Anonymous, cont'd by Paolo

Recollections of a Reluctant Gelder

I never intended to become a Gelder, you see. I most certainly did not intend to become the premiere Gelder of the area of all the entire surrounding Provinces, either. Circumstances, however, sometimes go beyond our control, and all we can do is to deal with the repercussions. That was exactly what I did, and while I certainly did not need the income from my accidentally (if not newfound) talent, I certainly wasn't about to refuse it. It all came about as the result of an unfortunate accident, which I shall share with you in time.

Actually, it all came about from seeing one boy gelded.

In case you were wondering, which I don't know how you could be, given the culture, the verb 'geld' means to remove the testicles of a male – animal or human. A Gelder is, logically, one who removes said testicles from said male. A gelding is the resulting creature; a safer male, if you will, one which is more docile and not able to reproduce. Now, if you're badly enough off to not know the prerequisites and ending outcomes of gelding a male, I am certainly not going to take the time to explain it to you. Go back to your own backward Province or city. We're an enlightened folk here, you see.

There are many terms for gelded (or as the more crass call them, 'castrated') animals, but only one applies to gelded humans – 'eunuch'. It has a nice ring to it, I think. They're quite common, eunuchs that is, and they're quite nice as well. They're certainly handy to have around, and have a plethora of uses, these safer, gentler males. They come in all shapes and sizes and ages as well, but the most common of these fascinating creatures are the ones gelded before the onset of manhood. At least in our large Province, I should say. There are those that prefer to have their eunuchs made later in the fellow's life, but personally, I fail to see the point. It's common knowledge that a grown man, or an older boy far enough along in his growth, can still retain some of those undesirable qualities that are prevented by early gelding.

Now, as I was saying – before you distracted me – my very first experience with gelding came when I was a young boy. My father insisted that I learn all of the jobs at our Estate, and a large one it was. It still is. In addition to acres and acres of crops, we had hundreds of animals of all sorts – and most of them gelded. Recall that I didn't need the income from becoming a professional Gelder; the Estate brought in more than enough income for even our slaves to live a comfortable lifestyle. You don't have slaves, you say? Barbarian.

Go home!

I gelded my first animal, an adorable beige pony, when I was but seven years old. Father had a very practical approach to the procedure: secure the beast, tightly tie off his pouch with a wet leather string, and then slice the offending glands off with a very sharp knife. The wound would then be cauterized with a red-hot poker-like tool that resembled a very small spatula. A perfect fit for covering just the area of the gelding wound. This helped prevent blood loss, you see, and the wet leather string would contract even tighter as it dried out. These two measures secured the wound, and prevented death from blood loss.

I suppose that I was quite proficient at it, but then again, I was also proficient in planting seeds, tilling fields, shearing, milking, butchering, cooking, and cleaning of all sorts of 'whatever needed cleaned'. This is not to say that all I did was work… no! As a Noble, I was expected to become educated so that I might take over the management of the Estate someday. I have to admit, however, that I much preferred working alongside the naked slaves and contracted, paid employees to sitting in a stuffy classroom with two dozen other naked Noble boys with high and mighty opinions of themselves! This was in good weather, mind you…

Looking back, I think that gelding might have done many of my school peers some good. It's frightening to think that some of them reproduced, just as I have, but I must say that my offspring turned out much better than some of theirs. Breeding is strange that way. Yet another reason that I am such a strong proponent of gelding them early. The younger, the better, I like to say.

Nobles, of course, weren't routinely gelded when I was a boy. That was something for the Commoners, Peasants, and slaves, you see. All of our males slaves were eunuchs, but not all the eunuchs in the Province were slaves. There are many reasons that a non-Noble boy or man (and rarely, usually for medicinal reasons, a Noble too) might be gelded.

The foremost reason is that said Common or Peasant male of whatever age is, or is to become, a slave. To complicate matters further, not all owners castrated all of their slaves. It is a commonly held belief, though, that gelded males are better workers, of calmer demeanor, with their energies diverted from licentious thoughts and actions and into harder work. It also seems to improve their personalities, even in those gelded against their will. In time, they come to accept it and become more docile and productive. It is certainly indicated in household slaves, for households with comely young daughters, or even randy, bored wives. It's quite embarrassing to have the Lady of the Manor, or her unwed daughter, produce a baby of mixed coloring or with an appearance totally unlike the man who should have been his father. Then again, a eunuch gelded well into manhood can sometimes be the delight of the aforementioned wife.

Punishment is another reason. Many a hard-working Commoner whose lovely daughter has been defiled, or even been suspected of dalliance, has had a would-be son-in-law gelded for said dallying with said daughter! This happens mostly with older boys and younger men, those unable to control themselves in the heat of their burgeoning manly lusts. It is also a practice not restricted to the Commoners. I have known a couple of Noble young men, 'noble' in class ranking only, who met with this fate. It is a lesson they need learn only once!

Dedication to the art of music and song is another reason. The silly monks discovered long ago that depriving a sweetly-voiced, if not beautiful, young boy of his glands early on would keep his voice from breaking and his face free of a beard. One unfortunate effect of this can be (but not always) that the gelded singing boy then makes a better girl than he does a boy. Of course, the young gelding can't get pregnant, I suppose? The monks also tout the benefits of gelding for those dedicated to academia or the faith, as they have no manly urges to distract them from their course of study. And they call them 'Father'? How silly.

Yet another reason is employment. Several positions of government and military are reserved exclusively for eunuchs, and it seems that these positions (despite the high cost of qualifying for them) are always sought after. This is, in addition to illness and injury, probably the most common reason for Nobles to become eunuchs. While it wasn't always so, many parents now offer up their spare sons for gelding in hopes that the boys will go on to be placed in some brilliant career. It might seem contraindicated, in fact, as some of these positions require a certainly brutality or deviousness, but there do seem to be eunuchs who fit that description.

Finally, there is, as I said, illness and injury. This used to be the most common reason that a Noble would be gelded. A kick from a horse, an unfortunate fall yielding trauma to the glands, or fever with swelling of the glands could be the causes.

Nowadays, one can't turn around without tripping over a eunuch, it seems!

The first human eunuch I was ever aware of was Bertrand. In fact, as we grew up together, I was five years old before I knew that he wasn't my brother. He was also the first boy that I saw gelded, when I first learned what a eunuch was. (The pony doesn't count.) He was supposed to be raised to be my body servant, but he instead became my brother, best friend, and lifelong confidant. He'd always been there with me. He also became a lover, in time, as I matured into a man and he did not.

I still remember the day when he told me what was to happen to him. Bertrand was tagging along with me to school as he always did, but lagging behind, which was unusual for him. Normally, a servant boy would not be allowed a Noble's education, but wherever I went, Bertrand went. That, and my father paid our instructor well to bend the rules. We were inseparable, Bertrand and I. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong, and why Father wanted to geld him. He wanted to know if I had been told, or that if I'd be gelded as well? Of course, I wouldn't be, but innocent children as we were, and as abundant as eunuchs were, we didn't think much about it. Once one knew about eunuchs, they were hard to not notice! We were, naturally, worried about how it would hurt, but that was all. We were too young and innocent to understand what Bertrand would be losing.

Upon arriving at school with my aforementioned mates, stripping and washing off the dust of our short travel, we took our places in the study hall and I promptly asked our instructor why it was that Bertrand was to be gelded. This caused much snickering amongst our peers. It made me angry. For Bertrand, it was just another reminder that he was a servant.

Fortunately, for the both of us, our instructor seemed delighted to lecture for hours on the subject of gelding boys. And of course, being the inattentive young boys that we were, we promptly forgot most of it by the time we arrived back home.

There was one Noble boy in our class, though, that would not forget it. Wolfram was a year behind in his education, and a year older than us. He'd been gelded over the winter, his father claiming that while he was neither intelligent, nor dedicated to song, that he certainly wasn't of breeding stock. Somewhat small and sickly, it was believed that gelding would benefit his health in the long run. He'd been delighted to come to the front of the room and have our instructor use him as the perfect example of boyhood gelding, proudly showing off the smooth area behind his little prick where his pouch of glands had once been.

Recall that we studied in the nude? This was, we were told, to teach us not to be ashamed of our bodies, and so that we would have nowhere to conceal any implements of academic cheating! That, and it was often hot.

It had been something of a shock to see Wolfram return to school in the spring after his gelding, disrobing and tidying up as we all did each day. Behind his tiny little prick, which was much the same of a prick as we all had, was now only an empty space where his pouch and glands had once been, as I mentioned. It made his prick look so lonely, we boys thought, but Wolfram claimed that it made sitting and walking, not to mention sitting a pony, much much easier and comfortable. He seemed quite happy with his situation, and since our respected instructor was himself a eunuch, and all the soldiers of the special Imperial Legion on their fine mounts or in their impressive war chariots were eunuchs as well, we all thought it a good idea too. No one ever harassed Wolfram about his being a eunuch, and in fact, it much improved his standing with all of us when he managed to have a military eunuch cousin of his come to speak to us. In fact, it also garnered Wolfram much attention from older students and other instructors. He said it had hurt like no one's business, and that he'd passed out from the pain.

I suppose there was something to be said for eunuchs, in that Wolfram wasn't any worse than the rest of us uncut boys at anything. With remedial work, his marks improved. He was just as good at things like archery and riding, as the rest of us were.

