shower.

Daniel came from a city in the Middle West of the USA. A streetwise kid and a loner by nature, he had been snatched off the street and airlifted halfway across the world to the sheikhdom of El *******, a tiny independent sovereign state usually described in the papers as “a pimple on the backside of Saudi Arabia”.

His captors had marked him out long before, feeling that he would be ideal as the personal attendant for the ruler’s daughter. The girl was well into puberty. Conventions demanded that only eunuchs might attend the Princess, and so Daniel was castrated on arrival.

Once he’d got over the shock and distress of his operation (for what boy isn’t upset when he loses his balls?) Daniel’s greatest problem was boredom. And indirectly it was boredom which led to his rescue, a little more than a year later.

By now Daniel had recovered from his bashfulness and was able to tell us how that particular night differed from the three-hundred-and-odd nights preceding.

“I’d been tidying up, like I always did. I had to collect all the empty drinking-cups the girls had left, and wash them up. Then I had to gather up all the fruit peelings – usually I just threw them from the terrace into the sea. Last of all I just used to switch the lights off, before going to the Princess and see if there was anything she wanted”.

(More often than not the Princess wanted oral sex!)

“Then I saw this switch, outside on the terrace wall. I’d never taken any notice of it before, so I wanted to see what it did. It turned a big light on, high up on the wall. I flicked it on and off a time or two, then left it, and went in to the Princess for a few minutes…..”

(Five miles out at sea, the look-out man on a US Navy frigate had seen the flashing light and called his officer. They decided it might be a Mayday signal. In the few minutes that Daniel took to bring the Princess to orgasm, his head cushioned between her thighs, a patrol was being organised on board the frigate.)

“Then I just went to bed” Daniel continued. “But I’d only been in bed a short time when I heard firing from outside, then an explosion”.

The explosion was caused by the naval landing-party blowing the palace door in. The sheikhdom of El ********* wasn’t allied with NATO, or indeed any other alliance ofstates, so the USMC operated by the principle “Anything Goes”.

“I jumped out of bed, and, I don’t know why, exactly, but I put on the clothes I’d been allowed to keep when they captured me. I heard heavy boots outside and when I opened my door I ran straight into a bunch of guys in combat fatigues and with assault rifles. One of them said “Who’s this little guy?” and I said “Hey, fellas, I’m American!” . Then the officer, or whatever he was, said “Pass him along, you guys” and I was passed from one bunch of guys to another and found myself down on the beach being bundled into an assault boat”.

A while later, Daniel was airlifted by helicopter to a larger vessel – some kind of supply ship. Looking down, he could see that one wing of the palace was on fire, and he wondered, idly, whether the Princess was safe. On the supply ship he was examined by a doctor. This man noted that Daniel’s only wounds – those between his legs- had healed long before.

It was the James Bond-type adventures that had so impressed Ricky. For my part, Daniel’s heroism was shown by the way he’d survived for a year in that place, as a gelded sex-slave, without hope of release – and despite everything, not losing his mind.

Daniel reached the end of the story and this seemed a natural break. “Navy Club Bar then, everybody?” I asked. Daniel looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, Daniel, it’s not full of big hairy sailormen. It’s a café in the Old Town where we sometimes go when we can’t be bothered to cook anything.”

So that was decided on. As I went for my car keys I heard Roddy say something to Daniel, very quietly. “Not only Ricky. Me too. And Simon”. And Daniel’s awestruck reply “All of you? Oh wow”.

I smiled inwardly. This was going to be a lot easier, now Daniel knew we were all four of a kind! I bundled everybody into the Aston and took off for the Old Town, finding on arrival at the Navy Club that they’d kept my usual table reserved.

The Navy Club’s pasta was legendary so I ordered that for everybody. Daniel took a cautious forkful before deciding he liked it. I also introduced him to the local white wine, ordered by the carafe with a faint sparkle. Soon he was drinking it like a connoisseur.

“Tell me about that place” I asked him, once the other two were preoccupied with eating and drinking. “The place where I fished you out of the lake. There were girls, you said”.

“Yeah, there were girls alright” replied Daniel through a mouthful of ravioli. “I used to see them every day from my window in the Red Cross place. “It wasn’t the girls that made the place scary. It was the boys”.

“Boys?”

“Yeah. I’d never seen any boys until that day – the day you pulled me out of the water. The first thing I saw was that they were all- they were all – like me, and you….and Ricky and Roddy”. (In other words neutered).

I nodded. “How many boys, Daniel? Two or three?” (Two or three boys to attend the girls seemed a reasonable guess).

“Two or three? You gotta be kidding, Simon. No, far more. Five certainly, perhaps six. And this is the thing, Simon. I hadn’t seen a sign of any boys in a month. Not since I arrived. Not till they appeared out of nowhere and went swimming”.

A houseful of neutered boys, kept in total seclusion – for what? A brothel of neutered boys? And if it came to brothels, what were the girls doing in that scenario?

It all sounded very scary, not to say unhealthy. Accordingly, much later, back at the flat, the four of us went into a huddle. It was midnight before we agreed on the outline of a plan.

Ricky continues

Simon’s plan was to waylay a group of two or three girls and induce them to tell us about the villa and what went on there. The gamble was that we should pick the wrong girls, or try it in the wrong place, and they would scream the place down. It was a risk we’d have to take. Somehow it had to appear casual. But how?

Ten o’clock next morning found us all in the leafy avenue, not far from the villa entrance-gates, with the Aston parked a short distance away, waiting our chance. It wasn’t long in coming.

Three girls came out, at around five-past. One was small and dark-featured- she looked Middle Eastern. The second was rather taller and less dark, and rather beautiful: she might have been Southern Italian or Greek. The third was a typical English girl, who was like a London sparrow compared with her exotic companions. I wondered if she was the kind of girl who would allow a boy to put his penis up her vagina – just once so that she could say she’d “done it”. I decided she wasn’t.

Presently a taxi came along and the girls got in – a cue for us to pile into the Aston. Very cautiously Simon followed. The taxi drove into the city centre and stopped at the Richemond Hotel.

“Couldn’t be better” muttered Simon.

The Richemond was the most prestigious hotel in Geneva and its coffee bar very popular with the “jeunesse dorée” of five continents. It was not, definitely not, the place to make an embarrassing scene.We followed the girls inside and saw them take a large table in a corner. Simon didn’t hesitate.

“Mind if we join you?” he asked with a winning smile. “I’m Simon Scott”.

“Good morning, Simon Scott” said the Greek-looking girl. She sounded amused rather than alarmed.

“These are my friends Ricky Silva and Daniel Moran” continued Simon. “And it’s possible you may know, if only by sight, Roddy Fisher”.

“You’re – you’re THE Roddy Fisher!” the London girl said with an intake of breath. “Oh, wow!” (I’d a sudden onset of panic that she might make Roddy a present of her knickers. Roddy had that effect on girls! But she didn’t).

“So now that we’ve made ourselves known to you” Simon forged on “won’t you tell us your names?”

“I’m Cecile” said the small dark one. “I’m from Teheran – the Christian quarter”.

“I’m Olga” said the Greek-looking one. “I’m from Limassol, in Cyprus. The free part”. (Cypriots are very sensitive about the Turkish invasion of 1974).

“I’m Louisa” said the London sparrow. “Louisa Neville. I’m from Cheam, in Surrey. Near to Sutton”.

“Now, what shall we have?” rejoined Simon, taking over. One of the waiters was already hovering. The girls all wanted fruit juices. Simon had a café corretto, Daniel went for an Americano because of the name. Roddy wanted a double espresso and I had one too. With everyone provided for, Simon began again.

“Well, what brings you all to Geneva?”

“It’s just a summer school” replied Olga, the Cypriot girl, who seemed to be the leader. “Mainly to learn the French language. But they throw in other things – how to lay a table for a dinner party, how to fold napkins to look like boats, what wines to serve with what fish. All that sort of thing”.

“Much of it a waste of time” put in the Iranian girl, Cecile “seeing that more than half of us don’t drink”.

“Who runs the course? People from the University?”

Olga laughed. “Miss Barbara runs the course, first and last. I don’t know who her assistants are. Miss Barbara! Now there’s a case!”

“Why? What’s strange about her?”

“If you saw her you’d not ask the question. Imagine a woman with a body like huge, padded armchair, rolling along on stumpy little legs like casters, but with a human head and face. She-is-enORmous!”

“I may have seen her go out of the house” said Daniel “from my bedroom window next door. A huge, waddling woman”.

“That’s her alright. She must weigh twenty stone at the least. And ugly with it – ugh”.

“She has a record, you know” added Cecile. “She used to own and run a boarding school for girls, somewhere in England. The Health and Safety people had it closed down. It seems there were cockroaches, rats – everything”.

“And so” resumed Simon “you have these classes in French language and all the rest. Do the boys join in or do they have their own classes?”

All three girls looked blank at the mention of boys. Cecile spoke at last. “We have nothing to do with the boys. We never see them during the day…”

“Except when you all go swimming together” interrupted Daniel. “Skinny-dipping, rather. This I know for a fact – I’ve seen you!”

Cecile blushed. “Yes, that’s quite true. But that’s the only time we see them – honest!

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“Well, no! They don’t seem to understand English, or even French. Olga says she thinks one or two may be Turkish, or Rumanian”.

“Didn’t you notice” Simon ploughed remorselessly on “that the boys had been neutered – that they were boy-eunuchs?”

“We could hardly avoid noticing” said Olga.

“Usual, is it – where you come from, neutering boys?”

“In Cyprus, never!” said Olga firmly.

“How about you, Cecile? Is it usual in Iran, to neuter boys?

The small dark girl shrugged. “Maybe in country districts – in tribal areas. Certainly not in the cities. But it’s something and nothing, isn’t it – for boys of that class?

Certainly we weren’t going to get a lot from these upper class little cows. Talk degenerated into polite nothings, and as soon as we’d finished our drinks and Simon had settled up, we got up to go. But the meeting hadn’t been entirely wasted.

Louisa, the English girl, had said very little. I’d thought she might have been embarrassed by the talk of boys’ balls. But as we all moved towards the exit, she plucked Simon by the sleeve, holding him back out of earshot of the other two.

“I want to help you in any way I can” she said, in a hurried, urgent voice. “I don’t think it’s right to do that to boys – not without a very good reason. My step-dad had my kid brother done, soon after he was ten. I know how it’s done - they prick a boy’s balls – a doctor does it, with a hypodermic – and they dry up, and afterwards he can’t make babies”.

“Why did thy have him done?”

The answer was the one you usually got in Britain.

“Oh, well, he was sort of moody and restless, and always got bad reports from school – lazy, disobedient, all that stuff. The child-guidance woman recommended it to my parents telling them that boys who are “done” are much more attentive in school and study harder. It’s all to do with hormone balance”. She fell silent for a moment. “That was over a year ago. It may have improved his behaviour in school, but it’s sort of knocked all the stuffing out of him. He’ll spend hours just mooning around or kicking stones along the patio”.

I recognised the symptoms. After Dr Geller had removed my balls, my system had gone into hormonal shock, and I would spend hours doing water-colour painting and arranging my stamp collection: things I’d never have done before.

Louisa paused. “But there’s more. Something that Cecile and Olga didn’t tell you. About the weddings”.

“Weddings?” This was a totally new aspect.

“Yes. Miss Barbara has a licence to hold civil weddings at the school. Whenever there is a wedding taking place we have to make ourselves scarce – leave the building. She’s most insistent that we get right away”.

“Funny, isn’t it?” You would have thought the bridal party would have wanted you to stay and watch – throw confetti and all the rest”.

There came a shout from outside. “Come on, Louisa! We want to go and look at some shops!”

“I’d better go” she said. Simon took one of his business cards from his wallet. “Anything you think we should know about – give us a call immediately – OK?”

Louisa tucked the card inside her bra and hurried off to join her friends. We’d no real reason for staying, but Daniel’s watch – a cheap Sekonda – was misbehaving after being immersed in the lake, and Simon thought he should have a reliable replacement. Between them they settled on a Patek Philippe. Then – back to the flat.

Simon resumes

The meeting with the three girls had raised more questions than it answered. Very clearly there were mysteries that could only be unravelled by getting inside the villa incognito. And I couldn’t see any way of doing that. I unburdened myself to Daniel.

Daniel looked me in the face. He shook his head, slowly, not in denial, but in incomprehension. “Gee, Simon!” he said at last. “You’re one helluva nice guy, but there’s so much you don’t know”.

The streets of an American city had been a hard training-ground. There, Daniel had learned skills I would never have guessed. He began to tell me what he felt I ought to have known.

“First thing, in any building, there’s always a way in. All you’ve got to do is find it. How do I know? Well, think! Who does the locking-up at night? The janitor. And he wants to get off home, to put his feet up, to watch TV. Something, it may be a door, it may be a window, gets forgotten – or maybe he can’t be bothered to go take a look, whether he secured it or not.

“And the next thing, you gotta get underneath the radar”.

“Radar?” I queried.

“CCTV, intruder-alarms, all that stuff. It’s difficult to fit and it’s expensive. There’s always part of a building that’s unprotected. All you gotta do is find it”.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. I shall need…..” Daniel rattled off a few items which he needed – all of them obtainable at a hardware shop. Fortunately I knew the French name for one of those was “quincaillerie” – and the Carouge district of the city had more than one. Daniel spent a happy hour rooting about till he had all he wanted – some stiff wire and some keys of different styles and sizes. Back we went to the flat.

“So, when do we go, Daniel?”

“Whenever you say, boss”.

Accordingly, 2 a,m. found us out on the lake in the inflatable, near the spot where I’d picked Daniel up. I killed the engine and we paddled the last few yards. Daniel quickly scrambled on to the grassy bank. Losing his balls had not robbed him of determination. A small inlet provided an ideal hiding place for the little boat.

“Over here!” Daniel beckoned, heading towards an area thick with bushes and small trees. “They’d never put sensors overlooking this lot. The trees would set them off whenever the wind blows”.

I trusted to his judgment. The place was as quiet as could be. Evidently the “heavies” who had so alarmed Daniel that afternoon didn’t work a night-shift.

But now, Daniel had found a door in a wall. This led into a little paved yard, and beyond this, the house. Another door faced us. Daniel tried it – it wasn’t locked. “What did I tell ya?” he grinned.

Entering, we found ourselves in what was evidently the laundry: there were washing-lines full of girls’ knickers. From here we tiptoed through a vast kitchen, where fridges whirred and hummed. Then a passageway, and at last the dim shadowy hall. A wide stairway led up into darkness. Our interest was not with the stairway, but with a solid-looking door marked “Privé – Accès Interdit”.

Daniel took the torch and squinted into the keyhole, then nodded. “Walk in the park, this” he murmured, inserting one of his keys.

The lock released with a louder click than I’d have liked, and we both froze. But the only other sound was the steady ticking of a grandfather clock and the humming of the air-conditioning. We filed in to the darkness beyond the recently-opened door, and found ourselves in another lobby.

Torchlight showed other doors opening off this. Ignoring these for the moment we concentrated on the only item of furniture – a sort of lectern with a big heavy book on it. I opened this at the first page – and found a studio photograph of a bridal couple. At least, that’s what it appeared to be at first sight. Then the resemblance to other wedding photographs ended.

The groom – if that’s what he was – was a big, fleshy, self-satisfied-looking guy in his forties. It was the second figure that was interesting. The bride was at least a foot and a half shorter than the groom. Her veil, thrown back, was secured to a little circlet of pearls on the top of her head, and this in turn was prevented from falling off by satin ribbons tied in elaborate bows and orange-blossom fashioned out of lace.

But the bride’s hair was short and dark, barbered in chunky locks, and the little face beneath all this flummery was undoubtedly male. The expression in the eyes said it all. “This is horrible, but I’ll try not to cry”.

In place of a wedding gown this boy-bride wore a bodice, jacket, top or whatever, richly decorated with white lace over satin. This was very short, ending just above his belly-button. On his feet were white satin slippers (at least they hadn’t made him wear high heels) and on his legs he wore white stockings that were kept up with a bow tied halfway up his thighs.

His one remaining garment was a pair of white satin briefs, pulled tightly up into his crotch. Had his balls been taken out? Don’t even bother to ask.

The other photographs showed other couples but were essentially the same, fat middle-aged guys partnered by traumatised, frightened, castrated children, forced through a parody of the marriage ceremony. Page after page of the same little faces, some resigned, some tearful. The book was a catalogue of perversion and depravity.

Closing the album I indicated to Daniel to try his key on the other doors. There were three of these. The first, which was unmarked, opened easily. Inside there was a toilet, a sink with two faucets, and hanging on the wall, an enema bag. On a shelf, a tube of K-Y gel, and a pink plastic dildo, large size. No marks for guessing how this room was used – for consummating the “marriages”.

The second door bore two names on brass plates: “Dr D Robson” and “Dr M Lindenbaum”. This, too, opened easily. Our torches illuminated an operating table, a glass fronted cupboard containing dressings, and a steriliser. Removing the lid of this revealed two or three scalpels and the same number of clamps. I replaced the lid. Castrating boys doesn’t require a lot of instruments.

The third and last door was marked “MARRIAGE ROOM” . Larger than any of the others, it was like a small chapel, though without any religious imagery. Two rows of chairs were provided, seating about twenty (what wedding guests would be invited?) and in the centre of the front row one huge chair with arms, doubtless for Miss Barbara, whose vast bulk wouldn’t fit into anything else.

Facing the row of chairs was a table – as if for Communion. On one side of this, facing the audience(?) was a single carved chair with a high back, and on the other, two kneelers. The only other item was another lectern, this time empty. I’d seen enough. Motioning to Daniel I whispered “I think we’re done here. Let’s lock-up and get the hell out”.

Exiting from the building by the way we’d come I weighed things up. Miss Barbara directed operations. Whenever her agents – whoever they might be – could get hold of any boys of outstanding good looks, Miss Barbara had them brought here and castrated. Meanwhile another network – possibly a website – attracted those men who find a boy’s well-rounded bottom more attractive than a pair of female thighs – however voluptuous. From time to time men and boys were paired off in a travesty of a wedding service, and the boys were then spirited out of the country, no doubt on false papers.

Retrieving the inflatable we pushed off without delay. Our journey back was rather a quiet one – apart from the buzzing of the outboard. Returning to the flat I packed Daniel off to bed – he was dropping – and poured myself a stiff whisky. Then I did some savage thinking.

I’d come across the exploitation and abuse of children in a number of forms, but this was the most pitiful and disgusting yet. Resonating through my head were the lines from Suetonius’ “Life of Nero” which every schoolboy knows and sniggers over: “He castrated the boy Sporus and actually tried to make a woman of him, dressing him in a bridal gown and veil”. But what could I do?

I even thought of getting the first flight to London in the morning and doing the rounds of all the contacts I had. Not that it would get me very far. The UK Police would say “Off our patch”. Military Intelligence would say “Outside our scope”. And if I took my troubles to Dr Holroyd he would roll his eyes heavenward and say “Do whatever you think fit, dear boy”.

Heavenward, did I say?

I’m not the least bit religious, even though the school routine compels me to attend chapel every day and three times on Sundays. But in spite of myself, I muttered “Oh God, if you’re there, and if you’re listening, give me a clue!” Then, because everyone else had gone to bed, I went there myself.

The sequel to this, next morning, should have found me hammering on the doors of the nearest monastery (if the Swiss have them) demanding instant admission to their order.

I woke to find myself alone. Roddy was, of course, filming. Ricky and Daniel were away on some ploy or other, no doubt swapping notes. As boy-eunuchs they could not fuck girls or enjoy a quiet wank or reach orgasm or even get hard. As Americans they could do anything else in the world, So they had a lot in common!

I dressed and popped round to the café on the corner for an espresso and croissant. The place was already doing a brisk business and there was only one vacant seat, at a table already occupied by two other people. One was a tall, rangy-looking man with iron-grey hair and a lived-in face – and by the strangest possible coincidence, I knew him!

“Morning, Tom!” I greeted him. “Mind if I join you?”

The guy looked nonplussed, but only for a second. Recognition was part of his job. He stuck his hand out. “Hey, Simon! Glad to see you, Simon! Ollie, this is Simon Scott! Sit down, Simon, have yourself some coffee!” He was evidently delighted to see me, for he was beaming with pleasure. His companion, whoever she might be, was giving me a huge, watermelon-sized grin of welcome, as only Caribbean girls can.

Who was this man?

Two years earlier, Dr Geller had come into our lives for what proved to be the final time. In her last desperate gamble, she had hijacked Ricky, Roddy and the whole of one of the local baseball teams. Ricky she intended to take with her to Malaysia, there to carry on where she’d left off. Roddy and all the others were destined for the Arab world, to serve as domestic eunuchs – perhaps worse. (Yes, she’d castrated the entire baseball team in anticipation of selling them).

Dr Geller’s crimes crossed many frontiers and she was well known to the FBI. Tom Swearingen - for this was he - was one of their most senior agents (his German forbears had probably been called Schweringen, but in the hands of US Immigration, anything can happen to spelling!)

Superb communication, much of it provided by Jan Raxworthy – our pasty-faced Cornish computer-wiz - had been the key to smashing Dr Geller’s organisation, but Tom had provided much-needed muscle at a vital moment.

Meanwhile the black girl was showing me a very familiar-looking warrant card – one from the Metropolitan Police. Her rank was DCI, and her name, Olivia Kenwayson-Parry. No wonder she preferred to be called Ollie.

“What brings you to Geneva, Tom?” I ventured.

“We’re guests of the Swiss Federal Police” Tom replied. “They’re running an international seminar on identity theft. The material’s interesting, but I’ve got to say, the action’s kinda slow”.

“Or you could say, bo-RING! added DCI Ollie, giving me another watermelon-sized grin. I was beginning to like Ollie; we shared the same sort of humour.

“So, I’ll ask you the same question, Simon. What brings you to these shores?”

“Roddy- you remember Roddy, Tom? Of course you do. Well, he’s filming, or rather he’s providing voiceovers because the film’s a musical and the leading child actor can’t sing a note. I’m here just housekeeping, really, and I brought Ricky for company. Remember him?”.

“Sure, I remember Ricky” replied Tom. “And Roddy’s the rather androgynous one, right?”

“Androgynous” was unfair to Roddy. Sure, I doubt there was a single drop of testosterone anywhere in Roddy’s body. But outwardly, despite Roddy’s unique good looks, reproduced on a million CD’s, no one could mistake him for anything other than a boy. At least that’s how he came across to all the silly little teenage girls who pulled their knickers off at concerts and flung them at Roddy’s feet, unaware that surgery had reduced Roddy’s boy-parts to a mere blob.

But I let it pass, and taking a deep breath, jumped straight in. “The fact is, Tom, I need help”.

“Then in that case” said Tom, beckoning to one of the waiters “I think we need more coffee”. When it arrived and we all had full cups, Tom sat back in his chair. “Okay, fella” he said. “Let’s have it” – and closed his eyes.

I “let him have it” – from fishing Daniel out of the lake, to our investigations of the previous night. Very clearly, Tom had absorbed every detail. He began slowly shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t go along with this – getting young boys fixed before they’ve ever had a chance to go with a girl. I know that in some parts of the States they have these yard parties, and boys get injected, and their sex lives are over before they’ve even gotten started. I know it’s permissible under the law, but – what the hell!”

“This – what Simon has told us – is different, though, Tom” commented Ollie. “Neutering boys is permissible under UK law also, given certain conditions – it’s certainly not a free-for-all. But the way Simon describes it, it’s child-abuse of the very worst sort. I can’t think of a similar case, and I’ve come across some bad ones”.

Tom agreed totally with Ollie and added a few other crimes to that of child-abuse.