We thought him very brave, indeed.

We certainly though his cousin very brave.

Bertrand wasn't being so brave about it, however. He got no dinner that night, and was told that he would not be allowed to eat for two days leading up to his gelding. He would be allowed only liquids, and his bowels were cleansed three times each day. This was so that he would neither vomit, nor mess himself while undergoing the procedure.

He didn't go to school on those days, either, and I was worried for him. I missed him terribly. Father found it amusing when I asked why I was not to be gelded as well, when I mentioned Wolfram. (I would later come to find out, at school, that I'd not been the only boy to go home and ask his parents about gelding!) He simply told me that I was destined to become the Lord of the Estate, and for that, I needed to grow up into as fine a man as he was. I didn't understand it then, nor did poor Bertrand. All I could do was comfort him, right up to that day. Neither one of us thought it very fair, nor did we know that gelding of Noble boys simply wasn't much in fashion at the time.

I suppose once could count those military or Imperial careers, however, the risk of getting killed was, naturally, quite high. Even an eight year old knew this!

Father insisted that I come along. He had decided that it was time that I learned all about eunuchs and see an actual human gelding, to give me more respect for the deed, he said. After all, it wasn't like gelding a pony at home. Bertrand was just glad that I was along, and never let go of my hand – not even when they were strapping him down to the gelding table.

Back then, the village's Gelder was already getting on in years. A highly respected eunuch himself, he had adopted an orphaned Peasant boy and gelded him as a matter of course. It seemed only proper to do it, as the lad was to be trained up in the practice.

The Gelder's place of business was on the town square, and he only plied his trade on certain days. It took a bit of doing to perform successful geldings of people, and it was his preference to wait until he had at least a dozen to perform so that he could make a day of it. This meant that he was open for business about once a month, when he wasn't too busy with the livestock after the birthing season, for those who were not versed in the animal husbandry practice. On other days, he occupied himself with first aid, tending injuries, and the like.

His gelding days always drew a crowd, mainly men and a good number of village boys who came to watch. Sometimes, a small gang of Peasants from the outlying hills and valleys would come to watch too. He would always make the same joke: "Any volunteers in the audience today? How about you, boy?" He would always point out a random boy, laughing at the lad's terror of the joke that only said lad wasn't in on. Many a boy would run away at this point, with the crowd laughing and calling after him. Sometime they would, in the case of a naive Peasant youth, run him down and haul him back, kicking and screaming, sometimes stripping his breeches off, before letting him in on the joke and releasing him.

As Father had some sway, and had paid more of a fee, Bertrand was to go first that day. As I said, I held his hand as the apprentice prepared my friend. I watched as he was quickly washed again, then laid back on a table that was more of an X-shaped thing with a headrest and even a pillow for certain paying customers. The Gelder was, after all, a kindly fellow who didn't like to prolong suffering in innocent little boys. That was saved for those being punished.

Bertand was frightened, naturally, and hungry and fussy. He hadn't eaten in two and a half days, and he'd not even had water since dinner the previous night. Of course the apprentice, all of fifteen years old, but still looking like a young boy, did all the real work. He worked nude, as Father explained, so as not to dirty his good clothing, nor have to wear it damp either. That, and Father thought that the Gelder just liked to show off his apprentice's lithe body. I thought he didn't look that much different from Wolfram at school, only taller and stronger, with his prick being just as tiny. He was efficient, though, having Bertand strapped down hand and foot and waist, with the final strap securing his head to the pillow before my friend could panic. Bertrand was babbling about how it would hurt, the bleeding and such, as the apprentice put a damp rag in his mouth and secured it, gagging and silencing him.

Only Bertrand's wide eyes told me how frightened he was, but Father let me stand there and hold his hand. The Gelder put an apron on me, just in case, he said, so as not to ruin my fine tunic in case of splatter. Some man in the audience asked me if I were next. Father rolled his eyes. A lady told us she thought it was sweet of me. The other gathered riff-raff just sort of glared at me.

"Fine looking boy," I heard someone mumble.
"What I wouldn't give for a go at that one!"
"Best thing for him, really."
"Make him so valuable, it'd take a whole gold mine to buy him!"

I watched, fascinated, as the Gelder fetched a steaming cloth from a pot of water and washed up Bertand's groin yet again. He left the hot rag there a bit, and when he was ready and removed it, Bertrand's boy-bits had relaxed and become more pliant. The Gelder explained to us that this made them easier to grip, as the apprentice tied the wet leather cord tightly around Bertrand's pouch. My friend squeaked into his gag, and held my hand even painfully tighter.

Men in the crowd were saying things that I didn't understand then, but I certainly do now. I don't stand for it now, and my father didn't stand for it then. He asked them politely, though, to please spare Bertrand any teasing best saved for boys being punished, or for difficult slaves. That, and that Bertrand was not for sale at any price.

It was clear that the tightly tied cord hurt Bertrand, and he began to cry. He struggled some, but Father told him to be brave. I reminded him that Wolfram must have been brave, and if poor sickly Wolfram could do it, surely Bertrand could, too! That seemed to comfort him as the apprentice stepped back, checked the straps one more time, and the Gelder grasped Bertrand's pouch. It took some doing, as at age eight, our glands had yet to fully drop. He pulled down with one hand, picking up a smalled, curved knife from his glowing brazier in the other.

"Breathe in and hold it," he told Bertrand, his tone gentle, "I'll be quick!"

I watched in fascination as he quickly made one smooth slice, severing Bertrand's glands, pouch and all, from his body. He then dropped them into a small ceramic jar on the workbench. I remember that it was green and blue. I think I still have it on the mantle, in fact. He always let good boys keep their 'treasures', as he called them, as a memento.

I remember the crowd cheering and the applause.

Bertrand screamed into his gag, going rigid in the straps as he was cut. He pulled and struggled, but as the hot knife made him a fresh eunuch, and he saw his bloody pouch dropped in the jar, he fainted. His hand went limp, releasing mine, which was hurting quite badly from his grip.

I still remember the smell of burning meat as the red-hot tool was pressed to the wound just below the leather tie. Despite what Father had said, it wasn't that much different, I thought, than gelding my pony.

But it was different. This wasn't my pony.

This was Bertrand.

This was a boy being gelded.

This was my brother, for all intents and purposes.

There was a bit of smoke, and I was thankful that Bertrand hadn't felt that last bit much. He moaned some, but didn't flinch or wake up. The apprentice then treated the wound with a funny-smelling salve, gave Father a small jar of it, and told us both how to apply it. A small bandage was put on Bertrand, and he was untied. Father gently carried him back to the carriage, and I waited as the apprentice cleaned the blood from the odd table.

I wondered just how many boys and men had become eunuchs on that table? I wondered what I would look like, strapped down to that table? For some reason, it made my prick harden.

"Are they just castrating your little brother, then?" Some random village boy asked me, and I could only nod dumbly. "Well give him my regards when he wakes up, sir," the boy went on, or something like that I think he said, so polite, as I was a noble and he must have been a Peasant, "My oldest brother had me cut last year, you know. Cost us our best cow. Wants me to be in the Imperial Regiment when I grow up, he does!"

I hardly noticed how pathetic he was, I was so distracted. I also wondered at the strange feelings I was having, and why some of the men seemed to have larger bulges in the fronts of their tunics or trousers. I thought that a few of the older boys and younger men must have wet themselves, as some had small wet spots in their fronts.

"They really like to watch," the ragamuffin told me, and I finally took a good look at him. If this poor thing was to someday join the Imperial ranks, he had LONG way to go!

"You couldn't use a good stable boy, could you, sir?" He asked, "I don't eat much!"

(We'll get back to him. His name was Dieter, and Father hired him on. Not that we needed him. I think Father just felt sorry for him.)

While I was waiting for Father to return, our neighbor down the way from the next Estate came forward with two of his older household eunuchs. They were very large Nubians, he said, both of them gelded just at the onset of their manhood. They were muscled from years of hard work, and were dragging along an almost fully-grown older boy that I did not know. He was naked, of course, and screaming and begging and promising that he'd never do it again – whatever he'd done? I didn't know.

He had black hair that was cut short, and he didn't have man-hair like older boys usually did around his prick or pouch. He had some hair under his arms, I saw, and a bit on his upper lip. I found out they'd shaved it all off when the apprentice checked him over, explaining that it got in the way of the cutting, and could lead to an infection if not removed before. He also said that it would be slow to grow back, and not nearly so much later. He had muscles, too, so he must have been a hard worker. I wondered why they were going to geld him?

"How old is he?" The Gelder asked.

"Just come of age," my neighbor said (I don't recall his name?), "Horny bastard! Should have had him cut when I bought him, but no! Like a fool, I let him grow, thinking he'd make a good breeder. Now I catch him loafing about, jerking his prick, staining his bedding, and making eyes at the scullery girls! Probably been into a few of them, I wonder? And on top of it all," he man went on dramatically, "He's not got a single ONE of the slave girls with child yet! Can't seem to do even that right!"

"SIR! I never!" The boy was screaming, "I wouldn't! Not with your daughters!"

"No, you WON'T!" His master assured him, as the Nubian eunuchs helped secure him to the table. I couldn't help but watch. His prick was very large, as large as Father's, and it was standing hard and tall with clear liquid leaking out of it as the hood of it rolled back. I thought he was going to piss himself, and I was proud that Bertrand hadn't, like some of those other boys in the crowd.

Of course, years later, I would come to realize that those boys had not pissed themselves. They had shot their seed in their pants, so sexually aroused at seeing another boy gelded that they couldn't help it. But I didn't know that then, silly boys that we were.

The young man on the table was still screaming as the apprentice almost got a finger bitten while forcing the gag into his mouth. For a moment, the fellow on the table stared desperately at him. He must have been studying what he was going to look like too, as he had a good view of the apprentice's eunuchly state.

"It'll be all right," the apprentice told him, "Couple months, you forget what it was like to have stones. Just forget all about it, you will!" He smiled at him.

Stones, glands, testicles, seeds, and a dozen other names for them. You knew that, right?

"Hang on, who mentioned my daughters?" The owner wondered. The soon-to-be eunuch blushed. The owner and Gelder exchanged a look.

"If your daughter has a boy, I'll geld him free of charge," the Gelder offered, "Maybe even buy him off of you, if he's a good one?"

"Make sure it's his last," the owner nodded coldly.

The Gelder then picked up a polished cone-shaped device with a flange at the end. The owner nodded, and the Gelder dipped it in a pot of oil. The slave struggled in his bonds, and the Gelder put the tip of the thing to his anus. He pressed it a bit, and I suddenly realized that he was going to force it up the slave's bottom!

The youth started screaming again, but helpless as he was, there was no escaping the plug (which looked, to me, too large to fit) being shoved inside him. His prick stood up even harder, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as some white fluid began to dribble out the end as the thing entered him.

I noticed this brand on his left buttock then – a large letter like a broken "O" with three dots down the middle, and two bars above and below the "O". He was a slave, and he was in trouble for bothering girls! (Of course we knew where babies came from. We lived on a farm!) Father didn't brand our slaves, though; he didn't have to. Runaways weren't a problem for us. In fact, given Father's reputation, we had more help than we really required.

The men were saying things, in the crowd, again. Things like, "Yeah! Cut 'em off! That'll teach him! Make that nice, big prick all soft and limp for the rest of his life! Last time he'll ever stick it in anything. Has he had his backside broken in by a real man yet? Bet he will shortly! You'll learn to love it, boy! It'll be the only hard prick you'll ever get! Look at him suck that plug in! Bitch loves it!"

Of course, I didn't know what all that meant. Not then. I was eight. Bertrand and I would find out some years later, though, when I grew up and became a man – and he didn't. He grew, naturally, and taller than me. But Bertrand never became a man like I did. His voice never deepened, he never grew a beard, and his prick was never hard. It never grew, either. He just became an older eunuch… and my lover, before I was allowed to have girls. We learned then, when I was big enough, about how a eunuch boy could be just as good (if not better) than a girl, for satiating those needs of mine that Bertrand would never know.

Needs that this struggling young man on the table, the apprentice said, would soon forget about.

"Make sure he's empty," the owner added hastily.

The slave was still struggling and screaming into his gag as his glands were tied off. He was staring, terrified, at the Gelder's knife as the man grasped his ample pouch and pulled down hard. It was so different than how he'd handled Bertrand. This time, the Gelder was trying to make his client suffer. As the Gelder did this, squeezing the youth's glands tightly, his apprentice then took the boy's large leaking prick in his hand and began rubbing it.

"Give him one last go!" Some men shouted, laughing about it.

It looked like it hurt as the helpless slaves's member then shot out a bunch of white juice, splattering it all over his chest, stomach, some of it even hitting him in the face. It certainly didn't take long, either. I would later learn that it was his seed, his last climax, and that he would never do it again. Older boys and men, I learned that day, were almost always incapable of the sexual act once gelded. It was rare to see an older eunuch, cut after the onset of manhood, who could still get hard for long enough to penetrate anyone. And of course, he'd never make another baby.

Somehow, oddly I thought, it didn't seem fair to the baby – if he'd indeed made one.

It looked painful, that rubbing they gave him, and I was glad that they hadn't done that to Bertrand. Bowel cleansings were bad enough; I couldn't imagine having that awful plug shoved up inside of me? Still, from what I'd overheard older boys talking about, I'd thought that rubbing one's prick felt good?

The men and boys were still cheering as the slave's pouch was then cut away. He strained at his bonds, still screaming into the gag as more white juice shot out of his prick, but there was nothing he could do as 'his manhood was taken from him', Father called it. I noticed that Father's trousers were bulging as well, and that a great many of the boys in the crowd were touching their own bits through their clothing.

The slave didn't faint, though, as he watched his pouch thrown into the fire. The smell of burning meat again, the sound of sizzling, and smoke. He just laid there and cried as his prick went soft. He didn't faint until the Gelder burnt his wound shut with the tiny spatula tool.

"He's a tough one, would'a made a good breeder," Dieter observed, as I thought to introduce him to Father.

"All right, next?" The Gelder called, as the Nubians freed the slave, pulled the plug from his anus, and carried him off to begin his life as a eunuch, doing who-knew-what. Not breeding, that was for certain!

Father urged me to come along, that we had to get Bertrand home so that he could rest. He'd be in bed for at least two weeks, Father said, and I'd have to help take care of him. I was eager to do so, as I loved him like a brother, but I also wanted to stay and watch more.

I was fascinated.

"Father," I remember asking him, "If it's such a good thing, why aren't more boys gelded?"

"I am, my Lord?" Dieter reminded us that he was still there. Brazen thing, he was.

Or desperate?

I don't recall what Father told me, just that it didn't make sense then. It didn't seem fair that Bertrand had to be gelded, and I wasn't. I would have gladly gotten onto that table and had the Gelder cut me too, if it would have just made it fair for my best friend. Then again, my young mind reasoned, if it was so good and beneficial for Bertrand, why was I getting left out? It had helped Wolfram, after all? I guess I was jealous, in my boyhood innocence; I thought I was being cheated. I thought that being gelded, too, would be a fine thing. Then Bertrand and I would be the same again. I know I should not have felt like that, as I was raised better than that, in that my servant now had gotten something that I couldn't have. That had never happened before. It was strange to me, even though I shared everything with Bertrand. He had something now that I could not share in.

I guess it sort of hurt.

Yes, Bertrand was different now – even though he certainly wasn't the only eunuch around. I wondered if the other Noble boys would treat him better now at school, like they did Wolfram? Maybe they wouldn't talk down to him, or be unkind to him, or they'd stop ignoring him or teasing him about being a slave… telling him he didn't belong there with them. After all, remember, he was the only servant boy in our school for Nobles. And I never thought of him as a slave.

I just remember it was all so confusing, as Father urged me to come along, when they brought up the next man to be gelded.

"Can't we stay and watch, Father?" I blurted it out, surprising us both.

He wasn't old, but he wasn't a boy, either. He might have been the same age as my uncle on my mother's side. Certainly of marriageable age. He had a short brown beard and brown hair pulled back in a short tail. He looked like he was a healthy man, but then I saw the chains and tattoo on his left breast. I knew what that meant.

He was being punished for something.

"He's being gelded to reduce his sentence," Father explained, as he led me away, "Probably as a legal bargain, a lesser punishment for whatever he's done. He'll serve his time, and then, if he's not killed in prison, he'll go on his way, all the lighter down there," he pointed to his groin, "For his troubles!"

Father then looked at Dieter, who seemed to have remembered his place and was now just watching the show. I wondered just how long ago he'd been the one strapped down to that gelding table?

"Stable boy, you say?" Father then mused, "Report to my Estate in no more than three days' time, boy! You'll be the responsibility of my son, here. You'll be contracted, not a slave, but we'll discuss it then. All right?"

Dieter must not have realized that Father was talking to him. He blinked and nodded dumbly when I nudged his ribs with my elbow. Suffice it to say, he was hired, but that's another story.

I could still hear the man to be gelded screaming as we got into the carriage to go home. He was begging and making promises. Father called him pathetic. I was somewhat disappointed in that I'd not been allowed to stay and watch.

I just hoped that Bertrand would be all right as we went back home.

And here I almost forgot about Dieter. There are just so many stories to tell, that I could keep you entertained for months. The fondest, though, are those of my childhood around the time that I became aware of the gelding procedure for people. I suppose that exposure to something like that sticks in one's mind? Perhaps it becomes an obsession? I wonder if this was the case with my father? Did he get to see a gelding at a young age, as I did? I never thought to ask.

As it all goes together – Bertrand's gelding, meeting Dieter and settling him in, and my building fascination – I suppose I should get to that part next. Bertrand was in bed recovering, after all; he's not going anywhere yet.

You'll recall that Dieter was the Peasant boy who'd spoken to me at Bertrand's gelding. It turned out that he hadn't recognized me as a Noble, he said, because of the apron I'd been given that had hidden my clothing. In fact, he'd first thought I was a trainee Gelder! Of course, he couldn't see my good tunic under the apron – the garb that would identify me as a Noble. I hated that thing. It was heavy and hot and garish. I would have rather gone naked, as Bertrand had, wearing only my contracted-worker identification collar. Either way, I'd have been safe, and certainly not picked up as a stray slave. The Officers lurking about, or the scattered soldiers, would have made sure of that.