“So, Tom, can anything be done?” I asked.

“Sure” replied Tom. “But……..”

Tom’s qualification amounted to this. The culprits – whoever they were – needed to be apprehended while actually carrying out a crime. So far the only evidence we had was circumstantial. Even the photograph album, nauseating though it was, might, in the hands of a clever lawyer, be passed off as a catalogue of pictures of children in fancy dress.

I paused, digesting this. We were not going to ride off that instant like the 7th Cavalry. But Tom was looking thoughtful. You did say ‘Lindenbaum’, did you, Simon? Because Dr Geller had a business partner of that name – perhaps more than business. Now when we had all that ruckus in West Chester, PA, we didn’t pull Dr Lindenbaum in, for the very good reason that he wasn’t there. So it’s possible he’s still at large, and involved in some way”.

(Ricky had told us all about Dr Lindenbaum. In Malaysia Dr Geller’s business was outwardly a clinic, in which she treated all kinds of conditions and maladies. This financed an orphanage, which among other things was a holding-unit for castrated boys. Dr Lindenbaum was a sort of general factotum in all these things. As a sideline, boys were provided as sex partners for perverted men, and the good doctor made all the arrangements.)

“If we could pull HIM in” Tom mused “I guess it’d be game, set and match to us”.

Tom and Ollie had to leave, to get to their seminar. But we exchanged contact numbers, and Tom gave me his firm undertaking that, if ever I called him and needed help, he’d be at my side in minutes. Ollie gave me the same assurance. We all shook hands on that.

I returned to the flat to have a think. But I’d not been there a quarter of an hour when the front door was flung open and Roddy came storming in – a thing that was getting to be a habit with him.

“No filming today?” I asked.

Roddy flung himself down into an armchair. “That – little – sod!” he muttered. His voice rose to a shout. “That – little – SOD!!”

“Have a drink, Roddy” I soothed.

“I don’t want a bloody drink!”. Roddy’s light, pleasant speaking voice was becoming shrill and angry, like that of a spoiled six-year-old who’d been told he mustn’t eat any more candy bars. I waited for him to calm down.

“Got there at eight-thirty” Roddy said at last, in a more normal voice. “Usual starting time. Sat around till nearly ten. The child-wonder still hadn’t shown. Director didn’t seem bothered. So it wasn’t till half past that Guthrie – he’s a sort of dogsbody round the studio, does all the odd jobs – rang his hotel. Do you know, no one had seen him since last evening!

“His minders had been playing poker till after twelve last evening. No one thought to make sure he was tucked up in bed. No one thought to say anything when he didn’t send for room service at breakfast time like he always does. No one said or did a sodding thing” Roddy fumed.

“When he still didn’t show – must have been getting on for eleven - they decided to shoot various scenes where he doesn’t appear. That left me sitting around like a spare part. So I decided to pack it in. The whole morning wasted. God! I think I’ll have that drink now”.

I fixed it for him and he gulped it down. Soon afterwards he went to his room. I heard the balcony window being opened. Roddy, I knew, liked to strip off all his clothes and sunbathe naked on his lounger. Perhaps the heat of the summer sun gave him a tingle in the place where his balls once were. And if the neighbours saw his bare butt, they could like it or lump it…..

It was evening before Ricky and Daniel returned. They had gone exploring and taken one of the lake steamers right down to Evian, had lunch out somewhere and all in all had a relaxing day – more than I had. I told them about my meeting with Tom Swearingen and the possibility of Dr Lindenbaum being involved. “And I’m sure you remember him from way back, Ricky” I said, artlessly.

“Well, of course I do!” replied Ricky rather crossly. “He was Dr Geller’s boyfriend among other things. He had a finger in most of the things she got up to. Especially with clients who wanted sex with a boy, like that wretched Jimmy”.

(If you want to read about Jimmy, go to “Simon and the Horrible Hotel”).

“I suppose” I said “he may actually be living here under some sort of cover. Let’s look him up. Pass me Yellow Pages”.

There was only one entry under the name Lindenbaum, and it didn’t look very promising. It was “Lindenbaum AG”, under the heading “Spedition” which translates as “Freight Forwarding”. There was an address too, but when we looked it up, it pointed to a residential area: villas in their own grounds. “Might be worth checking out” I said. “But it’s a bit late to do it now. Tomorrow will do”.

Now that was a bad decision.

Ricky continues with the next developments

In the morning we all felt lazy, and swanned around the flat. Soon after lunch Simon took Daniel out with him – something to do with Daniel’s visa for Britain – so it wasn’t till mid-afternoon that Roddy and I set off on our quest for Dr Lindenbaum. This also was a bad mistake.

There was a bus that passed near to our intended destination so we got on that. The nearer we approached the address in Yellow Pages, the less I liked it. The roads were all called “Chemin” which translates “way” - Mimosa Way, Magnolia Way – that sort of thing – and the area was full of villas set well back in big open-plan gardens. Nothing like a freight-forwarding company to be seen. Perhaps the warehouse was some place else.

I was about to give it up when Roddy froze. He pointed at something in the gutter of the road. “Look!” he almost shouted.

“It’s only a child’s toy” I said. “An old cuddly toy that a child has dropped”.

“That” said Roddy “is Jumbles. It’s supposed to be a mule. Ronnie takes it everywhere- it’s a sort of talisman. He’s even been filmed, holding it. Ricky – don’t you see? He’s just got to be here!”.

With trembling hands Roddy called Tom’s number on his cellphone. Tom replied at once and confirmed he’d be along – with reinforcements. Roddy asked him to “stand off” till he called again. “Wilco, out” came the response.

In the front of the house the shutters were closed. Trying to move silently on the creaking gravel we tiptoed round to the back. Here, screened by apricot trees, we found a windowless extension on the back of the house. It was here that we first noticed the smell. A smell of ether, disinfectants – a hospital smell.

We both at the same time saw the dome of a skylight on the flat roof. “We need to get up there, Roddy muttered. Fortunately this proved easy. At the rear of the building was a steel ladder, part of a fire-escape. Up we went. Flat on our stomachs we inched towards the skylight.

The view could not have been better. The room below was brilliantly lighted by a huge central lamp. It showed three figures. The first was a tall man, lounging against a radiator. He was good looking in a decadent sort of way, and I knew him at once. I should have done – at one time I saw him every day. Martin Lindenbaum, Dr Geller’s partner, both in bed and in all her crimes.

The second figure was a little round man, with spectacles. He appeared to be chuckling all the time. Like Lindenbaum, he wore a doctor’s white coat. He was standing by an operating table, on which lay – anaesthetised or drugged – the third figure. Everyone knew the plump babyish features of Ronnie Romayne.

He was bare from the waist down. “Not badly endowed” whispered Roddy. But not for much longer, I thought. Ronnie Romayne, child-star of stage, screen and television, was about to have his balls cut out.

Not far away I could hear a car slow down and stop. I was more concerned with what I could see below me, where the little doctor was swabbing Ronnie’s private area with surgical spirit. He now picked up a scalpel, and with a deliberate practised movement drew it across the taut shiny skin of the unconscious boy’s plump scrotum. A bright scarlet line appeared, where the blade had passed.

“Roddy?” I whispered. But Roddy’s face was set, and he gave no sign. Below us, the doctor’s rubber-gloved hands were busy. Pulling out the boy’s balls, he clamped the cords, and waited, looking at his watch

“Roddy?” Still nothing. Why was he holding back, not calling Tom?

The doctor now proceeded with castrating Ronnie, severing one of the cords and dropping the parted testicle into the waiting tray.

Snip.

Then the second.

Snip.

Roddy’s face at last relaxed. He spoke into his phone. “Right, Tom, come in please”. I just heard the reply “Roger”, followed by a splintering crash as his men broke the door down.

“Okay” said Roddy. “Let’s go see the fun”. We scrambled down off the roof and in through the shattered door, following Tom and two other agents I’d not seen before. All had handguns. “Right, nobody move!” Tom commanded.

No one did: not Lindenbaum, who had stood in a corner throughout, not the little doctor who’d done the operation, least of all the unconscious Ronnie on the operating table, blood oozing between his thighs..

“Who are you?” demanded Lindenbaum.

“Agent Swearingen, FBI” said Tom. “And you are Martin Lindenbaum, P –H –D” (dragging the word out contemptuously). “Well, well. We meet at last”.

“Then may I ask….” began the other. Tom cut him short with a snarl.

“Ah, stow it, buddy!There’ll be time for talking later. Meanwhile, save it for your lawyer”.

“Are you charging me?” asked the tall man.

“We’ll begin with “impersonating a surgeon” replied Tom. “No doubt I’ll be adding a whole lot more”.

Meanwhile the little round-faced bespectacled doctor hadn’t budged an inch despite the violent interruption. He kept chuckling to himself quietly. This got to Tom, and it showed. “What’s your problem, Mac? he demanded. “Whadda ya got to laugh about?”

Lindenbaum answered for him. “Dr Robson lost the power of speech following a stroke” he explained. “The continuous laughter is part of the condition. It’s called Neuburger’s Syndrome”.

But it didn’t deprive him of his skill in castrating boys, I thought.

More tires scrunched on the gravel outside and more people poured into the room: uniformed police who were to take Lindenbaum and Robson to a high-security detention unit, and paramedics in green overalls, who at once began attending to Ronnie, putting a dressing on his wound. There being nothing further to keep him there, Tom gave the order to move.

But Dr Lindenbaum had one last card. “Don’t try finding Dr Robson in the Medical Register” he said over his shoulder as they took him out. “He’s not in it – never was. Dr Robson is a vet”.

Ronnie, castrated by a horse-doctor! Gelded! That surely was the ultimate irony.

The medics had finished now, and carried Ronnie out to their ambulance. I’d said that he ought to stay at the flat for a few days, out of sight. Then I said a silly thing.

“Well, we’ve saved Ronnie’s career on the films” I said breezily. “A pity we weren’t in time to save his balls”.

Roddy looked me full in the face. His brown eyes, usually so gentle, had gone as hard and sharp as flints. When he spoke, it was in a grating voice I’d never heard before. “Do you suppose” he began, and stopped. “Ricky, would you ever suppose I’d allow that little rat to reach puberty – to be able to wank – to be able to fuck girls – WHEN I CAN’T?” His voice rose to a shout; he was shaking all over.

I turned away, ashamed.

----oOo----

Simon resumes

I’m afraid I gave Roddy and Ricky a bit of an ear-bending when they returned. Partly because I’d no idea where they’d gone, and was worried sick, second to find they’d wished Ronnie Romayne on to our overstretched household. To ram the lesson home I turned Ricky out of his bedroom and made him share a bed with Roddy – they’d done that in the States with no ill-effects.

Ricky’s bedroom I gave to Ronnie. It was a hell of a responsibility having him there and at first he was difficult about it, and wanted to go back to his suite at the Hôtel du Rhône. “Listen” I said “you need complete bed-rest for at least the next five days – possibly more. No one knows you are here. I’ll tell the film company you are safe but that you’ve had an injury and mustn’t be moved.

(For some reason I can’t fathom, it never crossed my mind to ask how and why Ronnie had been castrated. After all, lots of boys get castrated for perfectly legitimate reasons – even film actors! More often than not, it’s to stop them being a nuisance with girls. It just happens!)

“Now” I said when I’d got him more-or-less settled. “We’re all going to have dinner. Do you like Italian food?”

“I don’t like Italian food! I wanna McDonalds! I wanna go back to my hotel.”

“Listen, while you’re here you’ll eat what you’re given. Of course if you really want the story to get out – for all your fans to know you’ve had your balls cut out – that’s up to you!”.

Put to him in those terms, it shut him up.

So far I hadn’t given the absentee pair the chance to get a word in edgeways, so I hadn’t connected Ronnie’s appearance in a ball-less state, with whatever shenanigans Roddy and Ricky had been getting up to all afternoon. It wasn’t until much later, while I was washing-up and clearing away the remains of pasta, that I was put right.

The door-bell rang. There stood Tom and Ollie, bearing bottles of champagne and wreathed in smiles. “Well, hello, everybody!” said Tom. “I wanted to join in the celebrations, for a job well done! No doubt they’ve told you everything, Simon? Or have they been modest about it?”

Now it was my turn to look stupid.

Tom began opening bottles and pouring out – not omitting Ronnie who declared himself well enough to have some – and it was then I heard how Ricky and Roddy had been instrumental in finding and destroying the last thread of Dr Geller’s criminal network, actually getting Tom and his men on to the scene of the crime at the very moment when an illegal act had been committed. Lindenbaum was at that moment being interrogated and “singing like a canary” as Tom put it, enabling the FBI to tie up numerous loose ends.

The champagne sank to low tide. But the evening wasn’t over yet.

Getting on for midnight, with Tom in the middle of a funny story, the doorbell rang again, in a hesitant sort of way. I told Ricky to see who it was. He was back on the instant. “Simon, it’s Louisa, from the summer school – the English girl”.

“Well, ask her in!”

“I’m so sorry” Louisa began. “You look as if you’re in the middle of something. “But I think you ought to know about this”.

I made her sit down. She had risked a lot, coming out at this time of night – the school imposed a sort of “lock-up” at eight-thirty. But Louisa insisted she had to find an all-night chemist. (When a girl pleads ‘period pains’ no one is going to argue!)

Louisa had, in fact, carried out a daring and very valuable piece of detective work. Miss Barbara had a secretary, a Miss Judson. Louisa had watched Miss Judson’s movements, and taken advantage of a few minutes when she was out of her office. There, on the desk, was a fat volume called “Appointments Book” and against tomorrow’s date – or rather, today’s – was the entry “Wedding, Mr C van Damme and “Theresa”.

It didn’t stop there. Scrunched-up in the waste bin were the remains of a gilt-edged card. It was overstamped “PROOF COPY” but the wording was “Cornelius van Damme cordially invites you to his wedding ceremony”. Lower down were details of the time and place, and in italics “Admit One”.

“Oh, so it’s Mr van Damme, is it?” said Ollie. “I wondered where and when he’d turn up next”.

“Know him, do you?” queried Tom.

Ollie snorted. “The Square Mile’s baying for him. Also the Serious Fraud office. False accounting, insider-trading, tax evasion – you name it. And he claims some sort of diplomatic immunity – I’m not sure what. But if in addition he’s got an appetite for little boys’ bottoms, that’s a new dimension altogether”.

Ricky sniggered. I reached across and clouted him. “Just leave it out, you two!” admonished Tom. Now listen, and listen good. This is what we do”.

(And what Tom said next, you can work out for yourselves when you read the next few pages!)

Simon concludes, with help from Daniel and others

Next day – or rather later that morning, because it was long gone midnight before we broke up – the action started soon after one. At that point, the first waterborne landing-party set off. None of us were in it. It comprised two of Tom’s men plus a marksman called Chuck, who had a rifle loaded with tranquilliser-darts. Their job was to take out the two “heavies” and their Rottweiler, who patrolled the grounds.

Their all-clear signal – four bleeps on my cellphone – showed they’d been successful. (The Rottweiler would never patrol anywhere again – ever – and the two men were handcuffed at the wrists and ankles, pointing different ways. If they came-to in the next hour they could only squirm round and round on their bellies).

Waterborne party No 2 consisted of Daniel and myself in the inflatable. He and I, alone, had been inside the buiding, so there was no point in including anyone else. Landing in the bushes, we made our way into the house through the laundry as before. In the kitchen, two cooks were entertaining an elderly clergyman to a cup of tea. The clergyman was dressed in a surplice and stole, and clearly was going to officiate. He waved a cheery greeting to us – so we pressed on.

In the lobby beyond, not a sound. Or was there? Yes – from behind that door. The door of that repulsive room where the wretched boy-brides were prepared for “consummation” – their anuses stretched with dildos and their bowels washed out with perfumed enemas. From behind that door came the sound of sobbing.

Entering that room, very softly, we found a terrified eleven-year-old boy. He was already dressed in the obscene finery we’d seen in the photograph album – the orange-blossom headdress, the brocade jacket and all the rest. “Hello, we’re friends!” I whispered. He stared, uncomprehending – but stopped sobbing.

“Me, Daniel” said Daniel, pointing at himself. “You?”

“Me, T – Tadeusz” stammered the little boy.

Polish!

“Well, hi, Thaddeus!” replied Daniel, grasping the Polish boy’s hand and pumping it up and down. “Glad to know ya, Thaddeus. Now, we’ve gotta change clothes, okay?”

Item by item Daniel took off Tadeusz’s bridal garments and put them on himself, the orange blossom, the jacket, the long stockings. The white satin knickers almost defeated him. They were meant to be skin-tight, and in the year since losing his balls, Daniel had put on weight round his thighs and butt. The shoes were a different matter, and Daniel had to stick to his trainers.

Stripped naked, Tadeusz looked so vulnerable – so helpless. Worst of all, below his pathetic little “doodle” a surgical dressing had been taped over his empty scrotum. The swine couldn’t even wait till he was properly healed. I bundled him into Daniel’s T-shirt and jeans – two or three sizes too big. At the far side of the room there was what appeared to be a broom-cupboard. I motioned to Tadeusz that he should hide in it – putting a finger to my lips to show he should be as quiet as possible. Tadeusz returned the gesture, with the faintest ghost of a smile. Still, it was a beginning.

My watch showed the top of the hour. I bundled Daniel into the passageway, just in time. The elderly clergyman emerged from the kitchen, and with a “Ah, there you are, sonny! Come along!” took Daniel by the hand………….

Meanwhile, what of the shore party?

Well, you’ll have noticed there’s no mention of Ricky and Roddy. We all felt they’d done enough the day before. Besides which, they had to look after their “patient”, not least to ensure he didn’t bunk off.

It was Tom who organised the shore party. From twelve onwards, agents and plain-clothes police had been arriving in twos and threes and melting into the landscape. More conspicuous were five charmingly-dressed young ladies in summer frocks and hats to match, who arrived very shortly before two, All showed gilt-edged invitation cards to Miss Judson, on the door, who beamed at them and showed them to their seats.

At the top of the hour two more people entered the “marriage room”. Miss Barbara lowered her bulk into her official seat. In the centre of the front row, Cornelius van Damme took his. He was dressed from head to toe in white, and even carried a white Stetson. He looked round the room with a smug expression on his fat face. Miss Barbara pressed a button on the arm of her chair, and a CD player began belting out “Here Comes the Bride”. We were off!

In came the elderly clergyman, leading Daniel, whom he directed to the empty chair beside van Damme’s – the seat reserved for the “bride”. The music stopped and the parson launched straight in. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered…….”

It was now that van Damme took his first good look at Daniel. His smug expression gave way to doubt, then to incredulity. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, Miss Barbara! This isn’t the boy I selected!”

Ollie was on her feet immediately, every inch the DCI despite the summer dress and picture hat. “Everyone stay where they are! she ordered. Van Damme turned around. “I said, nobody move!” said Ollie again.

Van Damme ignored her. He glared across at Miss Barbara. “You must remember!

We chose him together. Little Polish boy- not this guy. You said you could get him “done” in time for today, right?”

Miss Barbara looked at him, then at Ollie, then round the room. “There must be some mistake” she faltered. “Yes, that’s it! A terrible mistake!”

The parson chimed in. “And we need to sort it out, or I don’t know what we’ll do, I’m sure!” he bleated.

“Ah, shut up, you!” snarled van Damme. “What is this place – a rip-off joint? You don’t mess with me, old sister. I’m going to durn well get what I came for – my little Polish boy with the nice ass!”.

“You had better be careful what you say” butted in Ollie. “It’s all being recorded, right now.” She launched straight into the PACE caution: “Jan Cornelius van Damme, I am arresting you…..”

Purple with rage, the fat man interrupted “Who the fucking hell are you?”

“DCI Parry, Metropolitan Police” replied Ollie. “These are, Detective Sergeant Jones, Detective Constable McKenzie, Detective Constable…….”

“You have no jurisdiction over me!” shouted van Damme. “I have diplomatic immunity! I demand my rights! You have no authority!”

“But we have” said a deep American voice. Tom and two colleagues now entered the room for the first time. “Agent Swearingen, FBI. These are Agent Pearson and Agent Green. Our authority runs worldwide.”

Van Damme looked around, as if to bolt, but saw that Tom’s men blocked every door. He subsided into his chair, a gross, deflated old man. “We’ll start again, from where my friend Detective Parry was so rudely interrupted. Jan Cornelius van Damme, you are charged that you, at Geneva, did attempt to procure the commission of an act of gross indecency with Tadeusz Bromislavsky, a male person and a minor. You are also charged that you, at London, England, on various dates, did………..”

Tom had done his homework and was word-perfect. Handcuffed to two uniformed policemen van Damme allowed himself to be led out to the waiting police cars. Miss Barbara, still muttering “a terrible mistake” had been taken out already – so had the vicar, on a charge of officiating at a sham wedding.

As van Damme left, Daniel, who had not said or done anything till now, stood up, pointed his buttocks towards van Damme’s retreating form, and relieved himself of a prolonged and very loud fart. As an expression of contempt, it couldn’t have been bettered!

Tom now took his leave. “Sorry, folks, I’ll have to go” he said. “Got a lot to do – see you around”. Too right he had. His men, combing the building from the attics to the cellars, had found, in addition to little Tadeusz, two Turkish boys, one Rumanian, an Armenian and a Croatian. All these had to be returned to their friends and families, ball-less but alive. Tracing Miss Barbara’s earlier victims would be more difficult.

Girls were now drifting back towards the building, from their enforced outing while the “wedding” was in progress. They were met on the doorstep by Ollie and her team mates, who informed them, one, that school had broken up; two, that food awaited them in Miss Barbara’s private office. (It did. A wedding breakfast, with champagne, lobster and other goodies, had been set out there, and someone had to eat it!)

“I need to find my own clothes” said Daniel through a mouthful of food. “These knickers are cutting into my ass!” He retreated into the back regions. Two of the summer-school girls, clutching glasses of champagne, came over. “What happens now?” asked Cecile.

“What happens now” I said “that the moment I can get away from here, I’m going to pack my things and go home!”

Epilogue: from a number of sources but mainly Melanie and Daniel

Ronnie Romayne stayed at the Simon Scott Centre for about two weeks – Simon gave me orders to mother him. So every day I sponged his little “parts”, applied betnovate gel to the stitching, and changed his dressings, until he was properly healed. Someone had to do it. His minders who had done such a poor job in looking after him in Geneva, were sent on indefinite leave.

Eventually Ronnie returned to the film industry. No one got to learn his secret – that he was no longer a boy. Critics who compared Ronnie’s later films with his early ones commented on how much his acting had improved. Any of us could have explained why. Like a young horse after being gelded, Ronnie’s castration had concentrated his mind on his job – instead of inventing new ways of tormenting everyone with whom he came in contact.

Like many neutered boys, the change in his hormones meant that Ronnie even developed a singing voice of his own – good enough for him not to need voiceovers any more. The ridiculous movie about a boy and his dog finally resumed after a break of many months, without Roddy. “Which suits me down to the ground” as he said. (The movie bombed by the way, as we’d all predicted.)

Ronnie got as much fan-mail as before. The senders – mostly teenage girls – wrote in explicit terms about what they wanted Ronnie to do to them – unaware that these days his penis was incapable even of parting their fanny-lips. He’d been quick to take up my suggestion that he’d find girls’ knickers more comfortable now that he had no scrotum, and to practise sitting down to wee.

Meanwhile, what about Daniel, whom we’d had to leave behind while his tourist-visa came through? He can speak for himself!

The Eaux-Vives flat being closed, I returned to live at the Red Cross building, as before. My visa came through the post four days after Simon and the rest of the party had left. I immediately booked myself on to a flight for Britain. Next door, the girls who had been attending the summer school left one by one.