But come to think of it, aren't offspring really slaves to their parents?

Dieter, right. Sorry. I digress.

He was very apologetic for his brashness when he reported to our Estate two days later, just as Father had told him to. After all, a Peasant boy just doesn't chat up a Noble one and ask for a job. He came toddling up the long lane to our place all alone. He was still wearing that same battered tunic that he'd had on when we'd met, and it was clear that the only wash he'd had was being rained on or crossing a creek. He was limping, too, as the walk to the village could take over half a day. I wondered just how far it was from the village to his home and back? Poor boy. I think he used the last bit of strength he had to climb a tree to get away from the dogs.

Forgot about them…

Since Bertrand was still confined to bed, (and half out of his head from the potion that Miss Morgana the cook had made for his pain), I was the one to find Dieter. Our instructor had been called away from school for a meeting with his peers, which rarely happened, and both our Slave Overseer and I had had just about all of the brushing of horses' tails and hoof care that we wanted for one day. I was to learn how to do all the chores, remember? And getting swatted in the face by tails or kicked wasn't much fun. Come to think of it, I might have ended up a eunuch, too, with one well-placed kick from a horse? That was a common excuse for a Noble's gelding in those days, you know. Or an attack by a goose.

Either way, I was assigned to our Overseer that day, and I couldn't have been happier. His name was Armand, an old Persian word meaning 'man of the army'. It suited him, as Armand had been gelded as a lad and assigned to a military unit as some important General's page boy. He'd eventually moved up through the ranks, until the day he'd been captured and thrown on a trade caravan headed in our general direction. Father had somehow acquired him before I'd even been born. He must have cost a great deal, as he was a Persian eunuch, gelded before manhood, and very well versed in all things military and academic from his years with the General.

And somehow he ended up here? More and more, I think Armand looked at our place as a retirement home.

Armand was very large, and given our slaves' treatment, had a pretty easy job. The worst thing he ever had to do was whip a few of the younger slaves' backsides for goofing off, and keep me out of trouble when Father decided that I needed to learn something new from him. He could easily carry Bertrand and I, one on each shoulder, all day long. I think we were part of his exercise routine?

But more than that, Armand was a gentle soul. I look back now and wonder if that came from having seen things? Too many things? Things he didn't like to talk about? Most Overseers can't wait to use the lash, I've seen. Not Armand, though. He liked to lecture, waving his arms about to make his point and getting himself into a state before finally administering punishment. He sometimes got hysterical, ranting at Father for long periods before Father would finally tell him "Just handle it, my friend."

Of all the servants, slaves, or workers we ever had, Armand was the only one that Father ever gave free reign of the Estate to. He was the only one I ever remember coming inside to relax and chat with Father, or even having a meal with us. He even sat in on meetings with Father and other Estate Owners, and those others actually sought out Armand's advice and had him train their Overseers or counsel a difficult slave. He was also the only one I ever remember telling Father that he was outright wrong about something. We'll get to that later. (Yes, it was about me.)

He was going to be impossible to replace when he was gone, that was certain. And he was starting to get gray hair.

Armand was trying to cheer me up that day, as I was moping around about Bertrand (I was lost without him) and not really concentrating on my work. All I really wanted to do was lay around and enjoy the sun – and ponder what I'd seen at Gelding Day! Armand had thought it would be a good idea to go and bother Miss Morgana and sneak some sweets, when we heard the dogs. We got outside just in time to see Dieter scrambling up a tree.

"Friend of yours?" Armand asked.

"Oh, forgot about him," I shrugged, and I honestly had, in the all excitement of seeing those geldings done. So while I went to fetch Father, Armand went to fetch Dieter.

"Oh, forgot about him," Father nodded, "I didn't really think he'd come."

"Well, he said he was already gelded, Father," I reminded him.

"Save us a trip to the village," Father nodded, "If he wasn't lying. If he was, he's about to find out the hard way!"

Gelding was one of Father's favorite things, I suppose you should know. Other than he and I, and a few breeding stock animals, all of the other males on the Estate were eunuchs. It was his number-one rule, as he was a firm believer in it. All of the slaves were, of course, but even the contracted workers were too. Some might think it strange to take on a job where the first qualification was undergoing gelding, but there was more to it than that.

Remember those coveted positions of employment that only eunuchs could be hired to do? Well, getting gelded isn't as easy as one might think. For starters, the village Gelder charged a fee for it, and unless you were a Noble with money, or a better-off Villager, you weren't going to be able to pay for it. Gelders had to be licensed, too, and performing geldings without a permit was nearly a death sentence. You got conscripted into the army, gelded as well, and shipped out to the Hinterlands for your crime. I suppose that was how the market for eunuchs was controlled?

Then there were those who attempted self-gelding to get at those more lucrative positions. There's a bit more to it than just finding a male and slicing his pouch off, you know. Almost every single incident of self-gelding, or home-gelding that one heard about, ended with the new eunuch dying of it – usually that same day. What works for wild piglets doesn't work on boys. While it might be legal to geld your own livestock, in the event that they died (and very few of ours ever did), you could still eat them. The law tended to frown upon people dying of it, though.

Yes, Father was all for gelding, as I said. It's not that much of a topic today, recall, as eunuchs are pretty much everywhere to be found. It wasn't uncommon then, either, but Father did tend to take it to extremes. I suppose that certainly weeded out the not-so-serious would-be job seekers, though? Of course, I can't blame him. You've no doubt realized by now that I'm all about gelding, too! I've got more young male relatives than I can count, and with the exception of those firstborn ones, they're all eunuchs. But that's another long story! And besides, we were talking about Dieter.

So you're probably wondering how Dieter's brother managed to get the lad gelded, being a remote family of Peasants? As he'd told me (were he to be believed), they'd traded their best cow to pay the fee. For a Peasant family, an exorbitant fee at that. I'm sure the Gelder sold the cow later for more than his fee? I wonder if he made change? Yes, getting back to Dieter:

As Father had told him to do, he'd reported for work during the allotted time. Actually, that said a lot about him. Then the dogs had chased him up a tree. Honestly, though, neither one of us actually believed he'd show up. It was common knowledge, after all, how Father felt about gelding. Anyone Dieter might have asked about us, or asked directions from, would have told him what was required of him – even if he were to be hired on as a simple stable boy at this Estate. Still, it wasn't as if we really needed him, and I wasn't sure about being the one responsible for him.

Paying for the geldings of contracted workers is a part of the deals that Father makes with them. For the usual fee, dinner, and a room for the night, the Gelder will make a house call. We don't have that many Contracteds, but the good thing about them is that the ones you get are: good at what they do, more reliable, apparently don't mind being gelded, and go away when they're finished with their work contract. That, and they're no bother with anything sexual, of course. It's apparently a good trade for those seeking gelding as well, since they can get a legal and safe gelding that can open up other career opportunities for them in the future. More than a few local Commoners have apprenticed their extra sons to Father, because they wanted them gelded for whatever reason. I mean, does gelding a stable boy not yet into his manhood really make him a better tail-brusher?

Armand had since shouted at the dogs, and when Armand shouted, people and dogs listened. He was huge, I'd said, had a large chest, and a very loud voice. All that yelling he did as part of his old days with the General, I suppose? He came carrying Dieter up to the east entrance to the main house, where Father conducted business. The Peasant boy seemed embarrassed, and exhausted. He politely introduced himself and bowed, addressing Father as "Master". Father corrected him and ordered him to sit, noting the state of his bare feet. It looked as if the boy had never owned shoes, and his feet needed care from his walk. Dieter scratched at his mop of straw-colored hair as he listened to Father.

"Now, as our reputation precedes us here, lad, there are some things you must know before agreeing to employ at my Estate," Father began. Dieter look confused.

"Stuff you wanna know about before you start work here," I interpreted, wrinkling my nose at him.

"But I want to work here, sirs?" He nodded honestly.

"Now, first of all, lad, you're not being taken on as a slave. Not that there's much difference, here at least. You're to be a paid employee, starting at five a week. You'll board here, in the barn, with the other stable hands, for three weeks at a stretch. They're nice rooms. You'll then go home for a week, but report back by the night of the seventh day, barring emergencies. If it's too far to walk, you can borrow a pony."

"Five a week?!" Dieter gasped, "Five of what, sir?"

I kicked his shin. Father was teasing him. He only teased boys he liked.

"OWWW!" Dieter looked confused, "What did I do wrong, sir?" Not like I'd kicked him hard enough to hurt him?

"Nothing! Ask for twenty. He'll go up to ten, but you'll settle for fifteen," I told him, "It's called 'haggling'. You might end up at thirteen."

"Thank you, favorite son of mine," Father sighed. I was his only son, though? "I'll take that out of your pay."

I got paid?

"I don't know nothing about money, sirs," Dieter admitted.

Father made a face and sighed again. "I can see you're going to be a costly one," he groaned, but Dieter certainly wasn't. Father wouldn't have missed a gold coin a week, much less fifteen coppers. Not that coppers bought much, but it was a start.

He went on: "So, you work three weeks, most of the daylight hours every day. The other stable hands will show you about break time, meals, and days off. They're all slaves but for one, the redhead about your age, and he's a contract worker, too. Just like you. His family has high hopes, now that he's a eunuch, of getting him into the political process. Not Peasant stock, but from a more well-off family in the village."

"I got cut last year, sirs," Dieter reminded us, "Wanna see?"

"Of course," Father nodded.

Dieter stripped off his threadbare tunic,which I wouldn't have used for a saddle blanket on my pony. It was the only article of clothing he was wearing, and apparently, the only possession he owned. It was a tunic in the definition of the word only. It smelled pretty bad, too.

He hadn't been lying, though. He looked just like Wolfram, with only a lonely little prick with no pouch behind it. It looked like he'd scarred up a bit worse, though. Probably had a harder time healing, I guessed, from not being able to rest long enough after his gelding. I crossed my legs so they'd not see my prick stiffening. It did that a lot, and it bothered me. Of course, being nearly nine, I had no idea why it did that. It wasn't like I was mating, like the bull did when he was stiff?

Father was filling out some papers. I just watched as Dieter scratched his head again. His prick was also a bit red, and he scratched it, too. He never asked about getting dressed again. Father glanced up at him and told him to sign the paper, after explaining his contract again. It pretty much said when he'd work, for how much money, pay raises, room and board, time off, and all that stuff. I already knew all that. I'd had to learn that, too. Father asked how old he was.

"Ten, sir."

He sure didn't look it.

"Full name is?"

"Just 'Dieter', sir. They call me 'Deet', too."

"'Dieter Justman'," Father put down, "That'll be your last name from now on. Remember it."

"Yes, sir!"

Dieter didn't know how to sign his name, so he made an "X" when I showed him how. I signed it as a witness. So did Armand when Father called him in.

"Master, if I may?" Armand asked, turning to Dieter. "What type of future did your brother have planned for you, having you gelded, when you can't even read?"

Dieter just shrugged. "You have to start somewhere, sir?"

Father and I just stared in disbelief. So, you're giving up your best possession (the cow) to pay the fee to geld your little brother, and with no idea what the young eunuch is supposed to go and DO with himself? What?

Father sighed again. "Now, Dieter, you'll answer to Armand first. He's the Overseer. Get out of line, and he'll spank you or something. Next to him, you answer to my son, there. When he gets home from school, you'll clean up and sit in with him and Bertrand when they do their homework. They'll teach you to read and such."

I groaned. Dieter just stared dumbly, looking like he might cry. I know schoolwork made me want to cry sometimes. "In the HOUSE?!" Dieter gasped.

"You're in the house now?" I reminded him.

But Father wasn't done yet, but he had to wait for Dieter to calm down again.

"Burn that rag of a tunic, and take him outside for a good bath, Armand. You too, son. Scrub him until his skin's pink. Then get a razor and shave his head bald. He's got lice. Get some of that good ointment we use for gelded piglets, and use that on his scar. He's also got an infected foreskin, so clean that up and treat it. If it doesn't clear up, we'll have to cut it off," Father ordered.

"Cut off my PRICK?" Dieter squeaked.

"No, boy, just the skin on the tip. It's very easy to do with a ring and a string. I'm sure it'll heal. Oh, and get some of the girls who do fingernails and all those lady-things to tend to his feet, too," Father didn't even look up at him as he went to file the paper. "Just one more thing, boy – how long does your family expect you to work here?"

"Just got my brother and old Aunt Juni at home, sir," Dieter shrugged, "I dunno? One less mouth for them to feed, though, with me here, sir? Bubb says he can do the work without me."

Well, that was a sure sign they didn't want him back. No one gave up free labor. That, or they really were desperate to give him the chance at a better life. It just rankled me, and I started scheming on how to find out.

Armand had since taken the tunic out and set fire to it, and we could hear him filling a tub out in the back yard. He was barking orders at other slaves to fetch this and that for him.

"So what do you usually do, Deet?" Father asked him. (That was a sure sign that Father liked him.)

"Work, sir," Dieter shrugged, "I know gardens, cows, chickens, hunting, all that stuff! Never had no school or anything else, sir. Just go to the village now and then for stuff, when we get something to sell, sometimes beg, or watch Gelding Days, sir."

"One 'sir' is enough at a time," I told him.

Father didn't ask about his parents. He just looked the contract over again. "As you're already a eunuch, and your brother is your guardian, and he sent you here with no timetable," Father mused, filling in the form, thinking, "You say you're ten years old?" Dieter nodded again, looking hopeful, "Then we'll keep you until you are twenty years old. You will then be free to leave and go where you will." Father then looked at me. "You think we can make something of this waif in ten years, son?"

It was my turn to sigh. "But Father? What if his brother gets angry?"

"Too bad, he sent him on," Father shrugged, "He's yours now, son, he followed you home. Take him outside to Armand and get started cleaning him up. OH! And remind me to put aside, in coin, half the fee that would have gone to the Gelder, since Deet here is already a eunuch boy."

"I could buy a half a cow!" Dieter exclaimed.

Mathematics genius, that one…

Dieter was clearly in shock over this ordeal. I took his grubby hand and pulled him outside. Armand and I scrubbed him in a hot bath (probably the first he'd ever had) until he was crying that his skin was coming off. Well, he did look sunburned when we were done with him, but he smelled good. I'd pinched a bar of Mother's best soap. He didn't think much of Mother's attendants working over his nails and callouses, either. His feet were a mess. Then Armand got out the straight razor.

"Don't cut my prick off, sir!" Dieter shouted.

"Relax, and you call me 'Armand', boy. I'm not a 'sir' to the working boys," Armand told him, "You are not a slave, but for ten years, you're just as good as. You just get to go home once a month. I'm your boss. Then our little Master here. Unless he's working, too. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir Armand?" Dieter said very softly.

Sigh…

Armand then set in to peeling that mess of a lice-ridden straw heap off of the boy's head. He didn't even nick him once. When Armand was done, Dieter just sat there in his rinse tub (the first water had since been dumped, it was so dirty) and felt at his smooth head. He laughed, though. Armand rinsed him again and put some ointment on his bare scalp. Then he tended to Dieter's inflamed prick, which didn't get stiff or even twitch. He looked like a new boy when we were done with him.

He wasn't sure about the collar when Armand fitted him for one, either. He just stood there in the workshop doorway, naked, and watched as Armand got a small collar and checked the lock on it and tested it on Dieter for size. It was a leather-wrapped thin collar, just broad enough to have our Estate's name punched in it. Armand added the symbols for 'contract worker' and for Dieter's name and days off. Dieter flinched when Armand locked it around his neck.

It wasn't tight. It fit loosely enough for the boy to get a washcloth under it, but since it was made of metal inside, it was somewhat heavy.

"You wear that for a while, get used to it, then you won't have to wear it here when you work. You wear it home, though, so no one will mess with you, and the Officers will know where you belong. That way, no one picks you up and tries to resell you as a slave," Armand explained.

"This is for me?" Dieter wondered, feeling at it and smiling. I had to wonder if he were defective in the head? He was excited about a collar? "I get to keep it, sir? Mister Armand, I mean?"

"Your name is stamped on it," I told him, "It's yours and only yours, Deet."

"Thank you!" He breathed, still fingering it, spinning it around, and smiling as if we'd just given him a gift instead of an implement of control over him. What kind of life had this poor child had?

Armand sighed and dumped out the dirty bath water. He got a towel and wiped at his face. It was hot, we were sweating out there in the sun, but I think Armand was hiding the fact that he'd teared up. He got like that sometimes. I could tell he liked Dieter, too.

In case you're wondering, the collars and the seal on them can't be faked. That particular punch is kept locked up in Father's office, and even I didn't know exactly where it was. Anyone who gets caught faking slave or contract collars gets drawn and quartered. The Judges take it very seriously, and Father would have to send Dieter's registry papers to them soon. After all, it's a big business and they charge fees, you know. Just ask the Gelder.

"It… it's OK," Dieter admitted, "I don't mind. It's like somebody cares enough about me to want to know I'm safe." He looked at me. "You ever wore one of these, sir?" He then asked, still playing with it.

"Yeah, Father makes me wear one sometimes, when we're off in the back country working. In case I get lost. Those symbols identify you as working here."

"He makes YOU work, sir?" Dieter didn't seem to believe it. I flexed my eight (and a half) year old muscles at him. In fact, I was bigger than he was. Was he really ten? Then he started chattering, often forgetting the 'sir', he was so caught up. Actually, he was just nervous. "When do we eat?" He finally asked, as I was showing him the way to the main barn. "Do I get clothes?"

"You get a work apron, but otherwise, no. You can borrow one of my old cloaks, for when you go home, if it's raining or cold out. If it gets cold, Armand will give you warmer work clothes," I told him. Actually, it wasn't unusual for children to just run around naked in good weather, which was most of the time. It saved on clothes, and no one thought a thing about it. A boy got more attention, especially from vendors, if he was seen wearing something! He might be stealing, after all, and would have somewhere to hide his loot. Gelding Day was different, though, as nobody wanted to be seen there with a stiff prick! "And you can borrow a pony, too," I added, "It must be a long walk, the way your feet look?"

Dieter nodded. "All day! See, I had to walk home from Gelding Day, then I had to ask my brother, then I had to walk back to the village, then I had to walk here."

"And it took two days?" I gasped.

Dieter nodded.

I suddenly had a whole new respect for this poor boy. No wonder he was hungry.