On the morning of my departure I took my case down to the front entrance, then, having nothing to do, walked as far as the road. Someone else had the same idea – someone who looked a bit familiar. Louisa!

She was dressed for travelling, in a blouse, a tartan mini-skirt and (though it wasn’t obvious) stay-up stockings. She recognised me, waved and came over. “Hello, are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah. On the 2.30 flight to London Gatwick. BA 7983”.

“Really? Just fancy – I’m on that flight too. We’ll be able to travel together – maybe sit together”.

“That’d be great!”

“Where are you going, when you get back to Britain?

“Home to Cheam. And you?”

“A place in West Sussex. Ricky’s Grandpa lives there. He’s a retired Judge and is trying to sort out US Immigration for me. I’ve no passport or proper documents, you see”.

“Ricky’s a real nice boy”.

“Yeah, I like him a lot”.

And for the moment, that was all we could think to say. Finally Louisa broke the silence.

“It’s so boring, waiting around, isn’t it?” said Louisa with a sigh. “And, listen, I’m feeling horny! What do you say we go upstairs and fool around?”

Fear and embarrassment swept over me in an instant! “But…..I can’t!” I stammered. “Not all the way! I can’t…. get it up, or put it in!”

“I know you can’t, silly boy”. She gave him me a quick kiss. “Do you suppose I’d be thinking of pulling my pants down and opening my legs for you, if you could?”

“I suppose not” I replied weakly.

“Boys with balls are such a nuisance” observed Louisa. “Always wanting to have sex. Boys like you are much, much nicer! Come on now”. She took my hand and firmly led me into the house and up to the deserted bedroom, where she flipped up her mini-skirt and pulled down the white knickers she always wore. “Take your jeans and pants off” she ordered. I obeyed at once. Louisa’s face broadened into a smile at the sight of my gelded genitals.

“Oh, Daniel, it’s sweet!” she murmured, eyeing my penis – a penis that could never penetrate her or start a baby. Her fingertips gently caressed the silken skin, explored the ridge between my thighs that was all that remained of my ball-sac. With a deft movement she rolled back my foreskin uncovering the pink acorn beneath.

“I’m going to kiss it!” she said. “Only don’t pee in my mouth”. She knelt down, sucked and nuzzled my penis for a while, then got on to the bed, opening her legs wide and forcing my head between her thighs.

“It’s very nice!” I ventured timidly, my eyes on her love-mound and wet lips. (Like all modern girls Louisa kept her sex shaved clean). “Kiss it!” came her fierce whisper in response. I didn’t disappoint her, feeling with my tongue for the magical clitoris In my own “private area” I was experiencing feelings that I’d believed had been taken from me forever when my balls were taken out.

Nothing had prepared Louisa for the speed with which I made her come, nor for the intensity of the orgasm that ripped through her. Inwardly she probably was asking “Hey – where did he learn to do that?” But as the climax ebbed and died away, all she could find to say was “God, I needed that!” My penis was still tingling, and I said nothing.

We both stood up, and briefly Louisa let me hold her in my arms. As I drew her closer to me, she took my limp penis and rubbed it between her wet love-lips. We exchanged a quick kiss and let go of each other. Louisa wiped herself dry with a tissue and pulled her knickers up, while I got dressed. Then, hand in hand, we walked out to the waiting taxi.

We were still holding hands when, some hours later, our flight touched down at Gatwick.

FINIS

RODDY EVENS THE SCORE

Words had never been his strong suit. At the scene that opened up before him the fair-haired boy stood spellbound, entranced, speechless.

In all of his short life he had never imagined, still less seen, a more beautiful garden. There were lush green lawns, flowerbeds full of exotic blooms, every variety of shrub and tree in full bloom. There were little pools and rills of sparkling water. In the trees and across the grass, squirrels with bushy tails chased one another.

As he watched, strange uncontrollable feelings came over him as they sometimes did. He reached up inside the leg of his skimpy shorts, his fingers seeking the space at the top of his thighs. He began to fondle the little fold of skin that had once been his scrotum, and his slender penis, hanging limp in spite of the urges that were driving him frantic.

Daniel was a boy-eunuch.

There are countless stories about boys who give graphic accounts of how they were castrated. But Daniel’s operation was no fiction. Drugged beforehand, he knew nothing of how he was being pruned between his thighs to satisfy the conventions of that part of the Arab world: deprived of the two little blobs of flesh that made him a boy. Returning to consciousness he found himself as he would always be: a sexual ‘nothing’, neither boy nor girl, with a tiny limp penis and no balls or scrotum. But his longings remained, stronger than before, now that they were incapable of ever being satisfied.

That was all in the past. Of his journey halfway across the world, less than a month ago, he was scarcely any clearer. It had been an odyssey of boats, planes, trains and automobiles, with many stops, many changes -–some of only a few minutes. Early on in this saga Daniel had been examined by a doctor, who had made him strip off. Without saying a word the doctor had noted that the boy’s private area lacked the usual twin underpinnings, and he wrote “Bilateral orchiectomy” as if he encountered castrated boys every day of the week. Further on in his notes, and after shining his lamp between Daniel’s parted buttocks he had written “Some evidence of anal trauma”.

The final stage of Daniel’s journey had been by a scheduled Gulf Air flight to Geneva International, and then by car to the lakeside villa where, for the time being, he would remain. Arriving, he had faced a panel of men and women, officials of the Red Cross organisation, who had bombarded him with questions – how he came to be on the Arabian Gulf, how and why had he been neutered. Above all, if Daniel was – as he claimed to be – a US citizen, who and where were his parents, or any other relatives who could vouch for him? To all of this Daniel gave the best answers he could.

Days passed. Daniel was not to know that his papers were in the “pending” tray of a junior official of the US Immigration Agency, who, finding that Daniel’s case actually required her to get off her butt and make some enquiries, made sure that she had something better to do each day. Daniel’s file remained “pending”. Meanwhile, what of Daniel himself? He had a comfortable bed to sleep in; meals were regular, the food excellent. Most important, there was nothing he was going to be made to do – or forbidden to do. He had no complaints – not at first.

The villa stood in its own grounds which were park-like: lawns with winding paths and big shady trees. In all of this, Daniel was free to roam around. He was equally free to go off by himself into the city, which was unlike any other he knew – though in that regard his experience of other places was limited. Solitude was no problem- he was by nature a loner through and through.

At first the city enticed him: the lake, blue and sparkling in the sunshine, the white and gold paddle-steamers that ploughed their majestic way to the other lakeside towns, the backdrop of mountains, that stupendous, iconic fountain, the “Jet d’eau” - that dominated the western end of the lake. Away from the lakeside the chic cafés, the ultra-smart shops.

It was while pressing his nose against the plate-glass window of one of these – a window full of gold Rolexes – that Daniel saw a reflection that chilled his blood. From the entrance of a big hotel opposite emerged a group of men – in Arab costume. Daniel had seen all of the Arab world that he wanted to. Already they had taken from him the things that boys treasure above all else. What might they do if they recaptured him? Daniel had heard stories about limbs lopped off, eyes put out with hot irons….

Quick as a flash Daniel dived into the shop next door: a bizarre choice for a thirteen-year-old boy: the window was full of mannequins displaying lingerie, red satin thongs, bras, garter-belts. Others showed off fishnet panti-hose or hold-ups.The saleswoman looked at Daniel enquiringly. Thirteen-year-old boys were not her usual customers! Opposite, the Arabs boarded a black limousine with darkened windows and were driven away. Daniel nodded to the woman and slipped out.

It was Daniel’s first and last venture into the city on his own. From then on he kept to the villa and its grounds. And at night he slept with his windows closed and his door locked.

It was not only his sexual longings that had survived Daniel’s operation. Losing his testicles had not impaired his inquisitiveness. The villa garden was a maze of winding paths, arbours, gazebos; driven by curiosity Daniel explored them all. And then there was the lakeside itself.

Standing as it did on a little promontory, Daniel’s new world was bounded on two sides by water. On the third side and separating Daniel from his neighbours – whoever they might be – was a ten-foot-high stone wall. All he could see over the top of this were the tops of some trees. More frustratingly there were times when he could hear young voices.

To Daniel, as a town-bred boy, a wall was not a barrier but a challenge: something to be climbed over, burrowed under or got through in some way. Over a period of days he explored the possibilities. On the landward side the wall extended as far as the road: nothing to be done there. At the other end it was actually built out into the lake for some yards. Daniel searched on – and half hidden by the ivy that cloaked the wall for most of its height, he found a rusty iron door.

The lock was rusted into shards – no problem for determined fingers. The old door groaned on its quoins but yielded. Very, very cautiously Daniel edged through.

“Oh, wow!” he said at last, under his breath. As we saw at the beginning, words were never his strong suit.

One of the first principles of Daniel’s streetcraft was “See, but don’t be seen”. The archway where he stood was too conspicuous. Cautiously peering out, he saw a tool-shed or summerhouse not five yards away. It had latticework in place of windows and this he made his observation post.

He hadn’t been there above two minutes when the silence was broken by high-pitched shouting and laughter, and a crowd of ten or a dozen pretty children burst upon the scene. They seemed to be making straight for the water’s edge. Craning his neck Daniel could now see that a bathing-place had been made, separated from the lake only by a barrier. Gathering round this place the children at once began taking all their clothes off.

Daniel eagerly watched for an exhibition of mixed-sex skinny-dipping, maybe of snogging also. The nearest girl was only a few feet from where he was hiding. Her boobs, he could tell, were just starting to come, and before she turned away to jump into the water, he got a glimpse of the dimpled, downward-curving vee of her love-mound. Then he saw the boys….

Two of them were having great fun, seeing who could push the other into the water. And now Daniel could see that there was no possibility – none whatever – of any juvenile sex-play. Unless the boys had been born ball-less, then they must have had their testicles taken out. They had tiny hairless penises and nothing else.

But before Daniel could speculate further, he noticed something else. Not far away and coming along the path, were two large men in suits, wearing dark glasses. Each was leading, on a chain, a large dog. Daniel knew them for Rottweilers. Nearer and nearer they came. Below the window was a sort of cupboard or locker; Daniel tried to force himself into it. The heavy footsteps were passing close enough for Daniel to hear the panting of the dogs……

They passed by.

But what to do next? The doorway through which he’d come was in full view of the bathing place. Only one thing for it. Crouching down below the level of the bushes Daniel made for the lakeside – and slipped into the water.

He was a good swimmer and kept his face low. If only he wasn’t so fair-haired. Maybe his blond head might look like floating weed to a casual observer. His best plan was to swim underwater for a few strokes, round the end of the wall and out of sight. Then – disaster. His hands met something, slimy and overgrown, but unyielding. A stout underwater barrier of wire mesh.

Spluttering, he surfaced and looked distractedly around him. Miraculously the children in the pool were all too involved with some game, and the dog handlers were facing the other way. But someone else had spotted him. Someone who had suddenly come into view in a black rubber inflatable with an outboard motor. Someone who now spoke to him, quietly but audibly:

“Swim across it in the centre. It’s lower there”. The speaker had a pleasant, light voice. (The accent Daniel had learned in the last few weeks to recognise as British.) He sounded to be young.

Daniel did as he was told, passing easily across the sagging net. He swam up to the inflatable. “Now” said his rescuer “catch hold of this rope and hang on tight, while I get us to hell out of here!” He opened the throttle and roared off, Daniel gasping and choking in the wash.

Out of sight of the swimmers and their “minders” Daniel’s rescuer – or whatever he was – cut the engine. Strong hands grasped Daniel’s wrists, pulling him over the gunwale. Lake-water filled Daniel’s ears but through the buzzing, the pleasant voice spoke again. “Careful or you’ll have us both in the drink. There now! Welcome aboard!”

Daniel lay in the bottom of the inflatable on his tummy, water pouring from his sodden clothes. Water-weed streaked his face and arms. Looking up, he saw the face of his rescuer for the first time. A round, very good-natured face, very young-looking. Light brown hair, very tidy and neat. All in all, what Daniel would have called an “Ivy League” look.

“The first thing to do is to get you dry” said this individual. Daniel found a hand clasping his own. “My name’s Scott, by the way. Call me Simon”.

Narrative continued by Simon

I’d meant to spend the afternoon fishing. That spot over on the far side of the lake under the trees, with a big garden behind it, looked ideal for zander (pike-perch to you!) and zander are very nice grilled and served with herbs and cheese sauce. But having boated across there I felt lazy, content to just pootle about. Besides, I was watching something else.

In the third year at school we’d had to learn a boring poem about a silly girl who got cut off by the tide in the River Dee. There was the line “O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?” Well, not far from the bank there was a something which was trying to disguise itself as a clump of straw. It was the right colour for straw but was certainly hair, and from the way it was progressing, in quick erratic jerks, the hair belonged to a swimmer who was trying to escape from someone – or some thing, keeping his, or her, face down….

I looked beyond the swimmer towards the garden. In the foreground a bunch of kids were playing around in a swimming pool. No one else – oh yes there was. Two big blokes with guard dogs. Not looking this way, though. Good.

The swimmer was getting caught up on a chickenwire barrier, no doubt designed to stop people like me landing and having picnics. The centre of this, I could see, had been broken down – no doubt by people like me landing and having picnics. Keeping my voice down I managed to guide whoever-it-was towards the gap. As he-or-she safely negotiated this and came towards me, I saw a glimpse of a pale frightened face. Definitely a boy.

I cautiously edged the boat in between him and the shore. The kids in the pool were no danger by themselves, but I didn’t want them to start screeching and attract the attention of the two heavies. The boy was quite close now. The boat had loops of rope all round it, like a big lifebuoy. I told him loop his arms through the rope and hang on tight – VERY tight. I looked towards the garden one more time. The two big men were now looking my way, so I gave them a cheery wave, which they didn’t acknowledge, and then I opened the throttle. The little inflatable shot away in a flurry of spray.

Once I was out of sight of the garden I cut the engine. My protégé was still hanging on – just. I took his hands. “Soon- have you- aboard” I panted as I eased him over the gunwale. The inflatable was unsinkable, but that’s not to say it couldn’t get swamped. Still, I managed it in the end. A slim boy with very blond hair, streaked with waterweed – and a very beautiful face.

“First priority is to get you dry!” I said, unnecessarily, because my new passenger closely resembled a drowned rat. Besides which, I’d nothing to dry him with. I opened the throttle again and pointed the inflatable towards the “rade”. With nothing to do but keep in a straight line I took a good look at the blond boy.

He was sitting sprawled on the bottom of the boat, eyeing me, trying to work out who I was and what I was. Time to make myself known. “My name’s Scott” I said, taking his wet cold hand in mine. “Call me Simon. What’s yours?”

“Daniel”.

“Just Daniel?”

“Yeah. Just that”.

I didn’t press him. Presently he raised his knees, with his legs open, giving me a full view between his thighs. Under his soaking wet shorts he’d not been wearing any underpants. More than that, he lacked two of the bits he’d been born with. All he had left was a very small, very limp penis, rendered smaller still by the cold water. Who was he, this good-looking – indeed very good-looking neutered boy, who sounded vaguely American?

Behind Geneva’s ultra-respectable façade all kinds of things are possible. He might have been some rich pervert’s bum-boy, escaping from a life of domination. Any boy who drifted into that profession could expect to have his balls out before he hit puberty, to keep him smooth and pretty.

Or more likely he might have been raised in an orphanage, where all the best-looking boys – the sort that girls on the edge of puberty drool over- get to lose their balls at a young age, to prevent them being overcome by temptation if a girl flashed her knickers. The less good-looking ones may stay intact for a tad longer.

Who was he? The answer would have to wait. After all, boys get castrated for all sorts of reasons- take me for example! My mind went back six years to that encounter with my guardian’s eldest girl, Sue, on the landing of her home. The horrible girl had begun teasing me. She looked me up and down, eyeing my schoolboy erection, and said “You’re growing up fast!”. She was being sarcastic of course, aged eleven I had all of two inches when hard!

All she had on was a pair of black nylon briefs – very small and pulled right up tight to show off her fanny.“You can rub that against my pants but only the back way” she’d said, getting down on doggie-fashion and sticking her bum out. I began rubbing the knob of my cock between her bum-cheeks till it felt it was going to burst. Front way or back way, I was desperate to get it inside her. I began picking at the stitching of her pants, trying to make a hole……

Oh, I’d been horny then, all day and every day. So, just as if I’d been a randy colt, the verdict had been to get me neutered right away to prevent me “getting it up”. How it was done and what happened afterwards you know (or if you don’t, read “Simon tells it like it was).

Before I could reminisce any more, we reached the moorings and I was edging the inflatable in among the hundreds of other boats. I tied-up, snapped the padlock, immobilised the engine, and, followed by a still-dripping Daniel, led the way to where my Vespa was parked.

Telling him for the second time that day to hold on tight, I gunned the motor and we sped off to the Place des Eaux-Vives and the apartment which for the next few weeks was “home” to myself, Ricky and Roddy. You didn’t know? No, of course you don’t, so I’ll fill you in.

Roddy was filming. Pinewood Studios were doing a musical blockbuster about a kid and his bloody dog, allegedly in North Yorkshire. The child star, well-known to movie-goers, called Ronnie Romayne, couldn’t sing a note, so Roddy had been released by his company to do voiceovers whenever the kid was supposed to be singing. Roddy’s name would be in small print somewhere in the credits. Ronnie Romayne’s would fill an entire screen.

Pinewood had proposed that Roddy should stay at the 5-star Hôtel du Rhône, to which idea he’d given a very dusty answer. It was at that point I’d stepped in and hired the apartment. Roddy had flown out with the film crew and I’d driven down in the Aston Martin taking Ricky along for company. “And Melanie?” you ask. Melanie has a life of her own and had gone pony-trekking with friends.

“Here’s where we are” I said to Daniel as I unlocked the apartment door. “That noise you can hear (actually, rather beautiful singing) “is my friend Ricky Silva. Those wet things of yours will have to go through the wash, you can’t just dry them off or you’ll smell. The lake’s clean but not that clean”. I opened the door leading from the lounge to the bedrooms and bathroom, and called “Hi, Ricky! RICKY!!”. The singing stopped.

“I’m sending Daniel in to you. He’s been in the lake. Show him how the shower works and lend him some dry things of yours. He's about your size”.

“Okay” came Ricky’s voice in reply. “I’m just going to take a shower myself”.

“Through there” I said to Daniel, shoving him through the door. I waited for a while, hearing snatches of conversation.

“Oh hi! I’m Ricky. You Daniel? Glad to know you, Daniel”.

(Suspiciously)“Hi. You British?”

“No, American.”

(In a more friendly tone) “Say, is that so?” Then, in an altogether changed voice “But, say, you’re….you’ve been….”

I closed the door, unable to repress a smile of relief. Presently I heard water running, and then I heard shouting, splashing – and happy laughter!

Some time later they both emerged, Daniel in a spare pair of Ricky’s Giorgio Armani jeans and matching T-shirt. He was wearing a big grin and had his arm round Ricky’s shoulders. “Hey, Simon, we’re buddies!” he shouted, as he came into the room.

“Yeah, we’ve a lot in common” Ricky agreed.

Obviously it had taken Daniel no time at all to see that Ricky lacked a boy’s usual set of parts, and that he and Ricky were two of a kind. I hoped – and later found out I was right – that Ricky might be able to draw Daniel out of his shell – who he was, where he came from. Daniel’s story might even resemble Ricky’s own, I thought, though in this I was a bit wide of the mark.

(At the time he was “done” Ricky had been very naïve: he knew there was some sort of connection between balls and babies but couldn’t have explained what it was. His innocence made it easy for the perverted doctor into whose clutches Ricky had fallen, to convince him that he had to be neutered as a legal necessity.

He’d had it done then and there, under local anaesthetic, and had actually watched his testicles being shelled out of his scrotum, his spermatic cords snipped through, and his erectile nerves zapped).

“Daniel’s a hero” said Ricky admiringly. But before we could hear about his heroism there came the slam of a taxi door outside, and then the apartment front door burst open and Roddy crashed through it, white-faced. He flung himself down on the sofa.

“God!” was all he would say at first. “God!” He was shaking with rage. I went to the drinks trolley and fixed him a Harvey Wallbanger – Roddy’s drink of the moment – and pressed it into his hand. Roddy drank it off just as if it had been natural orange juice.

“This movie’s going to bomb, Simon” Roddy said, when he’d recovered speech. (He still hadn’t actually said Hello, or asked who our guest was). “I’ll tell you that for a start”.

I waited.

“Everything that could go wrong with it, has. For starters, you know it’s supposed to be set in North Yorkshire. The screenplay writer seems to have thought “The north of Britain, say, isn’t that all mountains?” So we’re filming on Mount Salève, on bare rock and scree. Well, you know what it’s really like up there, around Fountains, or around Richmond. Green hills, farming country”.

I nodded. Roddy was absolutely right. Mount Salève was absolutely wrong.

“And then there’s that – that boy! That-little-SHIT!” He spat the word out.

“I take it you’re referring to Angelic Ronnie Romayne”. (This was how reviewers usually described the child-star).

“Angelic my ass. Listen: I’m surprised his dialect coach hasn’t committed suicide. You should just hear the little creep. North Yorkshire indeed! Anyone would think, from the way he speaks his lines, that North Yorkshire was the country around Dudley. His Yorkshire accent is unrelieved West Midlands. But that’s not the worst of it”.

I paused again. Roddy was clearly building up to something.

“Do you know what he called me? Do-you-know what he called me? “That extra, who does the singing stuff”. That extra! Me! Here, give me a refill”.

Roddy’s indignation was understandable. When Ronnie Romayne was still in junior school, Roddy already had a serious music career opening up before him. And he was already a castrato.

I mixed Roddy’s refill. “Before you drink this, Roddy, say hello to Daniel. Earlier today I fished him out of the lake where he’d ben taking an impromptu swimming lesson. Since then, he and Ricky have been swapping notes. Isn’t that so, Daniel?

But Daniel was blushing scarlet and it was left to Ricky to begin the story that he’d heard from Daniel while they were both under the shower.

Daniel came from a city in the Middle West of the USA. A streetwise kid and a loner by nature, he had been snatched off the street and airlifted halfway across the world to the sheikhdom of El *******, a tiny independent sovereign state usually described in the papers as “a pimple on the backside of Saudi Arabia”.

His captors had marked him out long before, feeling that he would be ideal as the personal attendant for the ruler’s daughter. The girl was well into puberty. Conventions demanded that only eunuchs might attend the Princess, and so Daniel was castrated on arrival.

Once he’d got over the shock and distress of his operation (for what boy isn’t upset when he loses his balls?) Daniel’s greatest problem was boredom. And indirectly it was boredom which led to his rescue, a little more than a year later.

By now Daniel had recovered from his bashfulness and was able to tell us how that particular night differed from the three-hundred-and-odd nights preceding.

“I’d been tidying up, like I always did. I had to collect all the empty drinking-cups the girls had left, and wash them up. Then I had to gather up all the fruit peelings – usually I just threw them from the terrace into the sea. Last of all I just used to switch the lights off, before going to the Princess and see if there was anything she wanted”.

(More often than not the Princess wanted oral sex!)

“Then I saw this switch, outside on the terrace wall. I’d never taken any notice of it before, so I wanted to see what it did. It turned a big light on, high up on the wall. I flicked it on and off a time or two, then left it, and went in to the Princess for a few minutes…..”

(Five miles out at sea, the look-out man on a US Navy frigate had seen the flashing light and called his officer. They decided it might be a Mayday signal. In the few minutes that Daniel took to bring the Princess to orgasm, his head cushioned between her thighs, a patrol was being organised on board the frigate.)