"So you'd have cut my stones off, if I had 'em?" Dieter then asked, using the more colloquial term for 'testicles', which we called 'glands'.

"He sure would!" Our other stable boy cut in, as he came out of the barn with one of the big black work horses. It was Eryk, which was a joke about me stamping his name wrong on his first collar. That was the redhead Father mentioned, remember? Eryk was just twelve, so he was a 'big kid' in my book. Even if I was the Master, you know? Big kids knew things, too, so we liked to hang around Eryk. He knew things we didn't, and he liked to talk. We'd had him for three years already, and we'd have him (not counting his days off to go home to the village) until he was twenty. Father liked that number for some reason. Eryk bent down for a look at Dieter. "You're a puny one, kid? When you get gelded?"

"Last year!"
"Hurts, huh?"
"Oh Gods yes!"
"Heal up good? I see some scarring?"
"Naw, healed slow. I couldn't stay in bed for two weeks! Work to do!"
"You go to the Gelder in town?"
"Traded our good cow for it!"
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"The Master here took me, 'long with my father. Village Gelder done it. Just sliced 'em right off! Didn't even feel it, really, 'til he burnt me!"
"I hated that part! I fainted."
"Wish like hell I had!"

It was like watching a net-ball match, back and forth, as the two eunuch stable boys 'talked shop'. Dieter seemed to take to Eryk, and vice versa. I was sort of jealous. I was also stiff again, listening to them talk about their gelding ordeals.

"Hey, Master Runt?" Eryk always called me that. It was a joke between us. Father thought that one was hilarious. I called Eryk 'Carrot Top' too. "Why don't I take Dieter here and show him around? Armand said they need this big guy in the west field, would you take him for me? And remind your Father I'll need my collar soon, when I go home for a week? Thanks! You're the best, Runt!" He clapped me on the back.

I know, it's complicated. But since I was off school, assigned by my Father – the Master – to Armand, and I was working that day, it was OK for them to ask me stuff like that. And pretty much, if a more experienced slave or worker told me to do something, I had to do it. That was Father's rule for teaching me. When I was working, I was no different from them. I'll explain that more later.

I might as well have been a eunuch too, I thought, fingering my collar as I got up on the horse. I felt sorry for Dieter; he'd have to get used to his for a long time before he was allowed to be without it to work, but he seemed to like it. I guess that's understandable, as it was his only possession in the whole world now.

"So you're new? Contract boy for ten years? That's good," Eryk was saying, "You seen the physician yet? C'mon in here and we'll…"

I'd forgot about that! Dieter still had to see the physician to be checked over, and he wasn't going to like that at all! Thin as he was, though, I doubted he'd ever had enough to eat to have stomach or bowel problems.

***

Getting back to Bertrand? He was in bed, remember? He was on the mend, though, and clear-headed when I went back to our chambers to get ready for dinner. He was hurting, I could tell, but he never complained. I figured I'd wash up, get my collar off, take some food up for the both of us, and then go to bed. I'd had a busy day, after all, and I was tired. It was a long walk back from the far field where I'd taken the black draft horse.

Grandmother had other plans, though. She was just shooing Miss Morgana out of my room, and I could see that Bertrand already had a tray of food. The next thing I knew, she had me by an ear, pulling me in.

A bit about her: She was my father's mother, and she had an opinion about everything. She thought that slaves and contract workers were about equal to animals, and she hated Bertrand. She yelled a lot, and no one really liked her. I think she resented being a woman, seeing as how the laws were 'all about men' she was always complaining. Being the only grandson, though, I got away with more where she was concerned. But not much.

"Look at this! Look at YOU!" The old bat screeched at me. No, I didn't like Grandmother, may she rot in hell, thank you very much! "Standing there covered in filth, naked as a work slave, looking like a slave, too! I can't believe he makes you work like this! All you need is a collar!"

I couldn't help it. I reached over to the shelf and picked mine up, smiling. I got a cuff upside the head for my trouble.

"And that!" she pointed to Bertrand's collar, taking mine and putting it back, "That one should be around his neck! It's bad enough you let him live in your chambers, but to…"

"He's my body servant, Grandmother," I reminded her, "He can't very well DO that if he lives in the slaves' house, can he?"

I got another pop for that one.

Bertrand was just watching, stopped with fork nearly to his mouth, frozen in terror. He'd been on the receiving end of Grandmother's outbursts before, too, and he knew better. Any excuse she could find to whip him, she'd take it. I hated her for that.

"Waiting so long to have him gelded! I told that stupid son of mine to…" she went on, probably the only one in the world who could call my father stupid and get away with it. And Mother? She wasn't about to stand up to her for me. I think Mother was scared of her, too. "If that silly little flit of a girl he married had just offered to…"

Next thing I knew, tuning her out, I was being dragged over to the bath chamber. A hot, steaming, perfumed, bubble bath. I'd have rather been horsewhipped! What boy wouldn't?

"Well at least that vile little weasel of yours has been cut! About time!" Grandmother was ranting, as she began screeching for someone to come and scrub me.

Long story short, my dinner plans were ruined. I was dressed in my best tunic and breeches, soft leather half boots, formal sash, and had to endure having my hair done up. I'd just as soon have shaved my head like the stable boys sometimes did. I made a note to find some lice or fleas.

"And little Miss Elise will be here for dinner with her family," Grandmother added.

Elise lived on the Estate south, and she was (or thought she was) queen of all she surveyed. If there was ever a good reason to have oneself gelded, Elise was enough to make any boy run right to the Gelder! In Grandmother's eyes, I think she already had us married off.

I ate fast. I was polite, as was expected, and let everyone fuss over me. Then I claimed having to check on my pony, Bertrand, and Dieter. "Father, they're my charges, after all, you said?"

Father liked that. I knew how to play him. Or he knew that I was playing him. Either way, he discharged me and I ran like hell. He knew I wanted out of there.

"I want to go!" Elise exclaimed.

"You most certainly will not!" Her father told her. I started to like him then. "And what you see in a boy who works like a slave…" Well, maybe not so much?

I hadn't lied. I always checked my pony before bed. I just didn't try and sneak him inside anymore. Long story…

"Oh, it's far across the sea, where I come from," I heard Armand saying, and I stopped at the door to the smaller barn that also housed the stable boys' quarters. (And yes, they were quite nice quarters, thank you!) "Sunny days, much hotter than here, burning sands that stretch for leagues and leagues, but right in the middle of it all, sometimes a pond with palm trees. Oasis…"

I just stood there and listened, peeking through the crack at the door. I could smell sausages. They must have taken their meals from the kitchen and come out here to eat, a nice little fire in the brazier at the end of the paving stones out back. I supposed Armand was seeing to Dieter; always on duty, Armand always said. My mouth watered. We'd had roast bird. Some kind? I hated bird. But those greasy, bloody, peppery sausages… funny little things, about the size of a boy's prick, really! And I loved them. It was just that I almost never got them.

"It's slave food!" My mother would complain, when I asked for them.

The fire made the whole area glow orange, the big doors open for a breeze. It was nice. It was stuffy in my chambers, I'd noticed earlier. Dieter was sitting there on Armand's knee, fascinated by his tale. I wondered just how much the new boy knew of the world? The other stable boys and grooms and barn help were also gathered around, staring at the big Persian in wonder. We all loved Armand's tales of wonder.

"So you see, the Sultan had hundreds of wives and concubines! Even a young and virile king could not hope to bed all of them once a year, even!" The boys and young men laughed. "So who had to tend to all these ladies? Entertain them? Keep them out of mischief?" Armand asked.

"The eunuchs!" The boys all answered.

"Eunuchs!" Armand laughed, and I smiled. You had to, when he laughed. "But not eunuchs like you and I, boys! No, no!"

"There's more than one kind, sir?" Dieter wondered.

"Not a stone to be found here," Armand poked the boy's navel and tickled him. Dieter laughed. "Or there! But there's more to making a proper harem eunuch than just slicing his glands off! You see, boys, there were tales of would-be eunuchs who hid their glands, or stones, up inside of them! (He explained the canals and how it could be done.) Many a fellow would try to sneak into the harem to get to the ladies! This was a trick they sometimes used, hiding their stones and plucking their beards so that they appeared to be eunuchs! Wear a stolen costume, yes! Look the part. And when they were inspected, it seemed that they were indeed eunuchs. But…" he looked all around, holding up a finger for emphasis, "They were men! They could make their cocks stiff, and have their fun with the Sultan's women! Just like randy goats, they were – always anxious to shove their stiff cocks into a willing lady! And those bored ladies were willing, they were!" He laughed again, as did the boys. "Of course, the eunuchs were no good to the women, as we all know! That's why they guard the harem. Who's ever had a stiff cock since he was cut here?"

None of the boys had, they all said, hanging on his every word.

So was I. And mine was stiff.

"What did they do then?" Eryk gasped.

"Well, the foolish men who were caught and exposed were killed! Beheaded!" Armand flared his voice dramatically, picking up a chopping knife and halving a melon. The boys jumped. "And the eunuchs who were really were cut, what let them sneak in? Oh, they were whipped, humiliated, some even beaten to death for their errors! That was when the Sultan and his advisers devised a new plan! You see, some blamed it on the eunuchs, if an odd baby came along in the harem!"

"What? How? Tell us!" The boys gasped.