“Then I just went to bed” Daniel continued. “But I’d only been in bed a short time when I heard firing from outside, then an explosion”.

The explosion was caused by the naval landing-party blowing the palace door in. The sheikhdom of El ********* wasn’t allied with NATO, or indeed any other alliance ofstates, so the USMC operated by the principle “Anything Goes”.

“I jumped out of bed, and, I don’t know why, exactly, but I put on the clothes I’d been allowed to keep when they captured me. I heard heavy boots outside and when I opened my door I ran straight into a bunch of guys in combat fatigues and with assault rifles. One of them said “Who’s this little guy?” and I said “Hey, fellas, I’m American!” . Then the officer, or whatever he was, said “Pass him along, you guys” and I was passed from one bunch of guys to another and found myself down on the beach being bundled into an assault boat”.

A while later, Daniel was airlifted by helicopter to a larger vessel – some kind of supply ship. Looking down, he could see that one wing of the palace was on fire, and he wondered, idly, whether the Princess was safe. On the supply ship he was examined by a doctor. This man noted that Daniel’s only wounds – those between his legs- had healed long before.

It was the James Bond-type adventures that had so impressed Ricky. For my part, Daniel’s heroism was shown by the way he’d survived for a year in that place, as a gelded sex-slave, without hope of release – and despite everything, not losing his mind.

Daniel reached the end of the story and this seemed a natural break. “Navy Club Bar then, everybody?” I asked. Daniel looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, Daniel, it’s not full of big hairy sailormen. It’s a café in the Old Town where we sometimes go when we can’t be bothered to cook anything.”

So that was decided on. As I went for my car keys I heard Roddy say something to Daniel, very quietly. “Not only Ricky. Me too. And Simon”. And Daniel’s awestruck reply “All of you? Oh wow”.

I smiled inwardly. This was going to be a lot easier, now Daniel knew we were all four of a kind! I bundled everybody into the Aston and took off for the Old Town, finding on arrival at the Navy Club that they’d kept my usual table reserved.

The Navy Club’s pasta was legendary so I ordered that for everybody. Daniel took a cautious forkful before deciding he liked it. I also introduced him to the local white wine, ordered by the carafe with a faint sparkle. Soon he was drinking it like a connoisseur.

“Tell me about that place” I asked him, once the other two were preoccupied with eating and drinking. “The place where I fished you out of the lake. There were girls, you said”.

“Yeah, there were girls alright” replied Daniel through a mouthful of ravioli. “I used to see them every day from my window in the Red Cross place. “It wasn’t the girls that made the place scary. It was the boys”.

“Boys?”

“Yeah. I’d never seen any boys until that day – the day you pulled me out of the water. The first thing I saw was that they were all- they were all – like me, and you….and Ricky and Roddy”. (In other words neutered).

I nodded. “How many boys, Daniel? Two or three?” (Two or three boys to attend the girls seemed a reasonable guess).

“Two or three? You gotta be kidding, Simon. No, far more. Five certainly, perhaps six. And this is the thing, Simon. I hadn’t seen a sign of any boys in a month. Not since I arrived. Not till they appeared out of nowhere and went swimming”.

A houseful of neutered boys, kept in total seclusion – for what? A brothel of neutered boys? And if it came to brothels, what were the girls doing in that scenario?

It all sounded very scary, not to say unhealthy. Accordingly, much later, back at the flat, the four of us went into a huddle. It was midnight before we agreed on the outline of a plan.

Ricky continues

Simon’s plan was to waylay a group of two or three girls and induce them to tell us about the villa and what went on there. The gamble was that we should pick the wrong girls, or try it in the wrong place, and they would scream the place down. It was a risk we’d have to take. Somehow it had to appear casual. But how?

Ten o’clock next morning found us all in the leafy avenue, not far from the villa entrance-gates, with the Aston parked a short distance away, waiting our chance. It wasn’t long in coming.

Three girls came out, at around five-past. One was small and dark-featured- she looked Middle Eastern. The second was rather taller and less dark, and rather beautiful: she might have been Southern Italian or Greek. The third was a typical English girl, who was like a London sparrow compared with her exotic companions. I wondered if she was the kind of girl who would allow a boy to put his penis up her vagina – just once so that she could say she’d “done it”. I decided she wasn’t.

Presently a taxi came along and the girls got in – a cue for us to pile into the Aston. Very cautiously Simon followed. The taxi drove into the city centre and stopped at the Richemond Hotel.

“Couldn’t be better” muttered Simon.

The Richemond was the most prestigious hotel in Geneva and its coffee bar very popular with the “jeunesse dorée” of five continents. It was not, definitely not, the place to make an embarrassing scene.We followed the girls inside and saw them take a large table in a corner. Simon didn’t hesitate.

“Mind if we join you?” he asked with a winning smile. “I’m Simon Scott”.

“Good morning, Simon Scott” said the Greek-looking girl. She sounded amused rather than alarmed.

“These are my friends Ricky Silva and Daniel Moran” continued Simon. “And it’s possible you may know, if only by sight, Roddy Fisher”.

“You’re – you’re THE Roddy Fisher!” the London girl said with an intake of breath. “Oh, wow!” (I’d a sudden onset of panic that she might make Roddy a present of her knickers. Roddy had that effect on girls! But she didn’t).

“So now that we’ve made ourselves known to you” Simon forged on “won’t you tell us your names?”

“I’m Cecile” said the small dark one. “I’m from Teheran – the Christian quarter”.

“I’m Olga” said the Greek-looking one. “I’m from Limassol, in Cyprus. The free part”. (Cypriots are very sensitive about the Turkish invasion of 1974).

“I’m Louisa” said the London sparrow. “Louisa Neville. I’m from Cheam, in Surrey. Near to Sutton”.

“Now, what shall we have?” rejoined Simon, taking over. One of the waiters was already hovering. The girls all wanted fruit juices. Simon had a café corretto, Daniel went for an Americano because of the name. Roddy wanted a double espresso and I had one too. With everyone provided for, Simon began again.

“Well, what brings you all to Geneva?”

“It’s just a summer school” replied Olga, the Cypriot girl, who seemed to be the leader. “Mainly to learn the French language. But they throw in other things – how to lay a table for a dinner party, how to fold napkins to look like boats, what wines to serve with what fish. All that sort of thing”.

“Much of it a waste of time” put in the Iranian girl, Cecile “seeing that more than half of us don’t drink”.

“Who runs the course? People from the University?”

Olga laughed. “Miss Barbara runs the course, first and last. I don’t know who her assistants are. Miss Barbara! Now there’s a case!”

“Why? What’s strange about her?”

“If you saw her you’d not ask the question. Imagine a woman with a body like huge, padded armchair, rolling along on stumpy little legs like casters, but with a human head and face. She-is-enORmous!”

“I may have seen her go out of the house” said Daniel “from my bedroom window next door. A huge, waddling woman”.

“That’s her alright. She must weigh twenty stone at the least. And ugly with it – ugh”.

“She has a record, you know” added Cecile. “She used to own and run a boarding school for girls, somewhere in England. The Health and Safety people had it closed down. It seems there were cockroaches, rats – everything”.

“And so” resumed Simon “you have these classes in French language and all the rest. Do the boys join in or do they have their own classes?”

All three girls looked blank at the mention of boys. Cecile spoke at last. “We have nothing to do with the boys. We never see them during the day…”

“Except when you all go swimming together” interrupted Daniel. “Skinny-dipping, rather. This I know for a fact – I’ve seen you!”

Cecile blushed. “Yes, that’s quite true. But that’s the only time we see them – honest!

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“Well, no! They don’t seem to understand English, or even French. Olga says she thinks one or two may be Turkish, or Rumanian”.

“Didn’t you notice” Simon ploughed remorselessly on “that the boys had been neutered – that they were boy-eunuchs?”

“We could hardly avoid noticing” said Olga.

“Usual, is it – where you come from, neutering boys?”

“In Cyprus, never!” said Olga firmly.

“How about you, Cecile? Is it usual in Iran, to neuter boys?

The small dark girl shrugged. “Maybe in country districts – in tribal areas. Certainly not in the cities. But it’s something and nothing, isn’t it – for boys of that class?

Certainly we weren’t going to get a lot from these upper class little cows. Talk degenerated into polite nothings, and as soon as we’d finished our drinks and Simon had settled up, we got up to go. But the meeting hadn’t been entirely wasted.

Louisa, the English girl, had said very little. I’d thought she might have been embarrassed by the talk of boys’ balls. But as we all moved towards the exit, she plucked Simon by the sleeve, holding him back out of earshot of the other two.

“I want to help you in any way I can” she said, in a hurried, urgent voice. “I don’t think it’s right to do that to boys – not without a very good reason. My step-dad had my kid brother done, soon after he was ten. I know how it’s done - they prick a boy’s balls – a doctor does it, with a hypodermic – and they dry up, and afterwards he can’t make babies”.

“Why did thy have him done?”

The answer was the one you usually got in Britain.

“Oh, well, he was sort of moody and restless, and always got bad reports from school – lazy, disobedient, all that stuff. The child-guidance woman recommended it to my parents telling them that boys who are “done” are much more attentive in school and study harder. It’s all to do with hormone balance”. She fell silent for a moment. “That was over a year ago. It may have improved his behaviour in school, but it’s sort of knocked all the stuffing out of him. He’ll spend hours just mooning around or kicking stones along the patio”.

I recognised the symptoms. After Dr Geller had removed my balls, my system had gone into hormonal shock, and I would spend hours doing water-colour painting and arranging my stamp collection: things I’d never have done before.

Louisa paused. “But there’s more. Something that Cecile and Olga didn’t tell you. About the weddings”.

“Weddings?” This was a totally new aspect.

“Yes. Miss Barbara has a licence to hold civil weddings at the school. Whenever there is a wedding taking place we have to make ourselves scarce – leave the building. She’s most insistent that we get right away”.

“Funny, isn’t it?” You would have thought the bridal party would have wanted you to stay and watch – throw confetti and all the rest”.

There came a shout from outside. “Come on, Louisa! We want to go and look at some shops!”

“I’d better go” she said. Simon took one of his business cards from his wallet. “Anything you think we should know about – give us a call immediately – OK?”

Louisa tucked the card inside her bra and hurried off to join her friends. We’d no real reason for staying, but Daniel’s watch – a cheap Sekonda – was misbehaving after being immersed in the lake, and Simon thought he should have a reliable replacement. Between them they settled on a Patek Philippe. Then – back to the flat.

Simon resumes

The meeting with the three girls had raised more questions than it answered. Very clearly there were mysteries that could only be unravelled by getting inside the villa incognito. And I couldn’t see any way of doing that. I unburdened myself to Daniel.

Daniel looked me in the face. He shook his head, slowly, not in denial, but in incomprehension. “Gee, Simon!” he said at last. “You’re one helluva nice guy, but there’s so much you don’t know”.

The streets of an American city had been a hard training-ground. There, Daniel had learned skills I would never have guessed. He began to tell me what he felt I ought to have known.

“First thing, in any building, there’s always a way in. All you’ve got to do is find it. How do I know? Well, think! Who does the locking-up at night? The janitor. And he wants to get off home, to put his feet up, to watch TV. Something, it may be a door, it may be a window, gets forgotten – or maybe he can’t be bothered to go take a look, whether he secured it or not.

“And the next thing, you gotta get underneath the radar”.

“Radar?” I queried.

“CCTV, intruder-alarms, all that stuff. It’s difficult to fit and it’s expensive. There’s always part of a building that’s unprotected. All you gotta do is find it”.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. I shall need…..” Daniel rattled off a few items which he needed – all of them obtainable at a hardware shop. Fortunately I knew the French name for one of those was “quincaillerie” – and the Carouge district of the city had more than one. Daniel spent a happy hour rooting about till he had all he wanted – some stiff wire and some keys of different styles and sizes. Back we went to the flat.

“So, when do we go, Daniel?”

“Whenever you say, boss”.

Accordingly, 2 a,m. found us out on the lake in the inflatable, near the spot where I’d picked Daniel up. I killed the engine and we paddled the last few yards. Daniel quickly scrambled on to the grassy bank. Losing his balls had not robbed him of determination. A small inlet provided an ideal hiding place for the little boat.

“Over here!” Daniel beckoned, heading towards an area thick with bushes and small trees. “They’d never put sensors overlooking this lot. The trees would set them off whenever the wind blows”.

I trusted to his judgment. The place was as quiet as could be. Evidently the “heavies” who had so alarmed Daniel that afternoon didn’t work a night-shift.

But now, Daniel had found a door in a wall. This led into a little paved yard, and beyond this, the house. Another door faced us. Daniel tried it – it wasn’t locked. “What did I tell ya?” he grinned.

Entering, we found ourselves in what was evidently the laundry: there were washing-lines full of girls’ knickers. From here we tiptoed through a vast kitchen, where fridges whirred and hummed. Then a passageway, and at last the dim shadowy hall. A wide stairway led up into darkness. Our interest was not with the stairway, but with a solid-looking door marked “Privé – Accès Interdit”.

Daniel took the torch and squinted into the keyhole, then nodded. “Walk in the park, this” he murmured, inserting one of his keys.

The lock released with a louder click than I’d have liked, and we both froze. But the only other sound was the steady ticking of a grandfather clock and the humming of the air-conditioning. We filed in to the darkness beyond the recently-opened door, and found ourselves in another lobby.

Torchlight showed other doors opening off this. Ignoring these for the moment we concentrated on the only item of furniture – a sort of lectern with a big heavy book on it. I opened this at the first page – and found a studio photograph of a bridal couple. At least, that’s what it appeared to be at first sight. Then the resemblance to other wedding photographs ended.

The groom – if that’s what he was – was a big, fleshy, self-satisfied-looking guy in his forties. It was the second figure that was interesting. The bride was at least a foot and a half shorter than the groom. Her veil, thrown back, was secured to a little circlet of pearls on the top of her head, and this in turn was prevented from falling off by satin ribbons tied in elaborate bows and orange-blossom fashioned out of lace.

But the bride’s hair was short and dark, barbered in chunky locks, and the little face beneath all this flummery was undoubtedly male. The expression in the eyes said it all. “This is horrible, but I’ll try not to cry”.

In place of a wedding gown this boy-bride wore a bodice, jacket, top or whatever, richly decorated with white lace over satin. This was very short, ending just above his belly-button. On his feet were white satin slippers (at least they hadn’t made him wear high heels) and on his legs he wore white stockings that were kept up with a bow tied halfway up his thighs.

His one remaining garment was a pair of white satin briefs, pulled tightly up into his crotch. Had his balls been taken out? Don’t even bother to ask.

The other photographs showed other couples but were essentially the same, fat middle-aged guys partnered by traumatised, frightened, castrated children, forced through a parody of the marriage ceremony. Page after page of the same little faces, some resigned, some tearful. The book was a catalogue of perversion and depravity.

Closing the album I indicated to Daniel to try his key on the other doors. There were three of these. The first, which was unmarked, opened easily. Inside there was a toilet, a sink with two faucets, and hanging on the wall, an enema bag. On a shelf, a tube of K-Y gel, and a pink plastic dildo, large size. No marks for guessing how this room was used – for consummating the “marriages”.

The second door bore two names on brass plates: “Dr D Robson” and “Dr M Lindenbaum”. This, too, opened easily. Our torches illuminated an operating table, a glass fronted cupboard containing dressings, and a steriliser. Removing the lid of this revealed two or three scalpels and the same number of clamps. I replaced the lid. Castrating boys doesn’t require a lot of instruments.

The third and last door was marked “MARRIAGE ROOM” . Larger than any of the others, it was like a small chapel, though without any religious imagery. Two rows of chairs were provided, seating about twenty (what wedding guests would be invited?) and in the centre of the front row one huge chair with arms, doubtless for Miss Barbara, whose vast bulk wouldn’t fit into anything else.

Facing the row of chairs was a table – as if for Communion. On one side of this, facing the audience(?) was a single carved chair with a high back, and on the other, two kneelers. The only other item was another lectern, this time empty. I’d seen enough. Motioning to Daniel I whispered “I think we’re done here. Let’s lock-up and get the hell out”.

Exiting from the building by the way we’d come I weighed things up. Miss Barbara directed operations. Whenever her agents – whoever they might be – could get hold of any boys of outstanding good looks, Miss Barbara had them brought here and castrated. Meanwhile another network – possibly a website – attracted those men who find a boy’s well-rounded bottom more attractive than a pair of female thighs – however voluptuous. From time to time men and boys were paired off in a travesty of a wedding service, and the boys were then spirited out of the country, no doubt on false papers.

Retrieving the inflatable we pushed off without delay. Our journey back was rather a quiet one – apart from the buzzing of the outboard. Returning to the flat I packed Daniel off to bed – he was dropping – and poured myself a stiff whisky. Then I did some savage thinking.

I’d come across the exploitation and abuse of children in a number of forms, but this was the most pitiful and disgusting yet. Resonating through my head were the lines from Suetonius’ “Life of Nero” which every schoolboy knows and sniggers over: “He castrated the boy Sporus and actually tried to make a woman of him, dressing him in a bridal gown and veil”. But what could I do?

I even thought of getting the first flight to London in the morning and doing the rounds of all the contacts I had. Not that it would get me very far. The UK Police would say “Off our patch”. Military Intelligence would say “Outside our scope”. And if I took my troubles to Dr Holroyd he would roll his eyes heavenward and say “Do whatever you think fit, dear boy”.

Heavenward, did I say?

I’m not the least bit religious, even though the school routine compels me to attend chapel every day and three times on Sundays. But in spite of myself, I muttered “Oh God, if you’re there, and if you’re listening, give me a clue!” Then, because everyone else had gone to bed, I went there myself.

The sequel to this, next morning, should have found me hammering on the doors of the nearest monastery (if the Swiss have them) demanding instant admission to their order.

I woke to find myself alone. Roddy was, of course, filming. Ricky and Daniel were away on some ploy or other, no doubt swapping notes. As boy-eunuchs they could not fuck girls or enjoy a quiet wank or reach orgasm or even get hard. As Americans they could do anything else in the world, So they had a lot in common!

I dressed and popped round to the café on the corner for an espresso and croissant. The place was already doing a brisk business and there was only one vacant seat, at a table already occupied by two other people. One was a tall, rangy-looking man with iron-grey hair and a lived-in face – and by the strangest possible coincidence, I knew him!

“Morning, Tom!” I greeted him. “Mind if I join you?”

The guy looked nonplussed, but only for a second. Recognition was part of his job. He stuck his hand out. “Hey, Simon! Glad to see you, Simon! Ollie, this is Simon Scott! Sit down, Simon, have yourself some coffee!” He was evidently delighted to see me, for he was beaming with pleasure. His companion, whoever she might be, was giving me a huge, watermelon-sized grin of welcome, as only Caribbean girls can.

Who was this man?

Two years earlier, Dr Geller had come into our lives for what proved to be the final time. In her last desperate gamble, she had hijacked Ricky, Roddy and the whole of one of the local baseball teams. Ricky she intended to take with her to Malaysia, there to carry on where she’d left off. Roddy and all the others were destined for the Arab world, to serve as domestic eunuchs – perhaps worse. (Yes, she’d castrated the entire baseball team in anticipation of selling them).

Dr Geller’s crimes crossed many frontiers and she was well known to the FBI. Tom Swearingen - for this was he - was one of their most senior agents (his German forbears had probably been called Schweringen, but in the hands of US Immigration, anything can happen to spelling!)

Superb communication, much of it provided by Jan Raxworthy – our pasty-faced Cornish computer-wiz - had been the key to smashing Dr Geller’s organisation, but Tom had provided much-needed muscle at a vital moment.

Meanwhile the black girl was showing me a very familiar-looking warrant card – one from the Metropolitan Police. Her rank was DCI, and her name, Olivia Kenwayson-Parry. No wonder she preferred to be called Ollie.

“What brings you to Geneva, Tom?” I ventured.

“We’re guests of the Swiss Federal Police” Tom replied. “They’re running an international seminar on identity theft. The material’s interesting, but I’ve got to say, the action’s kinda slow”.

“Or you could say, bo-RING! added DCI Ollie, giving me another watermelon-sized grin. I was beginning to like Ollie; we shared the same sort of humour.

“So, I’ll ask you the same question, Simon. What brings you to these shores?”

“Roddy- you remember Roddy, Tom? Of course you do. Well, he’s filming, or rather he’s providing voiceovers because the film’s a musical and the leading child actor can’t sing a note. I’m here just housekeeping, really, and I brought Ricky for company. Remember him?”.

“Sure, I remember Ricky” replied Tom. “And Roddy’s the rather androgynous one, right?”

“Androgynous” was unfair to Roddy. Sure, I doubt there was a single drop of testosterone anywhere in Roddy’s body. But outwardly, despite Roddy’s unique good looks, reproduced on a million CD’s, no one could mistake him for anything other than a boy. At least that’s how he came across to all the silly little teenage girls who pulled their knickers off at concerts and flung them at Roddy’s feet, unaware that surgery had reduced Roddy’s boy-parts to a mere blob.

But I let it pass, and taking a deep breath, jumped straight in. “The fact is, Tom, I need help”.

“Then in that case” said Tom, beckoning to one of the waiters “I think we need more coffee”. When it arrived and we all had full cups, Tom sat back in his chair. “Okay, fella” he said. “Let’s have it” – and closed his eyes.

I “let him have it” – from fishing Daniel out of the lake, to our investigations of the previous night. Very clearly, Tom had absorbed every detail. He began slowly shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t go along with this – getting young boys fixed before they’ve ever had a chance to go with a girl. I know that in some parts of the States they have these yard parties, and boys get injected, and their sex lives are over before they’ve even gotten started. I know it’s permissible under the law, but – what the hell!”

“This – what Simon has told us – is different, though, Tom” commented Ollie. “Neutering boys is permissible under UK law also, given certain conditions – it’s certainly not a free-for-all. But the way Simon describes it, it’s child-abuse of the very worst sort. I can’t think of a similar case, and I’ve come across some bad ones”.

Tom agreed totally with Ollie and added a few other crimes to that of child-abuse.

“So, Tom, can anything be done?” I asked.

“Sure” replied Tom. “But……..”

Tom’s qualification amounted to this. The culprits – whoever they were – needed to be apprehended while actually carrying out a crime. So far the only evidence we had was circumstantial. Even the photograph album, nauseating though it was, might, in the hands of a clever lawyer, be passed off as a catalogue of pictures of children in fancy dress.

I paused, digesting this. We were not going to ride off that instant like the 7th Cavalry. But Tom was looking thoughtful. You did say ‘Lindenbaum’, did you, Simon? Because Dr Geller had a business partner of that name – perhaps more than business. Now when we had all that ruckus in West Chester, PA, we didn’t pull Dr Lindenbaum in, for the very good reason that he wasn’t there. So it’s possible he’s still at large, and involved in some way”.

(Ricky had told us all about Dr Lindenbaum. In Malaysia Dr Geller’s business was outwardly a clinic, in which she treated all kinds of conditions and maladies. This financed an orphanage, which among other things was a holding-unit for castrated boys. Dr Lindenbaum was a sort of general factotum in all these things. As a sideline, boys were provided as sex partners for perverted men, and the good doctor made all the arrangements.)

“If we could pull HIM in” Tom mused “I guess it’d be game, set and match to us”.

Tom and Ollie had to leave, to get to their seminar. But we exchanged contact numbers, and Tom gave me his firm undertaking that, if ever I called him and needed help, he’d be at my side in minutes. Ollie gave me the same assurance. We all shook hands on that.

I returned to the flat to have a think. But I’d not been there a quarter of an hour when the front door was flung open and Roddy came storming in – a thing that was getting to be a habit with him.

“No filming today?” I asked.

Roddy flung himself down into an armchair. “That – little – sod!” he muttered. His voice rose to a shout. “That – little – SOD!!”

“Have a drink, Roddy” I soothed.

“I don’t want a bloody drink!”. Roddy’s light, pleasant speaking voice was becoming shrill and angry, like that of a spoiled six-year-old who’d been told he mustn’t eat any more candy bars. I waited for him to calm down.

“Got there at eight-thirty” Roddy said at last, in a more normal voice. “Usual starting time. Sat around till nearly ten. The child-wonder still hadn’t shown. Director didn’t seem bothered. So it wasn’t till half past that Guthrie – he’s a sort of dogsbody round the studio, does all the odd jobs – rang his hotel. Do you know, no one had seen him since last evening!

“His minders had been playing poker till after twelve last evening. No one thought to make sure he was tucked up in bed. No one thought to say anything when he didn’t send for room service at breakfast time like he always does. No one said or did a sodding thing” Roddy fumed.

“When he still didn’t show – must have been getting on for eleven - they decided to shoot various scenes where he doesn’t appear. That left me sitting around like a spare part. So I decided to pack it in. The whole morning wasted. God! I think I’ll have that drink now”.

I fixed it for him and he gulped it down. Soon afterwards he went to his room. I heard the balcony window being opened. Roddy, I knew, liked to strip off all his clothes and sunbathe naked on his lounger. Perhaps the heat of the summer sun gave him a tingle in the place where his balls once were. And if the neighbours saw his bare butt, they could like it or lump it…..

It was evening before Ricky and Daniel returned. They had gone exploring and taken one of the lake steamers right down to Evian, had lunch out somewhere and all in all had a relaxing day – more than I had. I told them about my meeting with Tom Swearingen and the possibility of Dr Lindenbaum being involved. “And I’m sure you remember him from way back, Ricky” I said, artlessly.

“Well, of course I do!” replied Ricky rather crossly. “He was Dr Geller’s boyfriend among other things. He had a finger in most of the things she got up to. Especially with clients who wanted sex with a boy, like that wretched Jimmy”.

(If you want to read about Jimmy, go to “Simon and the Horrible Hotel”).

“I suppose” I said “he may actually be living here under some sort of cover. Let’s look him up. Pass me Yellow Pages”.

There was only one entry under the name Lindenbaum, and it didn’t look very promising. It was “Lindenbaum AG”, under the heading “Spedition” which translates as “Freight Forwarding”. There was an address too, but when we looked it up, it pointed to a residential area: villas in their own grounds. “Might be worth checking out” I said. “But it’s a bit late to do it now. Tomorrow will do”.

Now that was a bad decision.

Ricky continues with the next developments

In the morning we all felt lazy, and swanned around the flat. Soon after lunch Simon took Daniel out with him – something to do with Daniel’s visa for Britain – so it wasn’t till mid-afternoon that Roddy and I set off on our quest for Dr Lindenbaum. This also was a bad mistake.

There was a bus that passed near to our intended destination so we got on that. The nearer we approached the address in Yellow Pages, the less I liked it. The roads were all called “Chemin” which translates “way” - Mimosa Way, Magnolia Way – that sort of thing – and the area was full of villas set well back in big open-plan gardens. Nothing like a freight-forwarding company to be seen. Perhaps the warehouse was some place else.

I was about to give it up when Roddy froze. He pointed at something in the gutter of the road. “Look!” he almost shouted.

“It’s only a child’s toy” I said. “An old cuddly toy that a child has dropped”.

“That” said Roddy “is Jumbles. It’s supposed to be a mule. Ronnie takes it everywhere- it’s a sort of talisman. He’s even been filmed, holding it. Ricky – don’t you see? He’s just got to be here!”.

With trembling hands Roddy called Tom’s number on his cellphone. Tom replied at once and confirmed he’d be along – with reinforcements. Roddy asked him to “stand off” till he called again. “Wilco, out” came the response.

In the front of the house the shutters were closed. Trying to move silently on the creaking gravel we tiptoed round to the back. Here, screened by apricot trees, we found a windowless extension on the back of the house. It was here that we first noticed the smell. A smell of ether, disinfectants – a hospital smell.

We both at the same time saw the dome of a skylight on the flat roof. “We need to get up there, Roddy muttered. Fortunately this proved easy. At the rear of the building was a steel ladder, part of a fire-escape. Up we went. Flat on our stomachs we inched towards the skylight.

The view could not have been better. The room below was brilliantly lighted by a huge central lamp. It showed three figures. The first was a tall man, lounging against a radiator. He was good looking in a decadent sort of way, and I knew him at once. I should have done – at one time I saw him every day. Martin Lindenbaum, Dr Geller’s partner, both in bed and in all her crimes.

The second figure was a little round man, with spectacles. He appeared to be chuckling all the time. Like Lindenbaum, he wore a doctor’s white coat. He was standing by an operating table, on which lay – anaesthetised or drugged – the third figure. Everyone knew the plump babyish features of Ronnie Romayne.

He was bare from the waist down. “Not badly endowed” whispered Roddy. But not for much longer, I thought. Ronnie Romayne, child-star of stage, screen and television, was about to have his balls cut out.

Not far away I could hear a car slow down and stop. I was more concerned with what I could see below me, where the little doctor was swabbing Ronnie’s private area with surgical spirit. He now picked up a scalpel, and with a deliberate practised movement drew it across the taut shiny skin of the unconscious boy’s plump scrotum. A bright scarlet line appeared, where the blade had passed.

“Roddy?” I whispered. But Roddy’s face was set, and he gave no sign. Below us, the doctor’s rubber-gloved hands were busy. Pulling out the boy’s balls, he clamped the cords, and waited, looking at his watch

“Roddy?” Still nothing. Why was he holding back, not calling Tom?

The doctor now proceeded with castrating Ronnie, severing one of the cords and dropping the parted testicle into the waiting tray.

Snip.

Then the second.

Snip.

Roddy’s face at last relaxed. He spoke into his phone. “Right, Tom, come in please”. I just heard the reply “Roger”, followed by a splintering crash as his men broke the door down.

“Okay” said Roddy. “Let’s go see the fun”. We scrambled down off the roof and in through the shattered door, following Tom and two other agents I’d not seen before. All had handguns. “Right, nobody move!” Tom commanded.

No one did: not Lindenbaum, who had stood in a corner throughout, not the little doctor who’d done the operation, least of all the unconscious Ronnie on the operating table, blood oozing between his thighs..

“Who are you?” demanded Lindenbaum.

“Agent Swearingen, FBI” said Tom. “And you are Martin Lindenbaum, P –H –D” (dragging the word out contemptuously). “Well, well. We meet at last”.

“Then may I ask….” began the other. Tom cut him short with a snarl.

“Ah, stow it, buddy!There’ll be time for talking later. Meanwhile, save it for your lawyer”.

“Are you charging me?” asked the tall man.

“We’ll begin with “impersonating a surgeon” replied Tom. “No doubt I’ll be adding a whole lot more”.

Meanwhile the little round-faced bespectacled doctor hadn’t budged an inch despite the violent interruption. He kept chuckling to himself quietly. This got to Tom, and it showed. “What’s your problem, Mac? he demanded. “Whadda ya got to laugh about?”

Lindenbaum answered for him. “Dr Robson lost the power of speech following a stroke” he explained. “The continuous laughter is part of the condition. It’s called Neuburger’s Syndrome”.

But it didn’t deprive him of his skill in castrating boys, I thought.

More tires scrunched on the gravel outside and more people poured into the room: uniformed police who were to take Lindenbaum and Robson to a high-security detention unit, and paramedics in green overalls, who at once began attending to Ronnie, putting a dressing on his wound. There being nothing further to keep him there, Tom gave the order to move.

But Dr Lindenbaum had one last card. “Don’t try finding Dr Robson in the Medical Register” he said over his shoulder as they took him out. “He’s not in it – never was. Dr Robson is a vet”.

Ronnie, castrated by a horse-doctor! Gelded! That surely was the ultimate irony.

The medics had finished now, and carried Ronnie out to their ambulance. I’d said that he ought to stay at the flat for a few days, out of sight. Then I said a silly thing.

“Well, we’ve saved Ronnie’s career on the films” I said breezily. “A pity we weren’t in time to save his balls”.

Roddy looked me full in the face. His brown eyes, usually so gentle, had gone as hard and sharp as flints. When he spoke, it was in a grating voice I’d never heard before. “Do you suppose” he began, and stopped. “Ricky, would you ever suppose I’d allow that little rat to reach puberty – to be able to wank – to be able to fuck girls – WHEN I CAN’T?” His voice rose to a shout; he was shaking all over.

I turned away, ashamed.

----oOo----

Simon resumes

I’m afraid I gave Roddy and Ricky a bit of an ear-bending when they returned. Partly because I’d no idea where they’d gone, and was worried sick, second to find they’d wished Ronnie Romayne on to our overstretched household. To ram the lesson home I turned Ricky out of his bedroom and made him share a bed with Roddy – they’d done that in the States with no ill-effects.

Ricky’s bedroom I gave to Ronnie. It was a hell of a responsibility having him there and at first he was difficult about it, and wanted to go back to his suite at the Hôtel du Rhône. “Listen” I said “you need complete bed-rest for at least the next five days – possibly more. No one knows you are here. I’ll tell the film company you are safe but that you’ve had an injury and mustn’t be moved.

(For some reason I can’t fathom, it never crossed my mind to ask how and why Ronnie had been castrated. After all, lots of boys get castrated for perfectly legitimate reasons – even film actors! More often than not, it’s to stop them being a nuisance with girls. It just happens!)

“Now” I said when I’d got him more-or-less settled. “We’re all going to have dinner. Do you like Italian food?”

“I don’t like Italian food! I wanna McDonalds! I wanna go back to my hotel.”

“Listen, while you’re here you’ll eat what you’re given. Of course if you really want the story to get out – for all your fans to know you’ve had your balls cut out – that’s up to you!”.

Put to him in those terms, it shut him up.

So far I hadn’t given the absentee pair the chance to get a word in edgeways, so I hadn’t connected Ronnie’s appearance in a ball-less state, with whatever shenanigans Roddy and Ricky had been getting up to all afternoon. It wasn’t until much later, while I was washing-up and clearing away the remains of pasta, that I was put right.

The door-bell rang. There stood Tom and Ollie, bearing bottles of champagne and wreathed in smiles. “Well, hello, everybody!” said Tom. “I wanted to join in the celebrations, for a job well done! No doubt they’ve told you everything, Simon? Or have they been modest about it?”

Now it was my turn to look stupid.

Tom began opening bottles and pouring out – not omitting Ronnie who declared himself well enough to have some – and it was then I heard how Ricky and Roddy had been instrumental in finding and destroying the last thread of Dr Geller’s criminal network, actually getting Tom and his men on to the scene of the crime at the very moment when an illegal act had been committed. Lindenbaum was at that moment being interrogated and “singing like a canary” as Tom put it, enabling the FBI to tie up numerous loose ends.

The champagne sank to low tide. But the evening wasn’t over yet.

Getting on for midnight, with Tom in the middle of a funny story, the doorbell rang again, in a hesitant sort of way. I told Ricky to see who it was. He was back on the instant. “Simon, it’s Louisa, from the summer school – the English girl”.

“Well, ask her in!”

“I’m so sorry” Louisa began. “You look as if you’re in the middle of something. “But I think you ought to know about this”.

I made her sit down. She had risked a lot, coming out at this time of night – the school imposed a sort of “lock-up” at eight-thirty. But Louisa insisted she had to find an all-night chemist. (When a girl pleads ‘period pains’ no one is going to argue!)

Louisa had, in fact, carried out a daring and very valuable piece of detective work. Miss Barbara had a secretary, a Miss Judson. Louisa had watched Miss Judson’s movements, and taken advantage of a few minutes when she was out of her office. There, on the desk, was a fat volume called “Appointments Book” and against tomorrow’s date – or rather, today’s – was the entry “Wedding, Mr C van Damme and “Theresa”.

It didn’t stop there. Scrunched-up in the waste bin were the remains of a gilt-edged card. It was overstamped “PROOF COPY” but the wording was “Cornelius van Damme cordially invites you to his wedding ceremony”. Lower down were details of the time and place, and in italics “Admit One”.

“Oh, so it’s Mr van Damme, is it?” said Ollie. “I wondered where and when he’d turn up next”.

“Know him, do you?” queried Tom.

Ollie snorted. “The Square Mile’s baying for him. Also the Serious Fraud office. False accounting, insider-trading, tax evasion – you name it. And he claims some sort of diplomatic immunity – I’m not sure what. But if in addition he’s got an appetite for little boys’ bottoms, that’s a new dimension altogether”.

Ricky sniggered. I reached across and clouted him. “Just leave it out, you two!” admonished Tom. Now listen, and listen good. This is what we do”.

(And what Tom said next, you can work out for yourselves when you read the next few pages!)

Simon concludes, with help from Daniel and others

Next day – or rather later that morning, because it was long gone midnight before we broke up – the action started soon after one. At that point, the first waterborne landing-party set off. None of us were in it. It comprised two of Tom’s men plus a marksman called Chuck, who had a rifle loaded with tranquilliser-darts. Their job was to take out the two “heavies” and their Rottweiler, who patrolled the grounds.

Their all-clear signal – four bleeps on my cellphone – showed they’d been successful. (The Rottweiler would never patrol anywhere again – ever – and the two men were handcuffed at the wrists and ankles, pointing different ways. If they came-to in the next hour they could only squirm round and round on their bellies).

Waterborne party No 2 consisted of Daniel and myself in the inflatable. He and I, alone, had been inside the buiding, so there was no point in including anyone else. Landing in the bushes, we made our way into the house through the laundry as before. In the kitchen, two cooks were entertaining an elderly clergyman to a cup of tea. The clergyman was dressed in a surplice and stole, and clearly was going to officiate. He waved a cheery greeting to us – so we pressed on.

In the lobby beyond, not a sound. Or was there? Yes – from behind that door. The door of that repulsive room where the wretched boy-brides were prepared for “consummation” – their anuses stretched with dildos and their bowels washed out with perfumed enemas. From behind that door came the sound of sobbing.

Entering that room, very softly, we found a terrified eleven-year-old boy. He was already dressed in the obscene finery we’d seen in the photograph album – the orange-blossom headdress, the brocade jacket and all the rest. “Hello, we’re friends!” I whispered. He stared, uncomprehending – but stopped sobbing.

“Me, Daniel” said Daniel, pointing at himself. “You?”

“Me, T – Tadeusz” stammered the little boy.

Polish!

“Well, hi, Thaddeus!” replied Daniel, grasping the Polish boy’s hand and pumping it up and down. “Glad to know ya, Thaddeus. Now, we’ve gotta change clothes, okay?”

Item by item Daniel took off Tadeusz’s bridal garments and put them on himself, the orange blossom, the jacket, the long stockings. The white satin knickers almost defeated him. They were meant to be skin-tight, and in the year since losing his balls, Daniel had put on weight round his thighs and butt. The shoes were a different matter, and Daniel had to stick to his trainers.

Stripped naked, Tadeusz looked so vulnerable – so helpless. Worst of all, below his pathetic little “doodle” a surgical dressing had been taped over his empty scrotum. The swine couldn’t even wait till he was properly healed. I bundled him into Daniel’s T-shirt and jeans – two or three sizes too big. At the far side of the room there was what appeared to be a broom-cupboard. I motioned to Tadeusz that he should hide in it – putting a finger to my lips to show he should be as quiet as possible. Tadeusz returned the gesture, with the faintest ghost of a smile. Still, it was a beginning.

My watch showed the top of the hour. I bundled Daniel into the passageway, just in time. The elderly clergyman emerged from the kitchen, and with a “Ah, there you are, sonny! Come along!” took Daniel by the hand………….

Meanwhile, what of the shore party?

Well, you’ll have noticed there’s no mention of Ricky and Roddy. We all felt they’d done enough the day before. Besides which, they had to look after their “patient”, not least to ensure he didn’t bunk off.

It was Tom who organised the shore party. From twelve onwards, agents and plain-clothes police had been arriving in twos and threes and melting into the landscape. More conspicuous were five charmingly-dressed young ladies in summer frocks and hats to match, who arrived very shortly before two, All showed gilt-edged invitation cards to Miss Judson, on the door, who beamed at them and showed them to their seats.

At the top of the hour two more people entered the “marriage room”. Miss Barbara lowered her bulk into her official seat. In the centre of the front row, Cornelius van Damme took his. He was dressed from head to toe in white, and even carried a white Stetson. He looked round the room with a smug expression on his fat face. Miss Barbara pressed a button on the arm of her chair, and a CD player began belting out “Here Comes the Bride”. We were off!

In came the elderly clergyman, leading Daniel, whom he directed to the empty chair beside van Damme’s – the seat reserved for the “bride”. The music stopped and the parson launched straight in. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered…….”

It was now that van Damme took his first good look at Daniel. His smug expression gave way to doubt, then to incredulity. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, Miss Barbara! This isn’t the boy I selected!”

Ollie was on her feet immediately, every inch the DCI despite the summer dress and picture hat. “Everyone stay where they are! she ordered. Van Damme turned around. “I said, nobody move!” said Ollie again.

Van Damme ignored her. He glared across at Miss Barbara. “You must remember!

We chose him together. Little Polish boy- not this guy. You said you could get him “done” in time for today, right?”

Miss Barbara looked at him, then at Ollie, then round the room. “There must be some mistake” she faltered. “Yes, that’s it! A terrible mistake!”

The parson chimed in. “And we need to sort it out, or I don’t know what we’ll do, I’m sure!” he bleated.

“Ah, shut up, you!” snarled van Damme. “What is this place – a rip-off joint? You don’t mess with me, old sister. I’m going to durn well get what I came for – my little Polish boy with the nice ass!”.

“You had better be careful what you say” butted in Ollie. “It’s all being recorded, right now.” She launched straight into the PACE caution: “Jan Cornelius van Damme, I am arresting you…..”

Purple with rage, the fat man interrupted “Who the fucking hell are you?”

“DCI Parry, Metropolitan Police” replied Ollie. “These are, Detective Sergeant Jones, Detective Constable McKenzie, Detective Constable…….”

“You have no jurisdiction over me!” shouted van Damme. “I have diplomatic immunity! I demand my rights! You have no authority!”

“But we have” said a deep American voice. Tom and two colleagues now entered the room for the first time. “Agent Swearingen, FBI. These are Agent Pearson and Agent Green. Our authority runs worldwide.”

Van Damme looked around, as if to bolt, but saw that Tom’s men blocked every door. He subsided into his chair, a gross, deflated old man. “We’ll start again, from where my friend Detective Parry was so rudely interrupted. Jan Cornelius van Damme, you are charged that you, at Geneva, did attempt to procure the commission of an act of gross indecency with Tadeusz Bromislavsky, a male person and a minor. You are also charged that you, at London, England, on various dates, did………..”

Tom had done his homework and was word-perfect. Handcuffed to two uniformed policemen van Damme allowed himself to be led out to the waiting police cars. Miss Barbara, still muttering “a terrible mistake” had been taken out already – so had the vicar, on a charge of officiating at a sham wedding.

As van Damme left, Daniel, who had not said or done anything till now, stood up, pointed his buttocks towards van Damme’s retreating form, and relieved himself of a prolonged and very loud fart. As an expression of contempt, it couldn’t have been bettered!

Tom now took his leave. “Sorry, folks, I’ll have to go” he said. “Got a lot to do – see you around”. Too right he had. His men, combing the building from the attics to the cellars, had found, in addition to little Tadeusz, two Turkish boys, one Rumanian, an Armenian and a Croatian. All these had to be returned to their friends and families, ball-less but alive. Tracing Miss Barbara’s earlier victims would be more difficult.

Girls were now drifting back towards the building, from their enforced outing while the “wedding” was in progress. They were met on the doorstep by Ollie and her team mates, who informed them, one, that school had broken up; two, that food awaited them in Miss Barbara’s private office. (It did. A wedding breakfast, with champagne, lobster and other goodies, had been set out there, and someone had to eat it!)

“I need to find my own clothes” said Daniel through a mouthful of food. “These knickers are cutting into my ass!” He retreated into the back regions. Two of the summer-school girls, clutching glasses of champagne, came over. “What happens now?” asked Cecile.

“What happens now” I said “that the moment I can get away from here, I’m going to pack my things and go home!”

Epilogue: from a number of sources but mainly Melanie and Daniel

Ronnie Romayne stayed at the Simon Scott Centre for about two weeks – Simon gave me orders to mother him. So every day I sponged his little “parts”, applied betnovate gel to the stitching, and changed his dressings, until he was properly healed. Someone had to do it. His minders who had done such a poor job in looking after him in Geneva, were sent on indefinite leave.

Eventually Ronnie returned to the film industry. No one got to learn his secret – that he was no longer a boy. Critics who compared Ronnie’s later films with his early ones commented on how much his acting had improved. Any of us could have explained why. Like a young horse after being gelded, Ronnie’s castration had concentrated his mind on his job – instead of inventing new ways of tormenting everyone with whom he came in contact.

Like many neutered boys, the change in his hormones meant that Ronnie even developed a singing voice of his own – good enough for him not to need voiceovers any more. The ridiculous movie about a boy and his dog finally resumed after a break of many months, without Roddy. “Which suits me down to the ground” as he said. (The movie bombed by the way, as we’d all predicted.)

Ronnie got as much fan-mail as before. The senders – mostly teenage girls – wrote in explicit terms about what they wanted Ronnie to do to them – unaware that these days his penis was incapable even of parting their fanny-lips. He’d been quick to take up my suggestion that he’d find girls’ knickers more comfortable now that he had no scrotum, and to practise sitting down to wee.

Meanwhile, what about Daniel, whom we’d had to leave behind while his tourist-visa came through? He can speak for himself!

The Eaux-Vives flat being closed, I returned to live at the Red Cross building, as before. My visa came through the post four days after Simon and the rest of the party had left. I immediately booked myself on to a flight for Britain. Next door, the girls who had been attending the summer school left one by one.

On the morning of my departure I took my case down to the front entrance, then, having nothing to do, walked as far as the road. Someone else had the same idea – someone who looked a bit familiar. Louisa!

She was dressed for travelling, in a blouse, a tartan mini-skirt and (though it wasn’t obvious) stay-up stockings. She recognised me, waved and came over. “Hello, are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah. On the 2.30 flight to London Gatwick. BA 7983”.

“Really? Just fancy – I’m on that flight too. We’ll be able to travel together – maybe sit together”.

“That’d be great!”

“Where are you going, when you get back to Britain?

“Home to Cheam. And you?”

“A place in West Sussex. Ricky’s Grandpa lives there. He’s a retired Judge and is trying to sort out US Immigration for me. I’ve no passport or proper documents, you see”.

“Ricky’s a real nice boy”.

“Yeah, I like him a lot”.

And for the moment, that was all we could think to say. Finally Louisa broke the silence.

“It’s so boring, waiting around, isn’t it?” said Louisa with a sigh. “And, listen, I’m feeling horny! What do you say we go upstairs and fool around?”

Fear and embarrassment swept over me in an instant! “But…..I can’t!” I stammered. “Not all the way! I can’t…. get it up, or put it in!”

“I know you can’t, silly boy”. She gave him me a quick kiss. “Do you suppose I’d be thinking of pulling my pants down and opening my legs for you, if you could?”

“I suppose not” I replied weakly.

“Boys with balls are such a nuisance” observed Louisa. “Always wanting to have sex. Boys like you are much, much nicer! Come on now”. She took my hand and firmly led me into the house and up to the deserted bedroom, where she flipped up her mini-skirt and pulled down the white knickers she always wore. “Take your jeans and pants off” she ordered. I obeyed at once. Louisa’s face broadened into a smile at the sight of my gelded genitals.