"The Sultan rounded up all of the eunuchs, and then he ordered the Knifers to cut off the cocks, you call them 'pricks', of all the eunuchs! And to make sure no one's stones had grown back! From there on, every eunuch who was to serve the Sultan in his harem would have the WHOLE of his manhood sliced away, leaving him smoother than even a woman, with nothing at all down there to prove that he had ever had a manhood! Nothing but a scar and a hole!"

The boys all gasped and grasped their own tiny, useless pricks. Armand may have used different words, sometimes slipping into Persian, but we got his meaning. The boys squirmed and whined, trying to imagine it.

"They can grow back?" Eryk fretted.

"No, that's a myth," Armand assured him.

"But how did they pee?" Dieter asked.

"They sat like women, and used narrow silver quills to put at the hole. The pee-hole was the only thing left, you see. It was a torturous operation, boys. Be glad of it, that they do not cut off your cocks here! Many a eunuch died of his second operation. You see, for three days, he could not drink water. And the Knifers were not so kind as the Gelders here. They simply wound a cord around the whole of the manhood, then sliced it away in one stroke! The cut parts would be thrown into the fire, the eunuchs would be screaming, struggling in their bonds, blood squirting out, but to no avail.

"Then the Knifer would shove a long metal plug into the hole left behind by the cut-off cock, and then seal the raw, bleeding wound with boiling oil! The eunuch was then buried up to his chest in the hot sand. Three days of hot sun, unable to move, unable to pee, and suffering mightily! Depending on the skill of the Knifer, as many as eight of every ten died of it! This made these eunuchs very expensive, and boys were rounded up from far and wide, taken as slaves, to fill the demand for them. Thousands of them, many from the dark regions far south. Boys with skin as black as coal!

"And when the metal plug was pulled out, if the eunuch was lucky enough to have lived, he would be celebrated and taken inside for refreshment and rest for months – if and only IF he could pee after those three days! It took that long to heal up at the hole. If he could not, there was nothing to be done for him. With his cock cut off, and the scar having closed the hole, he would die of not being able to empty his bladder. He would swell up like a dead animal in the sun – an excruciating death. Most times, the guards would simply chop his head off if they could not open the hole again. It was kinder that way, you see!"

Bedtime stories with Armand?

The boys were all moaning and making faces by then. Funny sounds, funny movements, clamping their legs together and covering their pricks. I was grasping my own stiff prick in the fear of it all, even though I well knew that no one would ever geld me like that. I was certainly glad that we didn't do it. Thinking about Bertrand having to endure that made me want to cry.

"And they would scream! Oh my yes, they would scream! 'Mercy! Please, no! Not my cock! I don't want to be a eunuch anymore – the new recruits would beg! Don't cut it off!' They would scream and beg. But once committed, once strapped to the cutting table, there was no going back. No escape from the knife! And no more pleasures with the women! It would be enough to drive a matured man mad with desire that he could no longer fulfill. Pity the man who has known a woman, enjoyed her fruits, and then is cut!" He held up that finger again, pointing at them one at a time, "This is why it is kinder to cut a little boy, so he will never know the urges that men get! You boys will never have stiff cocks, and never feel the need to put it to a woman!

"So you see, boys – no cock, no chance of defiling the women!" Armand explained, more serious now, "To this day, men and boys have the whole of their manhood cut away to serve the Sultan. Further east, in the Orient, they do the same. Even with hidden stones, with no cock, there is no chance!" He paused.

"But Armand," one of the other boys asked, "They didn't cut you like that? You come from there, and you still have a prick?"

"No, no," Armand replied, "I was never a harem boy. My family placed me with the army, in hopes of a high position there. The General took a fancy to me when I was younger than you, and it was he that ordered me cut. Many times, he would tease me about cutting my cock off, to make me even more valuable, though. But it wasn't practical, you see. There were a few page boys in our unit without cocks, but not many. It was just too dangerous, and why ruin a good thing like a beautiful boy with no stones?"

"At least you can still pee standing up!" Eryk laughed, fiddling with his tiny little prick.

"Now, off to bed with you! Bed, before I decide to cook more sausages!" Armand laughed, holding up his melon knife. "Silly boy! Do you no good to play with that thing!"

And the boys laughed at the old joke.

I wished I'd been in there with them as I pushed the door open.

"MASTER!" They all snapped and stood up. You see, the clothing separated me from them. When Father put me to work, naked and/or collared, I was one of them. But now, with the workday done, standing there all clean and in my best clothes, my hair done up, and boots scuffling along the stone floor, I was the Master.

I couldn't have been included, no matter how much I wanted to be.

I just waved them off and went to see my pony. Isn't it odd – I don't even remember his name? Gods, I loved that pony, too.

"He's looking very nice, and smells good," I complimented them, "Thank you."

"Dieter worked on him all evening long, gave him a wash," Armand told me, and I saw Dieter hiding behind him. This was the boy who'd brazenly spoken to me on Gelding Day, now hiding from me. That hurt. "When he found out this one was yours, he wouldn't do anything else."

"He's never looked so fine, Dieter," I assured him, "If you like, here in three weeks, you can take him home so you won't have to walk."

"Hey, Deet!" Eryk was calling, "Your bunk's mattress is stuffed and ready! The blanket is kinda itchy, but you get used to it," he added, coming up and handing the new boy his bedding. Dieter just stared at it. Eryk whacked him with a feather pillow. Then he smirked at me. "You're prettier than a girl in them clothes, Runt!" He said. Only he could have got away with that.

"How about I cut your sausage off?" I joked back with him, and we all laughed. All but Dieter. He looked like he'd cry. "Nice story," I told Armand, who was now taking Dieter to his small room.

"Th-this is all for me?" He choked, clutching his blanket as if it were made of golden fleece.

"For the next ten years," Armand reminded him, nudging the naked boy on in. He showed him the water jug, the chamber pot, how to make up his bed, and where to hang his work apron. For some reason, I was focused on the firelight flickering in the metal lock of his collar.

And in his eyes.

Dieter started crying. "P-please don't make me leave, Master!" He begged me, collapsing on the floor at my feet, "I'll work hard! I promise!"

I felt sick. Everyone was staring at me. I didn't know what to do, so I just got our new boy settled in his bed. It didn't him long to cry himself to sleep, he was so tired.

I'd find out later just how Dieter had lived before coming to us, but that's another story.

"That little room's more than he's ever seen," Armand told me, as he pulled on his short skirt and apron to walk me back to the manor house. Back to my stuffy chambers. Rooms big enough to hold a party in. "Don't you worry, Little Master," he hoisted me up on his shoulders. I liked it when he did that, "Deet will be all right. He loves it here. He wanted to tell you, but he was scared."

"But why, Armand?" I whined, "What did I do to him? Should I not have told him to come?"

"No, you did right, child," Armand told me, as he greeted my parents on the porch and carried me on up. Only Armand could get away with that.

Back to my rooms, where Bertrand was waiting for me.

Gods, I hated those rooms. What I wouldn't have given to spend my evening with the stable boys, cooking sausages, telling stories, and laughing with them. But no, I got dry, tough bird and Miss Elise and a stupid hairstyle and hot clothes…

I pulled off those sweaty clothes, left them in a heap on the floor, and crawled into bed. Bertrand was already asleep, carried off by Miss Morgana's potion again. At least he wasn't suffering.

"Maybe I can take two weeks off school," I told him, but he didn't hear me. If I remember right, I didn't sleep much that night.

The boys have dinner with the girl down the road, who is very interested in eunuch boys. Our Narrator, Andreas, senses a coming problem with this.

Now that I've thoroughly embarrassed poor Bertrand, I'm sure he'll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of this endeavor! Probably a good thing, as I'll have someone to tell me what I've gotten correct, and what I've gotten totally wrong. He's also reminded me that I've been somewhat shortsighted in that I've not even told you name. My apologies for that. Thank all that my parents didn't stick me with 'Basil'; sometimes I think there a million of them out there. Or worse yet, 'Simon'. You yell 'SIMON!' and half the men in the crowd look around! Of course, it could have been much worse. We had a boy at school unfortunate enough to be named 'Charegiselus'. I don't think he learned how to spell it until he was ten.

I was luckier with 'Andreas'. Bertrand couldn't say it properly at first, when we were little, and it always came out 'Anders'. We compromised on 'Andy'. It drove Father crazy. I liked that.

Now that you've met Dieter and Eryk, and a few of the others, you're probably wondering about some of my strange behaviour. Don't worry, we'll get back to my friends in a bit. And yes, they might have been Contracteds, as we sometimes called the boys on apprenticeships, but they were my friends. They were the ones, along with slaves that I also called friends, who shaped the person I became. Honestly, without them, I think I'd have flung myself over a cliff before I was of age. But back to me. After all, that's why you're reading this, isn't it? To listen to me prattling on and on about my exciting life? Well, we're not going to get too far unless you have something of a 'lay of the land', as it were.

But don't worry, Bertrand will keep us on the task, I'm sure.