“Oh, Daniel, it’s sweet!” she murmured, eyeing my penis – a penis that could never penetrate her or start a baby. Her fingertips gently caressed the silken skin, explored the ridge between my thighs that was all that remained of my ball-sac. With a deft movement she rolled back my foreskin uncovering the pink acorn beneath.

“I’m going to kiss it!” she said. “Only don’t pee in my mouth”. She knelt down, sucked and nuzzled my penis for a while, then got on to the bed, opening her legs wide and forcing my head between her thighs.

“It’s very nice!” I ventured timidly, my eyes on her love-mound and wet lips. (Like all modern girls Louisa kept her sex shaved clean). “Kiss it!” came her fierce whisper in response. I didn’t disappoint her, feeling with my tongue for the magical clitoris In my own “private area” I was experiencing feelings that I’d believed had been taken from me forever when my balls were taken out.

Nothing had prepared Louisa for the speed with which I made her come, nor for the intensity of the orgasm that ripped through her. Inwardly she probably was asking “Hey – where did he learn to do that?” But as the climax ebbed and died away, all she could find to say was “God, I needed that!” My penis was still tingling, and I said nothing.

We both stood up, and briefly Louisa let me hold her in my arms. As I drew her closer to me, she took my limp penis and rubbed it between her wet love-lips. We exchanged a quick kiss and let go of each other. Louisa wiped herself dry with a tissue and pulled her knickers up, while I got dressed. Then, hand in hand, we walked out to the waiting taxi.

We were still holding hands when, some hours later, our flight touched down at Gatwick.

FINIS

RODDY EVENS THE SCORE

Words had never been his strong suit. At the scene that opened up before him the fair-haired boy stood spellbound, entranced, speechless.

In all of his short life he had never imagined, still less seen, a more beautiful garden. There were lush green lawns, flowerbeds full of exotic blooms, every variety of shrub and tree in full bloom. There were little pools and rills of sparkling water. In the trees and across the grass, squirrels with bushy tails chased one another.

As he watched, strange uncontrollable feelings came over him as they sometimes did. He reached up inside the leg of his skimpy shorts, his fingers seeking the space at the top of his thighs. He began to fondle the little fold of skin that had once been his scrotum, and his slender penis, hanging limp in spite of the urges that were driving him frantic.

Daniel was a boy-eunuch.

There are countless stories about boys who give graphic accounts of how they were castrated. But Daniel’s operation was no fiction. Drugged beforehand, he knew nothing of how he was being pruned between his thighs to satisfy the conventions of that part of the Arab world: deprived of the two little blobs of flesh that made him a boy. Returning to consciousness he found himself as he would always be: a sexual ‘nothing’, neither boy nor girl, with a tiny limp penis and no balls or scrotum. But his longings remained, stronger than before, now that they were incapable of ever being satisfied.

That was all in the past. Of his journey halfway across the world, less than a month ago, he was scarcely any clearer. It had been an odyssey of boats, planes, trains and automobiles, with many stops, many changes -–some of only a few minutes. Early on in this saga Daniel had been examined by a doctor, who had made him strip off. Without saying a word the doctor had noted that the boy’s private area lacked the usual twin underpinnings, and he wrote “Bilateral orchiectomy” as if he encountered castrated boys every day of the week. Further on in his notes, and after shining his lamp between Daniel’s parted buttocks he had written “Some evidence of anal trauma”.

The final stage of Daniel’s journey had been by a scheduled Gulf Air flight to Geneva International, and then by car to the lakeside villa where, for the time being, he would remain. Arriving, he had faced a panel of men and women, officials of the Red Cross organisation, who had bombarded him with questions – how he came to be on the Arabian Gulf, how and why had he been neutered. Above all, if Daniel was – as he claimed to be – a US citizen, who and where were his parents, or any other relatives who could vouch for him? To all of this Daniel gave the best answers he could.

Days passed. Daniel was not to know that his papers were in the “pending” tray of a junior official of the US Immigration Agency, who, finding that Daniel’s case actually required her to get off her butt and make some enquiries, made sure that she had something better to do each day. Daniel’s file remained “pending”. Meanwhile, what of Daniel himself? He had a comfortable bed to sleep in; meals were regular, the food excellent. Most important, there was nothing he was going to be made to do – or forbidden to do. He had no complaints – not at first.

The villa stood in its own grounds which were park-like: lawns with winding paths and big shady trees. In all of this, Daniel was free to roam around. He was equally free to go off by himself into the city, which was unlike any other he knew – though in that regard his experience of other places was limited. Solitude was no problem- he was by nature a loner through and through.

At first the city enticed him: the lake, blue and sparkling in the sunshine, the white and gold paddle-steamers that ploughed their majestic way to the other lakeside towns, the backdrop of mountains, that stupendous, iconic fountain, the “Jet d’eau” - that dominated the western end of the lake. Away from the lakeside the chic cafés, the ultra-smart shops.

It was while pressing his nose against the plate-glass window of one of these – a window full of gold Rolexes – that Daniel saw a reflection that chilled his blood. From the entrance of a big hotel opposite emerged a group of men – in Arab costume. Daniel had seen all of the Arab world that he wanted to. Already they had taken from him the things that boys treasure above all else. What might they do if they recaptured him? Daniel had heard stories about limbs lopped off, eyes put out with hot irons….

Quick as a flash Daniel dived into the shop next door: a bizarre choice for a thirteen-year-old boy: the window was full of mannequins displaying lingerie, red satin thongs, bras, garter-belts. Others showed off fishnet panti-hose or hold-ups.The saleswoman looked at Daniel enquiringly. Thirteen-year-old boys were not her usual customers! Opposite, the Arabs boarded a black limousine with darkened windows and were driven away. Daniel nodded to the woman and slipped out.

It was Daniel’s first and last venture into the city on his own. From then on he kept to the villa and its grounds. And at night he slept with his windows closed and his door locked.

It was not only his sexual longings that had survived Daniel’s operation. Losing his testicles had not impaired his inquisitiveness. The villa garden was a maze of winding paths, arbours, gazebos; driven by curiosity Daniel explored them all. And then there was the lakeside itself.

Standing as it did on a little promontory, Daniel’s new world was bounded on two sides by water. On the third side and separating Daniel from his neighbours – whoever they might be – was a ten-foot-high stone wall. All he could see over the top of this were the tops of some trees. More frustratingly there were times when he could hear young voices.

To Daniel, as a town-bred boy, a wall was not a barrier but a challenge: something to be climbed over, burrowed under or got through in some way. Over a period of days he explored the possibilities. On the landward side the wall extended as far as the road: nothing to be done there. At the other end it was actually built out into the lake for some yards. Daniel searched on – and half hidden by the ivy that cloaked the wall for most of its height, he found a rusty iron door.

The lock was rusted into shards – no problem for determined fingers. The old door groaned on its quoins but yielded. Very, very cautiously Daniel edged through.

“Oh, wow!” he said at last, under his breath. As we saw at the beginning, words were never his strong suit.

One of the first principles of Daniel’s streetcraft was “See, but don’t be seen”. The archway where he stood was too conspicuous. Cautiously peering out, he saw a tool-shed or summerhouse not five yards away. It had latticework in place of windows and this he made his observation post.

He hadn’t been there above two minutes when the silence was broken by high-pitched shouting and laughter, and a crowd of ten or a dozen pretty children burst upon the scene. They seemed to be making straight for the water’s edge. Craning his neck Daniel could now see that a bathing-place had been made, separated from the lake only by a barrier. Gathering round this place the children at once began taking all their clothes off.

Daniel eagerly watched for an exhibition of mixed-sex skinny-dipping, maybe of snogging also. The nearest girl was only a few feet from where he was hiding. Her boobs, he could tell, were just starting to come, and before she turned away to jump into the water, he got a glimpse of the dimpled, downward-curving vee of her love-mound. Then he saw the boys….

Two of them were having great fun, seeing who could push the other into the water. And now Daniel could see that there was no possibility – none whatever – of any juvenile sex-play. Unless the boys had been born ball-less, then they must have had their testicles taken out. They had tiny hairless penises and nothing else.

But before Daniel could speculate further, he noticed something else. Not far away and coming along the path, were two large men in suits, wearing dark glasses. Each was leading, on a chain, a large dog. Daniel knew them for Rottweilers. Nearer and nearer they came. Below the window was a sort of cupboard or locker; Daniel tried to force himself into it. The heavy footsteps were passing close enough for Daniel to hear the panting of the dogs……

They passed by.

But what to do next? The doorway through which he’d come was in full view of the bathing place. Only one thing for it. Crouching down below the level of the bushes Daniel made for the lakeside – and slipped into the water.

He was a good swimmer and kept his face low. If only he wasn’t so fair-haired. Maybe his blond head might look like floating weed to a casual observer. His best plan was to swim underwater for a few strokes, round the end of the wall and out of sight. Then – disaster. His hands met something, slimy and overgrown, but unyielding. A stout underwater barrier of wire mesh.

Spluttering, he surfaced and looked distractedly around him. Miraculously the children in the pool were all too involved with some game, and the dog handlers were facing the other way. But someone else had spotted him. Someone who had suddenly come into view in a black rubber inflatable with an outboard motor. Someone who now spoke to him, quietly but audibly:

“Swim across it in the centre. It’s lower there”. The speaker had a pleasant, light voice. (The accent Daniel had learned in the last few weeks to recognise as British.) He sounded to be young.

Daniel did as he was told, passing easily across the sagging net. He swam up to the inflatable. “Now” said his rescuer “catch hold of this rope and hang on tight, while I get us to hell out of here!” He opened the throttle and roared off, Daniel gasping and choking in the wash.

Out of sight of the swimmers and their “minders” Daniel’s rescuer – or whatever he was – cut the engine. Strong hands grasped Daniel’s wrists, pulling him over the gunwale. Lake-water filled Daniel’s ears but through the buzzing, the pleasant voice spoke again. “Careful or you’ll have us both in the drink. There now! Welcome aboard!”

Daniel lay in the bottom of the inflatable on his tummy, water pouring from his sodden clothes. Water-weed streaked his face and arms. Looking up, he saw the face of his rescuer for the first time. A round, very good-natured face, very young-looking. Light brown hair, very tidy and neat. All in all, what Daniel would have called an “Ivy League” look.

“The first thing to do is to get you dry” said this individual. Daniel found a hand clasping his own. “My name’s Scott, by the way. Call me Simon”.

Narrative continued by Simon

I’d meant to spend the afternoon fishing. That spot over on the far side of the lake under the trees, with a big garden behind it, looked ideal for zander (pike-perch to you!) and zander are very nice grilled and served with herbs and cheese sauce. But having boated across there I felt lazy, content to just pootle about. Besides, I was watching something else.

In the third year at school we’d had to learn a boring poem about a silly girl who got cut off by the tide in the River Dee. There was the line “O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?” Well, not far from the bank there was a something which was trying to disguise itself as a clump of straw. It was the right colour for straw but was certainly hair, and from the way it was progressing, in quick erratic jerks, the hair belonged to a swimmer who was trying to escape from someone – or some thing, keeping his, or her, face down….

I looked beyond the swimmer towards the garden. In the foreground a bunch of kids were playing around in a swimming pool. No one else – oh yes there was. Two big blokes with guard dogs. Not looking this way, though. Good.

The swimmer was getting caught up on a chickenwire barrier, no doubt designed to stop people like me landing and having picnics. The centre of this, I could see, had been broken down – no doubt by people like me landing and having picnics. Keeping my voice down I managed to guide whoever-it-was towards the gap. As he-or-she safely negotiated this and came towards me, I saw a glimpse of a pale frightened face. Definitely a boy.

I cautiously edged the boat in between him and the shore. The kids in the pool were no danger by themselves, but I didn’t want them to start screeching and attract the attention of the two heavies. The boy was quite close now. The boat had loops of rope all round it, like a big lifebuoy. I told him loop his arms through the rope and hang on tight – VERY tight. I looked towards the garden one more time. The two big men were now looking my way, so I gave them a cheery wave, which they didn’t acknowledge, and then I opened the throttle. The little inflatable shot away in a flurry of spray.

Once I was out of sight of the garden I cut the engine. My protégé was still hanging on – just. I took his hands. “Soon- have you- aboard” I panted as I eased him over the gunwale. The inflatable was unsinkable, but that’s not to say it couldn’t get swamped. Still, I managed it in the end. A slim boy with very blond hair, streaked with waterweed – and a very beautiful face.

“First priority is to get you dry!” I said, unnecessarily, because my new passenger closely resembled a drowned rat. Besides which, I’d nothing to dry him with. I opened the throttle again and pointed the inflatable towards the “rade”. With nothing to do but keep in a straight line I took a good look at the blond boy.

He was sitting sprawled on the bottom of the boat, eyeing me, trying to work out who I was and what I was. Time to make myself known. “My name’s Scott” I said, taking his wet cold hand in mine. “Call me Simon. What’s yours?”

“Daniel”.

“Just Daniel?”

“Yeah. Just that”.

I didn’t press him. Presently he raised his knees, with his legs open, giving me a full view between his thighs. Under his soaking wet shorts he’d not been wearing any underpants. More than that, he lacked two of the bits he’d been born with. All he had left was a very small, very limp penis, rendered smaller still by the cold water. Who was he, this good-looking – indeed very good-looking neutered boy, who sounded vaguely American?

Behind Geneva’s ultra-respectable façade all kinds of things are possible. He might have been some rich pervert’s bum-boy, escaping from a life of domination. Any boy who drifted into that profession could expect to have his balls out before he hit puberty, to keep him smooth and pretty.

Or more likely he might have been raised in an orphanage, where all the best-looking boys – the sort that girls on the edge of puberty drool over- get to lose their balls at a young age, to prevent them being overcome by temptation if a girl flashed her knickers. The less good-looking ones may stay intact for a tad longer.

Who was he? The answer would have to wait. After all, boys get castrated for all sorts of reasons- take me for example! My mind went back six years to that encounter with my guardian’s eldest girl, Sue, on the landing of her home. The horrible girl had begun teasing me. She looked me up and down, eyeing my schoolboy erection, and said “You’re growing up fast!”. She was being sarcastic of course, aged eleven I had all of two inches when hard!

All she had on was a pair of black nylon briefs – very small and pulled right up tight to show off her fanny.“You can rub that against my pants but only the back way” she’d said, getting down on doggie-fashion and sticking her bum out. I began rubbing the knob of my cock between her bum-cheeks till it felt it was going to burst. Front way or back way, I was desperate to get it inside her. I began picking at the stitching of her pants, trying to make a hole……

Oh, I’d been horny then, all day and every day. So, just as if I’d been a randy colt, the verdict had been to get me neutered right away to prevent me “getting it up”. How it was done and what happened afterwards you know (or if you don’t, read “Simon tells it like it was).

Before I could reminisce any more, we reached the moorings and I was edging the inflatable in among the hundreds of other boats. I tied-up, snapped the padlock, immobilised the engine, and, followed by a still-dripping Daniel, led the way to where my Vespa was parked.

Telling him for the second time that day to hold on tight, I gunned the motor and we sped off to the Place des Eaux-Vives and the apartment which for the next few weeks was “home” to myself, Ricky and Roddy. You didn’t know? No, of course you don’t, so I’ll fill you in.

Roddy was filming. Pinewood Studios were doing a musical blockbuster about a kid and his bloody dog, allegedly in North Yorkshire. The child star, well-known to movie-goers, called Ronnie Romayne, couldn’t sing a note, so Roddy had been released by his company to do voiceovers whenever the kid was supposed to be singing. Roddy’s name would be in small print somewhere in the credits. Ronnie Romayne’s would fill an entire screen.

Pinewood had proposed that Roddy should stay at the 5-star Hôtel du Rhône, to which idea he’d given a very dusty answer. It was at that point I’d stepped in and hired the apartment. Roddy had flown out with the film crew and I’d driven down in the Aston Martin taking Ricky along for company. “And Melanie?” you ask. Melanie has a life of her own and had gone pony-trekking with friends.

“Here’s where we are” I said to Daniel as I unlocked the apartment door. “That noise you can hear (actually, rather beautiful singing) “is my friend Ricky Silva. Those wet things of yours will have to go through the wash, you can’t just dry them off or you’ll smell. The lake’s clean but not that clean”. I opened the door leading from the lounge to the bedrooms and bathroom, and called “Hi, Ricky! RICKY!!”. The singing stopped.

“I’m sending Daniel in to you. He’s been in the lake. Show him how the shower works and lend him some dry things of yours. He's about your size”.

“Okay” came Ricky’s voice in reply. “I’m just going to take a shower myself”.

“Through there” I said to Daniel, shoving him through the door. I waited for a while, hearing snatches of conversation.

“Oh hi! I’m Ricky. You Daniel? Glad to know you, Daniel”.

(Suspiciously)“Hi. You British?”

“No, American.”

(In a more friendly tone) “Say, is that so?” Then, in an altogether changed voice “But, say, you’re….you’ve been….”

I closed the door, unable to repress a smile of relief. Presently I heard water running, and then I heard shouting, splashing – and happy laughter!

Some time later they both emerged, Daniel in a spare pair of Ricky’s Giorgio Armani jeans and matching T-shirt. He was wearing a big grin and had his arm round Ricky’s shoulders. “Hey, Simon, we’re buddies!” he shouted, as he came into the room.

“Yeah, we’ve a lot in common” Ricky agreed.

Obviously it had taken Daniel no time at all to see that Ricky lacked a boy’s usual set of parts, and that he and Ricky were two of a kind. I hoped – and later found out I was right – that Ricky might be able to draw Daniel out of his shell – who he was, where he came from. Daniel’s story might even resemble Ricky’s own, I thought, though in this I was a bit wide of the mark.

(At the time he was “done” Ricky had been very naïve: he knew there was some sort of connection between balls and babies but couldn’t have explained what it was. His innocence made it easy for the perverted doctor into whose clutches Ricky had fallen, to convince him that he had to be neutered as a legal necessity.

He’d had it done then and there, under local anaesthetic, and had actually watched his testicles being shelled out of his scrotum, his spermatic cords snipped through, and his erectile nerves zapped).

“Daniel’s a hero” said Ricky admiringly. But before we could hear about his heroism there came the slam of a taxi door outside, and then the apartment front door burst open and Roddy crashed through it, white-faced. He flung himself down on the sofa.

“God!” was all he would say at first. “God!” He was shaking with rage. I went to the drinks trolley and fixed him a Harvey Wallbanger – Roddy’s drink of the moment – and pressed it into his hand. Roddy drank it off just as if it had been natural orange juice.

“This movie’s going to bomb, Simon” Roddy said, when he’d recovered speech. (He still hadn’t actually said Hello, or asked who our guest was). “I’ll tell you that for a start”.

I waited.

“Everything that could go wrong with it, has. For starters, you know it’s supposed to be set in North Yorkshire. The screenplay writer seems to have thought “The north of Britain, say, isn’t that all mountains?” So we’re filming on Mount Salève, on bare rock and scree. Well, you know what it’s really like up there, around Fountains, or around Richmond. Green hills, farming country”.

I nodded. Roddy was absolutely right. Mount Salève was absolutely wrong.

“And then there’s that – that boy! That-little-SHIT!” He spat the word out.

“I take it you’re referring to Angelic Ronnie Romayne”. (This was how reviewers usually described the child-star).

“Angelic my ass. Listen: I’m surprised his dialect coach hasn’t committed suicide. You should just hear the little creep. North Yorkshire indeed! Anyone would think, from the way he speaks his lines, that North Yorkshire was the country around Dudley. His Yorkshire accent is unrelieved West Midlands. But that’s not the worst of it”.

I paused again. Roddy was clearly building up to something.

“Do you know what he called me? Do-you-know what he called me? “That extra, who does the singing stuff”. That extra! Me! Here, give me a refill”.

Roddy’s indignation was understandable. When Ronnie Romayne was still in junior school, Roddy already had a serious music career opening up before him. And he was already a castrato.

I mixed Roddy’s refill. “Before you drink this, Roddy, say hello to Daniel. Earlier today I fished him out of the lake where he’d ben taking an impromptu swimming lesson. Since then, he and Ricky have been swapping notes. Isn’t that so, Daniel?

But Daniel was blushing scarlet and it was left to Ricky to begin the story that he’d heard from Daniel while they were both under the shower.

Daniel came from a city in the Middle West of the USA. A streetwise kid and a loner by nature, he had been snatched off the street and airlifted halfway across the world to the sheikhdom of El *******, a tiny independent sovereign state usually described in the papers as “a pimple on the backside of Saudi Arabia”.

His captors had marked him out long before, feeling that he would be ideal as the personal attendant for the ruler’s daughter. The girl was well into puberty. Conventions demanded that only eunuchs might attend the Princess, and so Daniel was castrated on arrival.

Once he’d got over the shock and distress of his operation (for what boy isn’t upset when he loses his balls?) Daniel’s greatest problem was boredom. And indirectly it was boredom which led to his rescue, a little more than a year later.

By now Daniel had recovered from his bashfulness and was able to tell us how that particular night differed from the three-hundred-and-odd nights preceding.

“I’d been tidying up, like I always did. I had to collect all the empty drinking-cups the girls had left, and wash them up. Then I had to gather up all the fruit peelings – usually I just threw them from the terrace into the sea. Last of all I just used to switch the lights off, before going to the Princess and see if there was anything she wanted”.

(More often than not the Princess wanted oral sex!)

“Then I saw this switch, outside on the terrace wall. I’d never taken any notice of it before, so I wanted to see what it did. It turned a big light on, high up on the wall. I flicked it on and off a time or two, then left it, and went in to the Princess for a few minutes…..”

(Five miles out at sea, the look-out man on a US Navy frigate had seen the flashing light and called his officer. They decided it might be a Mayday signal. In the few minutes that Daniel took to bring the Princess to orgasm, his head cushioned between her thighs, a patrol was being organised on board the frigate.)

“Then I just went to bed” Daniel continued. “But I’d only been in bed a short time when I heard firing from outside, then an explosion”.

The explosion was caused by the naval landing-party blowing the palace door in. The sheikhdom of El ********* wasn’t allied with NATO, or indeed any other alliance ofstates, so the USMC operated by the principle “Anything Goes”.

“I jumped out of bed, and, I don’t know why, exactly, but I put on the clothes I’d been allowed to keep when they captured me. I heard heavy boots outside and when I opened my door I ran straight into a bunch of guys in combat fatigues and with assault rifles. One of them said “Who’s this little guy?” and I said “Hey, fellas, I’m American!” . Then the officer, or whatever he was, said “Pass him along, you guys” and I was passed from one bunch of guys to another and found myself down on the beach being bundled into an assault boat”.

A while later, Daniel was airlifted by helicopter to a larger vessel – some kind of supply ship. Looking down, he could see that one wing of the palace was on fire, and he wondered, idly, whether the Princess was safe. On the supply ship he was examined by a doctor. This man noted that Daniel’s only wounds – those between his legs- had healed long before.

It was the James Bond-type adventures that had so impressed Ricky. For my part, Daniel’s heroism was shown by the way he’d survived for a year in that place, as a gelded sex-slave, without hope of release – and despite everything, not losing his mind.

Daniel reached the end of the story and this seemed a natural break. “Navy Club Bar then, everybody?” I asked. Daniel looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, Daniel, it’s not full of big hairy sailormen. It’s a café in the Old Town where we sometimes go when we can’t be bothered to cook anything.”

So that was decided on. As I went for my car keys I heard Roddy say something to Daniel, very quietly. “Not only Ricky. Me too. And Simon”. And Daniel’s awestruck reply “All of you? Oh wow”.

I smiled inwardly. This was going to be a lot easier, now Daniel knew we were all four of a kind! I bundled everybody into the Aston and took off for the Old Town, finding on arrival at the Navy Club that they’d kept my usual table reserved.

The Navy Club’s pasta was legendary so I ordered that for everybody. Daniel took a cautious forkful before deciding he liked it. I also introduced him to the local white wine, ordered by the carafe with a faint sparkle. Soon he was drinking it like a connoisseur.

“Tell me about that place” I asked him, once the other two were preoccupied with eating and drinking. “The place where I fished you out of the lake. There were girls, you said”.

“Yeah, there were girls alright” replied Daniel through a mouthful of ravioli. “I used to see them every day from my window in the Red Cross place. “It wasn’t the girls that made the place scary. It was the boys”.

“Boys?”

“Yeah. I’d never seen any boys until that day – the day you pulled me out of the water. The first thing I saw was that they were all- they were all – like me, and you….and Ricky and Roddy”. (In other words neutered).

I nodded. “How many boys, Daniel? Two or three?” (Two or three boys to attend the girls seemed a reasonable guess).

“Two or three? You gotta be kidding, Simon. No, far more. Five certainly, perhaps six. And this is the thing, Simon. I hadn’t seen a sign of any boys in a month. Not since I arrived. Not till they appeared out of nowhere and went swimming”.

A houseful of neutered boys, kept in total seclusion – for what? A brothel of neutered boys? And if it came to brothels, what were the girls doing in that scenario?

It all sounded very scary, not to say unhealthy. Accordingly, much later, back at the flat, the four of us went into a huddle. It was midnight before we agreed on the outline of a plan.

Ricky continues

Simon’s plan was to waylay a group of two or three girls and induce them to tell us about the villa and what went on there. The gamble was that we should pick the wrong girls, or try it in the wrong place, and they would scream the place down. It was a risk we’d have to take. Somehow it had to appear casual. But how?

Ten o’clock next morning found us all in the leafy avenue, not far from the villa entrance-gates, with the Aston parked a short distance away, waiting our chance. It wasn’t long in coming.

Three girls came out, at around five-past. One was small and dark-featured- she looked Middle Eastern. The second was rather taller and less dark, and rather beautiful: she might have been Southern Italian or Greek. The third was a typical English girl, who was like a London sparrow compared with her exotic companions. I wondered if she was the kind of girl who would allow a boy to put his penis up her vagina – just once so that she could say she’d “done it”. I decided she wasn’t.

Presently a taxi came along and the girls got in – a cue for us to pile into the Aston. Very cautiously Simon followed. The taxi drove into the city centre and stopped at the Richemond Hotel.

“Couldn’t be better” muttered Simon.

The Richemond was the most prestigious hotel in Geneva and its coffee bar very popular with the “jeunesse dorée” of five continents. It was not, definitely not, the place to make an embarrassing scene.We followed the girls inside and saw them take a large table in a corner. Simon didn’t hesitate.

“Mind if we join you?” he asked with a winning smile. “I’m Simon Scott”.

“Good morning, Simon Scott” said the Greek-looking girl. She sounded amused rather than alarmed.

“These are my friends Ricky Silva and Daniel Moran” continued Simon. “And it’s possible you may know, if only by sight, Roddy Fisher”.

“You’re – you’re THE Roddy Fisher!” the London girl said with an intake of breath. “Oh, wow!” (I’d a sudden onset of panic that she might make Roddy a present of her knickers. Roddy had that effect on girls! But she didn’t).

“So now that we’ve made ourselves known to you” Simon forged on “won’t you tell us your names?”

“I’m Cecile” said the small dark one. “I’m from Teheran – the Christian quarter”.

“I’m Olga” said the Greek-looking one. “I’m from Limassol, in Cyprus. The free part”. (Cypriots are very sensitive about the Turkish invasion of 1974).

“I’m Louisa” said the London sparrow. “Louisa Neville. I’m from Cheam, in Surrey. Near to Sutton”.

“Now, what shall we have?” rejoined Simon, taking over. One of the waiters was already hovering. The girls all wanted fruit juices. Simon had a café corretto, Daniel went for an Americano because of the name. Roddy wanted a double espresso and I had one too. With everyone provided for, Simon began again.

“Well, what brings you all to Geneva?”

“It’s just a summer school” replied Olga, the Cypriot girl, who seemed to be the leader. “Mainly to learn the French language. But they throw in other things – how to lay a table for a dinner party, how to fold napkins to look like boats, what wines to serve with what fish. All that sort of thing”.

“Much of it a waste of time” put in the Iranian girl, Cecile “seeing that more than half of us don’t drink”.

“Who runs the course? People from the University?”

Olga laughed. “Miss Barbara runs the course, first and last. I don’t know who her assistants are. Miss Barbara! Now there’s a case!”

“Why? What’s strange about her?”

“If you saw her you’d not ask the question. Imagine a woman with a body like huge, padded armchair, rolling along on stumpy little legs like casters, but with a human head and face. She-is-enORmous!”

“I may have seen her go out of the house” said Daniel “from my bedroom window next door. A huge, waddling woman”.

“That’s her alright. She must weigh twenty stone at the least. And ugly with it – ugh”.

“She has a record, you know” added Cecile. “She used to own and run a boarding school for girls, somewhere in England. The Health and Safety people had it closed down. It seems there were cockroaches, rats – everything”.

“And so” resumed Simon “you have these classes in French language and all the rest. Do the boys join in or do they have their own classes?”

All three girls looked blank at the mention of boys. Cecile spoke at last. “We have nothing to do with the boys. We never see them during the day…”

“Except when you all go swimming together” interrupted Daniel. “Skinny-dipping, rather. This I know for a fact – I’ve seen you!”

Cecile blushed. “Yes, that’s quite true. But that’s the only time we see them – honest!

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“Well, no! They don’t seem to understand English, or even French. Olga says she thinks one or two may be Turkish, or Rumanian”.

“Didn’t you notice” Simon ploughed remorselessly on “that the boys had been neutered – that they were boy-eunuchs?”

“We could hardly avoid noticing” said Olga.

“Usual, is it – where you come from, neutering boys?”

“In Cyprus, never!” said Olga firmly.

“How about you, Cecile? Is it usual in Iran, to neuter boys?

The small dark girl shrugged. “Maybe in country districts – in tribal areas. Certainly not in the cities. But it’s something and nothing, isn’t it – for boys of that class?

Certainly we weren’t going to get a lot from these upper class little cows. Talk degenerated into polite nothings, and as soon as we’d finished our drinks and Simon had settled up, we got up to go. But the meeting hadn’t been entirely wasted.

Louisa, the English girl, had said very little. I’d thought she might have been embarrassed by the talk of boys’ balls. But as we all moved towards the exit, she plucked Simon by the sleeve, holding him back out of earshot of the other two.

“I want to help you in any way I can” she said, in a hurried, urgent voice. “I don’t think it’s right to do that to boys – not without a very good reason. My step-dad had my kid brother done, soon after he was ten. I know how it’s done - they prick a boy’s balls – a doctor does it, with a hypodermic – and they dry up, and afterwards he can’t make babies”.

“Why did thy have him done?”

The answer was the one you usually got in Britain.

“Oh, well, he was sort of moody and restless, and always got bad reports from school – lazy, disobedient, all that stuff. The child-guidance woman recommended it to my parents telling them that boys who are “done” are much more attentive in school and study harder. It’s all to do with hormone balance”. She fell silent for a moment. “That was over a year ago. It may have improved his behaviour in school, but it’s sort of knocked all the stuffing out of him. He’ll spend hours just mooning around or kicking stones along the patio”.

I recognised the symptoms. After Dr Geller had removed my balls, my system had gone into hormonal shock, and I would spend hours doing water-colour painting and arranging my stamp collection: things I’d never have done before.

Louisa paused. “But there’s more. Something that Cecile and Olga didn’t tell you. About the weddings”.

“Weddings?” This was a totally new aspect.

“Yes. Miss Barbara has a licence to hold civil weddings at the school. Whenever there is a wedding taking place we have to make ourselves scarce – leave the building. She’s most insistent that we get right away”.

“Funny, isn’t it?” You would have thought the bridal party would have wanted you to stay and watch – throw confetti and all the rest”.

There came a shout from outside. “Come on, Louisa! We want to go and look at some shops!”

“I’d better go” she said. Simon took one of his business cards from his wallet. “Anything you think we should know about – give us a call immediately – OK?”

Louisa tucked the card inside her bra and hurried off to join her friends. We’d no real reason for staying, but Daniel’s watch – a cheap Sekonda – was misbehaving after being immersed in the lake, and Simon thought he should have a reliable replacement. Between them they settled on a Patek Philippe. Then – back to the flat.

Simon resumes

The meeting with the three girls had raised more questions than it answered. Very clearly there were mysteries that could only be unravelled by getting inside the villa incognito. And I couldn’t see any way of doing that. I unburdened myself to Daniel.

Daniel looked me in the face. He shook his head, slowly, not in denial, but in incomprehension. “Gee, Simon!” he said at last. “You’re one helluva nice guy, but there’s so much you don’t know”.

The streets of an American city had been a hard training-ground. There, Daniel had learned skills I would never have guessed. He began to tell me what he felt I ought to have known.

“First thing, in any building, there’s always a way in. All you’ve got to do is find it. How do I know? Well, think! Who does the locking-up at night? The janitor. And he wants to get off home, to put his feet up, to watch TV. Something, it may be a door, it may be a window, gets forgotten – or maybe he can’t be bothered to go take a look, whether he secured it or not.

“And the next thing, you gotta get underneath the radar”.

“Radar?” I queried.

“CCTV, intruder-alarms, all that stuff. It’s difficult to fit and it’s expensive. There’s always part of a building that’s unprotected. All you gotta do is find it”.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. I shall need…..” Daniel rattled off a few items which he needed – all of them obtainable at a hardware shop. Fortunately I knew the French name for one of those was “quincaillerie” – and the Carouge district of the city had more than one. Daniel spent a happy hour rooting about till he had all he wanted – some stiff wire and some keys of different styles and sizes. Back we went to the flat.

“So, when do we go, Daniel?”

“Whenever you say, boss”.

Accordingly, 2 a,m. found us out on the lake in the inflatable, near the spot where I’d picked Daniel up. I killed the engine and we paddled the last few yards. Daniel quickly scrambled on to the grassy bank. Losing his balls had not robbed him of determination. A small inlet provided an ideal hiding place for the little boat.

“Over here!” Daniel beckoned, heading towards an area thick with bushes and small trees. “They’d never put sensors overlooking this lot. The trees would set them off whenever the wind blows”.

I trusted to his judgment. The place was as quiet as could be. Evidently the “heavies” who had so alarmed Daniel that afternoon didn’t work a night-shift.

But now, Daniel had found a door in a wall. This led into a little paved yard, and beyond this, the house. Another door faced us. Daniel tried it – it wasn’t locked. “What did I tell ya?” he grinned.

Entering, we found ourselves in what was evidently the laundry: there were washing-lines full of girls’ knickers. From here we tiptoed through a vast kitchen, where fridges whirred and hummed. Then a passageway, and at last the dim shadowy hall. A wide stairway led up into darkness. Our interest was not with the stairway, but with a solid-looking door marked “Privé – Accès Interdit”.

Daniel took the torch and squinted into the keyhole, then nodded. “Walk in the park, this” he murmured, inserting one of his keys.

The lock released with a louder click than I’d have liked, and we both froze. But the only other sound was the steady ticking of a grandfather clock and the humming of the air-conditioning. We filed in to the darkness beyond the recently-opened door, and found ourselves in another lobby.

Torchlight showed other doors opening off this. Ignoring these for the moment we concentrated on the only item of furniture – a sort of lectern with a big heavy book on it. I opened this at the first page – and found a studio photograph of a bridal couple. At least, that’s what it appeared to be at first sight. Then the resemblance to other wedding photographs ended.

The groom – if that’s what he was – was a big, fleshy, self-satisfied-looking guy in his forties. It was the second figure that was interesting. The bride was at least a foot and a half shorter than the groom. Her veil, thrown back, was secured to a little circlet of pearls on the top of her head, and this in turn was prevented from falling off by satin ribbons tied in elaborate bows and orange-blossom fashioned out of lace.

But the bride’s hair was short and dark, barbered in chunky locks, and the little face beneath all this flummery was undoubtedly male. The expression in the eyes said it all. “This is horrible, but I’ll try not to cry”.

In place of a wedding gown this boy-bride wore a bodice, jacket, top or whatever, richly decorated with white lace over satin. This was very short, ending just above his belly-button. On his feet were white satin slippers (at least they hadn’t made him wear high heels) and on his legs he wore white stockings that were kept up with a bow tied halfway up his thighs.

His one remaining garment was a pair of white satin briefs, pulled tightly up into his crotch. Had his balls been taken out? Don’t even bother to ask.

The other photographs showed other couples but were essentially the same, fat middle-aged guys partnered by traumatised, frightened, castrated children, forced through a parody of the marriage ceremony. Page after page of the same little faces, some resigned, some tearful. The book was a catalogue of perversion and depravity.

Closing the album I indicated to Daniel to try his key on the other doors. There were three of these. The first, which was unmarked, opened easily. Inside there was a toilet, a sink with two faucets, and hanging on the wall, an enema bag. On a shelf, a tube of K-Y gel, and a pink plastic dildo, large size. No marks for guessing how this room was used – for consummating the “marriages”.

The second door bore two names on brass plates: “Dr D Robson” and “Dr M Lindenbaum”. This, too, opened easily. Our torches illuminated an operating table, a glass fronted cupboard containing dressings, and a steriliser. Removing the lid of this revealed two or three scalpels and the same number of clamps. I replaced the lid. Castrating boys doesn’t require a lot of instruments.

The third and last door was marked “MARRIAGE ROOM” . Larger than any of the others, it was like a small chapel, though without any religious imagery. Two rows of chairs were provided, seating about twenty (what wedding guests would be invited?) and in the centre of the front row one huge chair with arms, doubtless for Miss Barbara, whose vast bulk wouldn’t fit into anything else.

Facing the row of chairs was a table – as if for Communion. On one side of this, facing the audience(?) was a single carved chair with a high back, and on the other, two kneelers. The only other item was another lectern, this time empty. I’d seen enough. Motioning to Daniel I whispered “I think we’re done here. Let’s lock-up and get the hell out”.

Exiting from the building by the way we’d come I weighed things up. Miss Barbara directed operations. Whenever her agents – whoever they might be – could get hold of any boys of outstanding good looks, Miss Barbara had them brought here and castrated. Meanwhile another network – possibly a website – attracted those men who find a boy’s well-rounded bottom more attractive than a pair of female thighs – however voluptuous. From time to time men and boys were paired off in a travesty of a wedding service, and the boys were then spirited out of the country, no doubt on false papers.

Retrieving the inflatable we pushed off without delay. Our journey back was rather a quiet one – apart from the buzzing of the outboard. Returning to the flat I packed Daniel off to bed – he was dropping – and poured myself a stiff whisky. Then I did some savage thinking.

I’d come across the exploitation and abuse of children in a number of forms, but this was the most pitiful and disgusting yet. Resonating through my head were the lines from Suetonius’ “Life of Nero” which every schoolboy knows and sniggers over: “He castrated the boy Sporus and actually tried to make a woman of him, dressing him in a bridal gown and veil”. But what could I do?

I even thought of getting the first flight to London in the morning and doing the rounds of all the contacts I had. Not that it would get me very far. The UK Police would say “Off our patch”. Military Intelligence would say “Outside our scope”. And if I took my troubles to Dr Holroyd he would roll his eyes heavenward and say “Do whatever you think fit, dear boy”.

Heavenward, did I say?

I’m not the least bit religious, even though the school routine compels me to attend chapel every day and three times on Sundays. But in spite of myself, I muttered “Oh God, if you’re there, and if you’re listening, give me a clue!” Then, because everyone else had gone to bed, I went there myself.

The sequel to this, next morning, should have found me hammering on the doors of the nearest monastery (if the Swiss have them) demanding instant admission to their order.

I woke to find myself alone. Roddy was, of course, filming. Ricky and Daniel were away on some ploy or other, no doubt swapping notes. As boy-eunuchs they could not fuck girls or enjoy a quiet wank or reach orgasm or even get hard. As Americans they could do anything else in the world, So they had a lot in common!

I dressed and popped round to the café on the corner for an espresso and croissant. The place was already doing a brisk business and there was only one vacant seat, at a table already occupied by two other people. One was a tall, rangy-looking man with iron-grey hair and a lived-in face – and by the strangest possible coincidence, I knew him!

“Morning, Tom!” I greeted him. “Mind if I join you?”

The guy looked nonplussed, but only for a second. Recognition was part of his job. He stuck his hand out. “Hey, Simon! Glad to see you, Simon! Ollie, this is Simon Scott! Sit down, Simon, have yourself some coffee!” He was evidently delighted to see me, for he was beaming with pleasure. His companion, whoever she might be, was giving me a huge, watermelon-sized grin of welcome, as only Caribbean girls can.

Who was this man?

Two years earlier, Dr Geller had come into our lives for what proved to be the final time. In her last desperate gamble, she had hijacked Ricky, Roddy and the whole of one of the local baseball teams. Ricky she intended to take with her to Malaysia, there to carry on where she’d left off. Roddy and all the others were destined for the Arab world, to serve as domestic eunuchs – perhaps worse. (Yes, she’d castrated the entire baseball team in anticipation of selling them).

Dr Geller’s crimes crossed many frontiers and she was well known to the FBI. Tom Swearingen - for this was he - was one of their most senior agents (his German forbears had probably been called Schweringen, but in the hands of US Immigration, anything can happen to spelling!)

Superb communication, much of it provided by Jan Raxworthy – our pasty-faced Cornish computer-wiz - had been the key to smashing Dr Geller’s organisation, but Tom had provided much-needed muscle at a vital moment.

Meanwhile the black girl was showing me a very familiar-looking warrant card – one from the Metropolitan Police. Her rank was DCI, and her name, Olivia Kenwayson-Parry. No wonder she preferred to be called Ollie.

“What brings you to Geneva, Tom?” I ventured.

“We’re guests of the Swiss Federal Police” Tom replied. “They’re running an international seminar on identity theft. The material’s interesting, but I’ve got to say, the action’s kinda slow”.

“Or you could say, bo-RING! added DCI Ollie, giving me another watermelon-sized grin. I was beginning to like Ollie; we shared the same sort of humour.

“So, I’ll ask you the same question, Simon. What brings you to these shores?”

“Roddy- you remember Roddy, Tom? Of course you do. Well, he’s filming, or rather he’s providing voiceovers because the film’s a musical and the leading child actor can’t sing a note. I’m here just housekeeping, really, and I brought Ricky for company. Remember him?”.

“Sure, I remember Ricky” replied Tom. “And Roddy’s the rather androgynous one, right?”

“Androgynous” was unfair to Roddy. Sure, I doubt there was a single drop of testosterone anywhere in Roddy’s body. But outwardly, despite Roddy’s unique good looks, reproduced on a million CD’s, no one could mistake him for anything other than a boy. At least that’s how he came across to all the silly little teenage girls who pulled their knickers off at concerts and flung them at Roddy’s feet, unaware that surgery had reduced Roddy’s boy-parts to a mere blob.

But I let it pass, and taking a deep breath, jumped straight in. “The fact is, Tom, I need help”.

“Then in that case” said Tom, beckoning to one of the waiters “I think we need more coffee”. When it arrived and we all had full cups, Tom sat back in his chair. “Okay, fella” he said. “Let’s have it” – and closed his eyes.

I “let him have it” – from fishing Daniel out of the lake, to our investigations of the previous night. Very clearly, Tom had absorbed every detail. He began slowly shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t go along with this – getting young boys fixed before they’ve ever had a chance to go with a girl. I know that in some parts of the States they have these yard parties, and boys get injected, and their sex lives are over before they’ve even gotten started. I know it’s permissible under the law, but – what the hell!”

“This – what Simon has told us – is different, though, Tom” commented Ollie. “Neutering boys is permissible under UK law also, given certain conditions – it’s certainly not a free-for-all. But the way Simon describes it, it’s child-abuse of the very worst sort. I can’t think of a similar case, and I’ve come across some bad ones”.

Tom agreed totally with Ollie and added a few other crimes to that of child-abuse.

“So, Tom, can anything be done?” I asked.

“Sure” replied Tom. “But……..”

Tom’s qualification amounted to this. The culprits – whoever they were – needed to be apprehended while actually carrying out a crime. So far the only evidence we had was circumstantial. Even the photograph album, nauseating though it was, might, in the hands of a clever lawyer, be passed off as a catalogue of pictures of children in fancy dress.

I paused, digesting this. We were not going to ride off that instant like the 7th Cavalry. But Tom was looking thoughtful. You did say ‘Lindenbaum’, did you, Simon? Because Dr Geller had a business partner of that name – perhaps more than business. Now when we had all that ruckus in West Chester, PA, we didn’t pull Dr Lindenbaum in, for the very good reason that he wasn’t there. So it’s possible he’s still at large, and involved in some way”.

(Ricky had told us all about Dr Lindenbaum. In Malaysia Dr Geller’s business was outwardly a clinic, in which she treated all kinds of conditions and maladies. This financed an orphanage, which among other things was a holding-unit for castrated boys. Dr Lindenbaum was a sort of general factotum in all these things. As a sideline, boys were provided as sex partners for perverted men, and the good doctor made all the arrangements.)

“If we could pull HIM in” Tom mused “I guess it’d be game, set and match to us”.

Tom and Ollie had to leave, to get to their seminar. But we exchanged contact numbers, and Tom gave me his firm undertaking that, if ever I called him and needed help, he’d be at my side in minutes. Ollie gave me the same assurance. We all shook hands on that.

I returned to the flat to have a think. But I’d not been there a quarter of an hour when the front door was flung open and Roddy came storming in – a thing that was getting to be a habit with him.

“No filming today?” I asked.

Roddy flung himself down into an armchair. “That – little – sod!” he muttered. His voice rose to a shout. “That – little – SOD!!”

“Have a drink, Roddy” I soothed.

“I don’t want a bloody drink!”. Roddy’s light, pleasant speaking voice was becoming shrill and angry, like that of a spoiled six-year-old who’d been told he mustn’t eat any more candy bars. I waited for him to calm down.

“Got there at eight-thirty” Roddy said at last, in a more normal voice. “Usual starting time. Sat around till nearly ten. The child-wonder still hadn’t shown. Director didn’t seem bothered. So it wasn’t till half past that Guthrie – he’s a sort of dogsbody round the studio, does all the odd jobs – rang his hotel. Do you know, no one had seen him since last evening!

“His minders had been playing poker till after twelve last evening. No one thought to make sure he was tucked up in bed. No one thought to say anything when he didn’t send for room service at breakfast time like he always does. No one said or did a sodding thing” Roddy fumed.

“When he still didn’t show – must have been getting on for eleven - they decided to shoot various scenes where he doesn’t appear. That left me sitting around like a spare part. So I decided to pack it in. The whole morning wasted. God! I think I’ll have that drink now”.

I fixed it for him and he gulped it down. Soon afterwards he went to his room. I heard the balcony window being opened. Roddy, I knew, liked to strip off all his clothes and sunbathe naked on his lounger. Perhaps the heat of the summer sun gave him a tingle in the place where his balls once were. And if the neighbours saw his bare butt, they could like it or lump it…..

It was evening before Ricky and Daniel returned. They had gone exploring and taken one of the lake steamers right down to Evian, had lunch out somewhere and all in all had a relaxing day – more than I had. I told them about my meeting with Tom Swearingen and the possibility of Dr Lindenbaum being involved. “And I’m sure you remember him from way back, Ricky” I said, artlessly.

“Well, of course I do!” replied Ricky rather crossly. “He was Dr Geller’s boyfriend among other things. He had a finger in most of the things she got up to. Especially with clients who wanted sex with a boy, like that wretched Jimmy”.

(If you want to read about Jimmy, go to “Simon and the Horrible Hotel”).

“I suppose” I said “he may actually be living here under some sort of cover. Let’s look him up. Pass me Yellow Pages”.

There was only one entry under the name Lindenbaum, and it didn’t look very promising. It was “Lindenbaum AG”, under the heading “Spedition” which translates as “Freight Forwarding”. There was an address too, but when we looked it up, it pointed to a residential area: villas in their own grounds. “Might be worth checking out” I said. “But it’s a bit late to do it now. Tomorrow will do”.

Now that was a bad decision.

Ricky continues with the next developments

In the morning we all felt lazy, and swanned around the flat. Soon after lunch Simon took Daniel out with him – something to do with Daniel’s visa for Britain – so it wasn’t till mid-afternoon that Roddy and I set off on our quest for Dr Lindenbaum. This also was a bad mistake.

There was a bus that passed near to our intended destination so we got on that. The nearer we approached the address in Yellow Pages, the less I liked it. The roads were all called “Chemin” which translates “way” - Mimosa Way, Magnolia Way – that sort of thing – and the area was full of villas set well back in big open-plan gardens. Nothing like a freight-forwarding company to be seen. Perhaps the warehouse was some place else.

I was about to give it up when Roddy froze. He pointed at something in the gutter of the road. “Look!” he almost shouted.

“It’s only a child’s toy” I said. “An old cuddly toy that a child has dropped”.

“That” said Roddy “is Jumbles. It’s supposed to be a mule. Ronnie takes it everywhere- it’s a sort of talisman. He’s even been filmed, holding it. Ricky – don’t you see? He’s just got to be here!”.

With trembling hands Roddy called Tom’s number on his cellphone. Tom replied at once and confirmed he’d be along – with reinforcements. Roddy asked him to “stand off” till he called again. “Wilco, out” came the response.

In the front of the house the shutters were closed. Trying to move silently on the creaking gravel we tiptoed round to the back. Here, screened by apricot trees, we found a windowless extension on the back of the house. It was here that we first noticed the smell. A smell of ether, disinfectants – a hospital smell.

We both at the same time saw the dome of a skylight on the flat roof. “We need to get up there, Roddy muttered. Fortunately this proved easy. At the rear of the building was a steel ladder, part of a fire-escape. Up we went. Flat on our stomachs we inched towards the skylight.

The view could not have been better. The room below was brilliantly lighted by a huge central lamp. It showed three figures. The first was a tall man, lounging against a radiator. He was good looking in a decadent sort of way, and I knew him at once. I should have done – at one time I saw him every day. Martin Lindenbaum, Dr Geller’s partner, both in bed and in all her crimes.

The second figure was a little round man, with spectacles. He appeared to be chuckling all the time. Like Lindenbaum, he wore a doctor’s white coat. He was standing by an operating table, on which lay – anaesthetised or drugged – the third figure. Everyone knew the plump babyish features of Ronnie Romayne.

He was bare from the waist down. “Not badly endowed” whispered Roddy. But not for much longer, I thought. Ronnie Romayne, child-star of stage, screen and television, was about to have his balls cut out.

Not far away I could hear a car slow down and stop. I was more concerned with what I could see below me, where the little doctor was swabbing Ronnie’s private area with surgical spirit. He now picked up a scalpel, and with a deliberate practised movement drew it across the taut shiny skin of the unconscious boy’s plump scrotum. A bright scarlet line appeared, where the blade had passed.

“Roddy?” I whispered. But Roddy’s face was set, and he gave no sign. Below us, the doctor’s rubber-gloved hands were busy. Pulling out the boy’s balls, he clamped the cords, and waited, looking at his watch

“Roddy?” Still nothing. Why was he holding back, not calling Tom?

The doctor now proceeded with castrating Ronnie, severing one of the cords and dropping the parted testicle into the waiting tray.

Snip.

Then the second.

Snip.

Roddy’s face at last relaxed. He spoke into his phone. “Right, Tom, come in please”. I just heard the reply “Roger”, followed by a splintering crash as his men broke the door down.

“Okay” said Roddy. “Let’s go see the fun”. We scrambled down off the roof and in through the shattered door, following Tom and two other agents I’d not seen before. All had handguns. “Right, nobody move!” Tom commanded.

No one did: not Lindenbaum, who had stood in a corner throughout, not the little doctor who’d done the operation, least of all the unconscious Ronnie on the operating table, blood oozing between his thighs..

“Who are you?” demanded Lindenbaum.

“Agent Swearingen, FBI” said Tom. “And you are Martin Lindenbaum, P –H –D” (dragging the word out contemptuously). “Well, well. We meet at last”.

“Then may I ask….” began the other. Tom cut him short with a snarl.

“Ah, stow it, buddy!There’ll be time for talking later. Meanwhile, save it for your lawyer”.

“Are you charging me?” asked the tall man.

“We’ll begin with “impersonating a surgeon” replied Tom. “No doubt I’ll be adding a whole lot more”.

Meanwhile the little round-faced bespectacled doctor hadn’t budged an inch despite the violent interruption. He kept chuckling to himself quietly. This got to Tom, and it showed. “What’s your problem, Mac? he demanded. “Whadda ya got to laugh about?”

Lindenbaum answered for him. “Dr Robson lost the power of speech following a stroke” he explained. “The continuous laughter is part of the condition. It’s called Neuburger’s Syndrome”.

But it didn’t deprive him of his skill in castrating boys, I thought.

More tires scrunched on the gravel outside and more people poured into the room: uniformed police who were to take Lindenbaum and Robson to a high-security detention unit, and paramedics in green overalls, who at once began attending to Ronnie, putting a dressing on his wound. There being nothing further to keep him there, Tom gave the order to move.

But Dr Lindenbaum had one last card. “Don’t try finding Dr Robson in the Medical Register” he said over his shoulder as they took him out. “He’s not in it – never was. Dr Robson is a vet”.

Ronnie, castrated by a horse-doctor! Gelded! That surely was the ultimate irony.

The medics had finished now, and carried Ronnie out to their ambulance. I’d said that he ought to stay at the flat for a few days, out of sight. Then I said a silly thing.

“Well, we’ve saved Ronnie’s career on the films” I said breezily. “A pity we weren’t in time to save his balls”.

Roddy looked me full in the face. His brown eyes, usually so gentle, had gone as hard and sharp as flints. When he spoke, it was in a grating voice I’d never heard before. “Do you suppose” he began, and stopped. “Ricky, would you ever suppose I’d allow that little rat to reach puberty – to be able to wank – to be able to fuck girls – WHEN I CAN’T?” His voice rose to a shout; he was shaking all over.

I turned away, ashamed.

----oOo----

Simon resumes

I’m afraid I gave Roddy and Ricky a bit of an ear-bending when they returned. Partly because I’d no idea where they’d gone, and was worried sick, second to find they’d wished Ronnie Romayne on to our overstretched household. To ram the lesson home I turned Ricky out of his bedroom and made him share a bed with Roddy – they’d done that in the States with no ill-effects.

Ricky’s bedroom I gave to Ronnie. It was a hell of a responsibility having him there and at first he was difficult about it, and wanted to go back to his suite at the Hôtel du Rhône. “Listen” I said “you need complete bed-rest for at least the next five days – possibly more. No one knows you are here. I’ll tell the film company you are safe but that you’ve had an injury and mustn’t be moved.

(For some reason I can’t fathom, it never crossed my mind to ask how and why Ronnie had been castrated. After all, lots of boys get castrated for perfectly legitimate reasons – even film actors! More often than not, it’s to stop them being a nuisance with girls. It just happens!)

“Now” I said when I’d got him more-or-less settled. “We’re all going to have dinner. Do you like Italian food?”

“I don’t like Italian food! I wanna McDonalds! I wanna go back to my hotel.”

“Listen, while you’re here you’ll eat what you’re given. Of course if you really want the story to get out – for all your fans to know you’ve had your balls cut out – that’s up to you!”.

Put to him in those terms, it shut him up.

So far I hadn’t given the absentee pair the chance to get a word in edgeways, so I hadn’t connected Ronnie’s appearance in a ball-less state, with whatever shenanigans Roddy and Ricky had been getting up to all afternoon. It wasn’t until much later, while I was washing-up and clearing away the remains of pasta, that I was put right.

The door-bell rang. There stood Tom and Ollie, bearing bottles of champagne and wreathed in smiles. “Well, hello, everybody!” said Tom. “I wanted to join in the celebrations, for a job well done! No doubt they’ve told you everything, Simon? Or have they been modest about it?”

Now it was my turn to look stupid.

Tom began opening bottles and pouring out – not omitting Ronnie who declared himself well enough to have some – and it was then I heard how Ricky and Roddy had been instrumental in finding and destroying the last thread of Dr Geller’s criminal network, actually getting Tom and his men on to the scene of the crime at the very moment when an illegal act had been committed. Lindenbaum was at that moment being interrogated and “singing like a canary” as Tom put it, enabling the FBI to tie up numerous loose ends.

The champagne sank to low tide. But the evening wasn’t over yet.

Getting on for midnight, with Tom in the middle of a funny story, the doorbell rang again, in a hesitant sort of way. I told Ricky to see who it was. He was back on the instant. “Simon, it’s Louisa, from the summer school – the English girl”.

“Well, ask her in!”

“I’m so sorry” Louisa began. “You look as if you’re in the middle of something. “But I think you ought to know about this”.

I made her sit down. She had risked a lot, coming out at this time of night – the school imposed a sort of “lock-up” at eight-thirty. But Louisa insisted she had to find an all-night chemist. (When a girl pleads ‘period pains’ no one is going to argue!)

Louisa had, in fact, carried out a daring and very valuable piece of detective work. Miss Barbara had a secretary, a Miss Judson. Louisa had watched Miss Judson’s movements, and taken advantage of a few minutes when she was out of her office. There, on the desk, was a fat volume called “Appointments Book” and against tomorrow’s date – or rather, today’s – was the entry “Wedding, Mr C van Damme and “Theresa”.

It didn’t stop there. Scrunched-up in the waste bin were the remains of a gilt-edged card. It was overstamped “PROOF COPY” but the wording was “Cornelius van Damme cordially invites you to his wedding ceremony”. Lower down were details of the time and place, and in italics “Admit One”.

“Oh, so it’s Mr van Damme, is it?” said Ollie. “I wondered where and when he’d turn up next”.

“Know him, do you?” queried Tom.

Ollie snorted. “The Square Mile’s baying for him. Also the Serious Fraud office. False accounting, insider-trading, tax evasion – you name it. And he claims some sort of diplomatic immunity – I’m not sure what. But if in addition he’s got an appetite for little boys’ bottoms, that’s a new dimension altogether”.

Ricky sniggered. I reached across and clouted him. “Just leave it out, you two!” admonished Tom. Now listen, and listen good. This is what we do”.

(And what Tom said next, you can work out for yourselves when you read the next few pages!)

Simon concludes, with help from Daniel and others

Next day – or rather later that morning, because it was long gone midnight before we broke up – the action started soon after one. At that point, the first waterborne landing-party set off. None of us were in it. It comprised two of Tom’s men plus a marksman called Chuck, who had a rifle loaded with tranquilliser-darts. Their job was to take out the two “heavies” and their Rottweiler, who patrolled the grounds.

Their all-clear signal – four bleeps on my cellphone – showed they’d been successful. (The Rottweiler would never patrol anywhere again – ever – and the two men were handcuffed at the wrists and ankles, pointing different ways. If they came-to in the next hour they could only squirm round and round on their bellies).

Waterborne party No 2 consisted of Daniel and myself in the inflatable. He and I, alone, had been inside the buiding, so there was no point in including anyone else. Landing in the bushes, we made our way into the house through the laundry as before. In the kitchen, two cooks were entertaining an elderly clergyman to a cup of tea. The clergyman was dressed in a surplice and stole, and clearly was going to officiate. He waved a cheery greeting to us – so we pressed on.

In the lobby beyond, not a sound. Or was there? Yes – from behind that door. The door of that repulsive room where the wretched boy-brides were prepared for “consummation” – their anuses stretched with dildos and their bowels washed out with perfumed enemas. From behind that door came the sound of sobbing.

Entering that room, very softly, we found a terrified eleven-year-old boy. He was already dressed in the obscene finery we’d seen in the photograph album – the orange-blossom headdress, the brocade jacket and all the rest. “Hello, we’re friends!” I whispered. He stared, uncomprehending – but stopped sobbing.

“Me, Daniel” said Daniel, pointing at himself. “You?”

“Me, T – Tadeusz” stammered the little boy.

Polish!

“Well, hi, Thaddeus!” replied Daniel, grasping the Polish boy’s hand and pumping it up and down. “Glad to know ya, Thaddeus. Now, we’ve gotta change clothes, okay?”

Item by item Daniel took off Tadeusz’s bridal garments and put them on himself, the orange blossom, the jacket, the long stockings. The white satin knickers almost defeated him. They were meant to be skin-tight, and in the year since losing his balls, Daniel had put on weight round his thighs and butt. The shoes were a different matter, and Daniel had to stick to his trainers.

Stripped naked, Tadeusz looked so vulnerable – so helpless. Worst of all, below his pathetic little “doodle” a surgical dressing had been taped over his empty scrotum. The swine couldn’t even wait till he was properly healed. I bundled him into Daniel’s T-shirt and jeans – two or three sizes too big. At the far side of the room there was what appeared to be a broom-cupboard. I motioned to Tadeusz that he should hide in it – putting a finger to my lips to show he should be as quiet as possible. Tadeusz returned the gesture, with the faintest ghost of a smile. Still, it was a beginning.

My watch showed the top of the hour. I bundled Daniel into the passageway, just in time. The elderly clergyman emerged from the kitchen, and with a “Ah, there you are, sonny! Come along!” took Daniel by the hand………….

Meanwhile, what of the shore party?

Well, you’ll have noticed there’s no mention of Ricky and Roddy. We all felt they’d done enough the day before. Besides which, they had to look after their “patient”, not least to ensure he didn’t bunk off.

It was Tom who organised the shore party. From twelve onwards, agents and plain-clothes police had been arriving in twos and threes and melting into the landscape. More conspicuous were five charmingly-dressed young ladies in summer frocks and hats to match, who arrived very shortly before two, All showed gilt-edged invitation cards to Miss Judson, on the door, who beamed at them and showed them to their seats.

At the top of the hour two more people entered the “marriage room”. Miss Barbara lowered her bulk into her official seat. In the centre of the front row, Cornelius van Damme took his. He was dressed from head to toe in white, and even carried a white Stetson. He looked round the room with a smug expression on his fat face. Miss Barbara pressed a button on the arm of her chair, and a CD player began belting out “Here Comes the Bride”. We were off!

In came the elderly clergyman, leading Daniel, whom he directed to the empty chair beside van Damme’s – the seat reserved for the “bride”. The music stopped and the parson launched straight in. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered…….”

It was now that van Damme took his first good look at Daniel. His smug expression gave way to doubt, then to incredulity. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, Miss Barbara! This isn’t the boy I selected!”

Ollie was on her feet immediately, every inch the DCI despite the summer dress and picture hat. “Everyone stay where they are! she ordered. Van Damme turned around. “I said, nobody move!” said Ollie again.

Van Damme ignored her. He glared across at Miss Barbara. “You must remember!

We chose him together. Little Polish boy- not this guy. You said you could get him “done” in time for today, right?”

Miss Barbara looked at him, then at Ollie, then round the room. “There must be some mistake” she faltered. “Yes, that’s it! A terrible mistake!”

The parson chimed in. “And we need to sort it out, or I don’t know what we’ll do, I’m sure!” he bleated.

“Ah, shut up, you!” snarled van Damme. “What is this place – a rip-off joint? You don’t mess with me, old sister. I’m going to durn well get what I came for – my little Polish boy with the nice ass!”.

“You had better be careful what you say” butted in Ollie. “It’s all being recorded, right now.” She launched straight into the PACE caution: “Jan Cornelius van Damme, I am arresting you…..”

Purple with rage, the fat man interrupted “Who the fucking hell are you?”

“DCI Parry, Metropolitan Police” replied Ollie. “These are, Detective Sergeant Jones, Detective Constable McKenzie, Detective Constable…….”

“You have no jurisdiction over me!” shouted van Damme. “I have diplomatic immunity! I demand my rights! You have no authority!”

“But we have” said a deep American voice. Tom and two colleagues now entered the room for the first time. “Agent Swearingen, FBI. These are Agent Pearson and Agent Green. Our authority runs worldwide.”

Van Damme looked around, as if to bolt, but saw that Tom’s men blocked every door. He subsided into his chair, a gross, deflated old man. “We’ll start again, from where my friend Detective Parry was so rudely interrupted. Jan Cornelius van Damme, you are charged that you, at Geneva, did attempt to procure the commission of an act of gross indecency with Tadeusz Bromislavsky, a male person and a minor. You are also charged that you, at London, England, on various dates, did………..”

Tom had done his homework and was word-perfect. Handcuffed to two uniformed policemen van Damme allowed himself to be led out to the waiting police cars. Miss Barbara, still muttering “a terrible mistake” had been taken out already – so had the vicar, on a charge of officiating at a sham wedding.

As van Damme left, Daniel, who had not said or done anything till now, stood up, pointed his buttocks towards van Damme’s retreating form, and relieved himself of a prolonged and very loud fart. As an expression of contempt, it couldn’t have been bettered!

Tom now took his leave. “Sorry, folks, I’ll have to go” he said. “Got a lot to do – see you around”. Too right he had. His men, combing the building from the attics to the cellars, had found, in addition to little Tadeusz, two Turkish boys, one Rumanian, an Armenian and a Croatian. All these had to be returned to their friends and families, ball-less but alive. Tracing Miss Barbara’s earlier victims would be more difficult.

Girls were now drifting back towards the building, from their enforced outing while the “wedding” was in progress. They were met on the doorstep by Ollie and her team mates, who informed them, one, that school had broken up; two, that food awaited them in Miss Barbara’s private office. (It did. A wedding breakfast, with champagne, lobster and other goodies, had been set out there, and someone had to eat it!)

“I need to find my own clothes” said Daniel through a mouthful of food. “These knickers are cutting into my ass!” He retreated into the back regions. Two of the summer-school girls, clutching glasses of champagne, came over. “What happens now?” asked Cecile.

“What happens now” I said “that the moment I can get away from here, I’m going to pack my things and go home!”

Epilogue: from a number of sources but mainly Melanie and Daniel

Ronnie Romayne stayed at the Simon Scott Centre for about two weeks – Simon gave me orders to mother him. So every day I sponged his little “parts”, applied betnovate gel to the stitching, and changed his dressings, until he was properly healed. Someone had to do it. His minders who had done such a poor job in looking after him in Geneva, were sent on indefinite leave.

Eventually Ronnie returned to the film industry. No one got to learn his secret – that he was no longer a boy. Critics who compared Ronnie’s later films with his early ones commented on how much his acting had improved. Any of us could have explained why. Like a young horse after being gelded, Ronnie’s castration had concentrated his mind on his job – instead of inventing new ways of tormenting everyone with whom he came in contact.

Like many neutered boys, the change in his hormones meant that Ronnie even developed a singing voice of his own – good enough for him not to need voiceovers any more. The ridiculous movie about a boy and his dog finally resumed after a break of many months, without Roddy. “Which suits me down to the ground” as he said. (The movie bombed by the way, as we’d all predicted.)

Ronnie got as much fan-mail as before. The senders – mostly teenage girls – wrote in explicit terms about what they wanted Ronnie to do to them – unaware that these days his penis was incapable even of parting their fanny-lips. He’d been quick to take up my suggestion that he’d find girls’ knickers more comfortable now that he had no scrotum, and to practise sitting down to wee.

Meanwhile, what about Daniel, whom we’d had to leave behind while his tourist-visa came through? He can speak for himself!

The Eaux-Vives flat being closed, I returned to live at the Red Cross building, as before. My visa came through the post four days after Simon and the rest of the party had left. I immediately booked myself on to a flight for Britain. Next door, the girls who had been attending the summer school left one by one.

On the morning of my departure I took my case down to the front entrance, then, having nothing to do, walked as far as the road. Someone else had the same idea – someone who looked a bit familiar. Louisa!

She was dressed for travelling, in a blouse, a tartan mini-skirt and (though it wasn’t obvious) stay-up stockings. She recognised me, waved and came over. “Hello, are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah. On the 2.30 flight to London Gatwick. BA 7983”.

“Really? Just fancy – I’m on that flight too. We’ll be able to travel together – maybe sit together”.

“That’d be great!”

“Where are you going, when you get back to Britain?

“Home to Cheam. And you?”

“A place in West Sussex. Ricky’s Grandpa lives there. He’s a retired Judge and is trying to sort out US Immigration for me. I’ve no passport or proper documents, you see”.

“Ricky’s a real nice boy”.

“Yeah, I like him a lot”.

And for the moment, that was all we could think to say. Finally Louisa broke the silence.

“It’s so boring, waiting around, isn’t it?” said Louisa with a sigh. “And, listen, I’m feeling horny! What do you say we go upstairs and fool around?”

Fear and embarrassment swept over me in an instant! “But…..I can’t!” I stammered. “Not all the way! I can’t…. get it up, or put it in!”

“I know you can’t, silly boy”. She gave him me a quick kiss. “Do you suppose I’d be thinking of pulling my pants down and opening my legs for you, if you could?”

“I suppose not” I replied weakly.

“Boys with balls are such a nuisance” observed Louisa. “Always wanting to have sex. Boys like you are much, much nicer! Come on now”. She took my hand and firmly led me into the house and up to the deserted bedroom, where she flipped up her mini-skirt and pulled down the white knickers she always wore. “Take your jeans and pants off” she ordered. I obeyed at once. Louisa’s face broadened into a smile at the sight of my gelded genitals.

“Oh, Daniel, it’s sweet!” she murmured, eyeing my penis – a penis that could never penetrate her or start a baby. Her fingertips gently caressed the silken skin, explored the ridge between my thighs that was all that remained of my ball-sac. With a deft movement she rolled back my foreskin uncovering the pink acorn beneath.

“I’m going to kiss it!” she said. “Only don’t pee in my mouth”. She knelt down, sucked and nuzzled my penis for a while, then got on to the bed, opening her legs wide and forcing my head between her thighs.

“It’s very nice!” I ventured timidly, my eyes on her love-mound and wet lips. (Like all modern girls Louisa kept her sex shaved clean). “Kiss it!” came her fierce whisper in response. I didn’t disappoint her, feeling with my tongue for the magical clitoris In my own “private area” I was experiencing feelings that I’d believed had been taken from me forever when my balls were taken out.

Nothing had prepared Louisa for the speed with which I made her come, nor for the intensity of the orgasm that ripped through her. Inwardly she probably was asking “Hey – where did he learn to do that?” But as the climax ebbed and died away, all she could find to say was “God, I needed that!” My penis was still tingling, and I said nothing.

We both stood up, and briefly Louisa let me hold her in my arms. As I drew her closer to me, she took my limp penis and rubbed it between her wet love-lips. We exchanged a quick kiss and let go of each other. Louisa wiped herself dry with a tissue and pulled her knickers up, while I got dressed. Then, hand in hand, we walked out to the waiting taxi.

We were still holding hands when, some hours later, our flight touched down at Gatwick.

FINIS