My behaviour. I'm sure that if one were to ask Father, he could describe it in one word: 'difficult'. For instance, my having a collar. I'll explain that better later on, but there were a few reasons that I liked having it, and often insisted upon wearing it. First of all, as you've probably guessed, I had always had this notion that Bertrand having to wear one, while I didn't, was unfair. It was even more unfair when I realized early on that he was a slave. I was the Noble boy who was supposed to have everything he wanted, after all. I suppose, if memory serves, that I was jealous of Bertrand's collar when we were little. After the nappies phase of life, and there wasn't any danger of us making a mess on the floors, we weren't dressed in clothing unless it was absolutely necessary. Less laundry, and it's easier to grab a naked boy and clean him up.

But Bertrand always had that collar around his neck, and as a child, I wanted one too. Poor Bertrand. One of my earliest memories is bumping that collar on his chin over and over, until we realized that it wasn't going to come off over his head! In fact, at that tender age, I always thought they liked Bertrand better. Dear, sweet Bertrand. It couldn't have been easy growing up as a slave boy, and especially not with me. I got him into all sorts of trouble.

As we grew older, though, and I knew what that collar actually meant for Bertrand's life, I really began to find it most unfair. Unfair to Bertrand. He was unique in that he was not only my 'body servant', they called him, but my slave. If I messed up, Bertrand got punished for it. Most unfair. Very early on, this shaped my behaviour, in that I couldn't understand why he was whipped for my mistakes. It upset me greatly, and it still does. The whole idea of Noble boys not being whipped or otherwise punished is ludicrous. Punish the boy who made the error. Seeing Bertrand whipped made me nearly hysterical, so in that respect, I tried to be good.

While I'll go into depth about it later, the main reason that I preferred to spend my time at home with only a collar was a matter of comfort. This took two forms: emotional and physical. Physically, clothes itched. Other than nappies, I seldom had a stitch of clothing on me until I was old enough to go to school. It itched. It bunched. I wasn't used to it. It got dirty or torn, and I got shouted at for that. Damaged badly enough, and Bertrand got whipped for it. It had to be taken care of, cleaned, put away. It was a bother. Most Commoners, and certainly Peasant children, rarely had clothing. Why should I? I recall being jealous, on coach rides, passing by a field of naked children at play without a care in the world. And there I sat, dressed up like a little doll, in hot itchy clothing.

"You cannot play with Peasants, boy," I was told. Well, why not? They all looked just like I did? What was the difference? A big one, I'd come to learn later in life.

The emotional reasons? For one, Bertrand wasn't allowed clothing. Given my protestations about it, he didn't seem to want clothing, either. He'd never had any, and wasn't at all self-consciousness of his enforced and constant nudity. After all, he was a slave. But he was also my friend, and for many years during childhood, I thought of him as my brother. Again, it was most unfair.

The other emotional reason was how the workers, slaves or not, treated me. Even as a young child, if I came toddling around, all activity ceased and focused on me. Father wanted me to see early on how things were done, and I couldn't really get that experience if everyone were worried about me and my clothing. It set me apart. It reminded everyone, especially me, that I was different – that I was not one of them. If the stable boys and shepherds and the like were all together having a good time with something, it all stopped when I showed up. They'd all snap to attention and 'sir' me, or call me 'Master'. I hated that. While I loved Bertrand, I saw right off that they didn't treat him like that. Just me. Most unfair. Even the adult workers did it. So did the Overseer.

It was probably him, Armand that is, who was the biggest factor in he, myself, and Father reaching the agreement that it would be a good idea for me to wear only a collar (other than the usual work apron, if needed) when I was to be out having 'a learning experience'. That way, everyone would be more at ease. It was a novel idea, in that it was unheard of for a Noble to be treated in such a way. I think Father thought that I'd soon tire of it, and certainly not like being treated like a slave and told what to do by men and boys that were literally my property. As I said, we'll go into further detail on that later. Suffice it to say, for now, that plan backfired on Father.

Again, it was Armand that was more than likely the cause of that. While he was very strict with the workers, and very set in having things properly done, and done his way, he could also be very kind and loving. I remember him once tending to one of the slave boys who'd been attacked by a feral dog in one of the far fields. Armand carried him into the slaves' quarters, treated his wounds, and then held him, rocking him, comforting him until he fell asleep. He took new workers in hand, and passed out praise and claps on the back to the younger ones when he was pleased. And when when one was hurt or just very sad, he was the one who got them through it.

And he pretty much ran the place. For a slave, he certainly had free reign of almost everything. He seemed to know everything, seemed able to do anything. And he was big. Very big. He could also pass out punishments, though. Yet when he did, he explained why he was doing it. And he didn't seem to like to do it. Me, I just watched as Bertrand was whipped for my errors. Grandmother seemed to delight in punishing Bertrand, but Armand wasn't like that. I liked Armand, and I wanted him to like me. I couldn't have cared less about Grandmother. Her whippings of Bertrand, while not telling me why, and her always calling him a 'weasel' made me hate her early on. And no one explained it to me like Armand did the workers. I suppose, without realizing it back then, that I wanted that same treatment. If nothing else, just the attention.

That ties in with child care. Once children were old enough, girls were pretty much raised by the mothers and their servants. Boys were raised by their fathers and their servants. If the father was too busy, then servants like Armand got landed with boys like me. However, as I was always being told that I was a Noble, there wasn't much that Armand or the others could do with me. That was mainly out of fear of how Father might react. As you'll come to see, Armand often said that I'd be the death of him. Getting my own collar, and thus being temporarily stripped of my Nobility, changed all that.

I suppose it was to teach me a lesson? Well, it did. Just the wrong one, as far as Father was concerned.

There was still a huge difference, however, as you've just seen with Bertrand and Dieter. They were eunuchs, and I wasn't. As young boys, at first glance, it wasn't always obvious. Especially if cold water were involved! Still, it was a difference, and that age, I didn't fully appreciate or understand it. As I mentioned before, if gelding was such a good idea, then why not me too? It was just another reminder. Most unfair.

On our Estate, all of the male workers, slave or Contracteds, were gelded. It didn't matter how old they were. Father insisted upon it, although our place was an exception. His main reason, I would come to understand later on, was all about sexual relations. In short, if the workers were all eunuchs, then sexual matters weren't a problem. Father thought that it freed up their minds and their time for more and better work. That, and no unexpected or unwanted babies would come along, either. It was common knowledge, although not to us boys at the time, that other Estates had slave children that were unexpected offspring of slaves, or their Masters. Legally, that could run into complications. Gelded slaves eliminated this problem, too. If a surprise baby had shown up, only Father could be to blame!

So, to sum it up – not all eunuchs were slaves, and not all slaves were eunuchs, UNLESS they worked on our Estate. Got it? I know, it's perplexing. Blame Father.

Other Nobles disagreed with this, citing that intact slaves were stronger and better suited for harder labor. I remember Father arguing his point endlessly when he'd entertain other Nobles. There was nothing worse, Father once said, than a lady escorted to her coach seeing slaves with stiff pricks tenting out their aprons or just pointing right at her, if the slave were nude! Another point was that intact slaves tended to want to mess around with the servant ladies, resulting in unexpected pregnancies that compromised the ladies' work abilities and ended with a surprise baby. The other side of that argument was that one could later sell the child. One could also keep it. Your choice.

"And you're lucky to get back the money for the accidental breeding fine!" Father would counter. He tended to get worked up over such things, and invariably call for Armand to defend his position.

"Best thing for a randy young man who can't concentrate on his work, sirs," Armand would say, "Team of stallions can't pull a plow set well, if there's a mare in heat!"

And so the arguments went on and on. Gelded slaves or intact? Which was better? In some circles, gelded ones were worth more. Still, there were others who didn't see the value. It was, Father often said, worse than arguing politics. Whatever that was?

"I think you just like the idea of being the only cock on the place!" one of Father's friends told him once. That one stuck in my head, it was so funny, as I thought of a rooster. In fact, I think it was the day we brought Bertrand home from his gelding, as I can't recall any other reason that I'd have been wandering about alone. And that voice was familiar? But then again, Father had a lot of friends. Even as a Noble, it was the rule to be seen and not heard. I decided to eavesdrop. We did a lot of that. You want to know what's going on in a house, ask the children.

"Well at least I can be certain that my boy is mine!" Father replied.

"Which one?"

"I've only got one, and I don't want another one!" Father told him bluntly.

And so the arguments about gelding went on and on.

"At least I have a boy," Father was telling him.

That would bring us to Miss Elise, yes! It was her father that come calling. You'll remember her? Elise lived on the Estate south, and she was (or thought she was) queen of all she surveyed. If there were ever a good reason to have oneself gelded, Elise was enough to make any boy run right to the Gelder! In Grandmother's eyes, I think she already had us married off.

"So, I hear you've finally got your boy's slave gelded?"

I know, eavesdropping is wrong, but I couldn't help it. You find out a lot of good information that way!

"He's in bed, yes. Held up quite well, proud of him," Father was telling him. "No screaming, struggling, begging to be spared the knife! A real soldier, that one! I think Andreas was worried that he was going to be next, though!" They both laughed.

Honestly, I wouldn't have minded at that time. I would have called it fair.

"You could always geld him, and have another boy later?"

I felt for the poor man, I honestly did. About a minute of Miss Elise was all I could tolerate, and her father had to live with her. He was one of those poor men who only seemed to be able to have daughters, just as Wolfram's father only seemed able to sire boys. Perhaps they could trade one for another with Wolfram's parents? At the rate it was going, Father had once told me, he was going to have to get Elise a haircut and put her in a boy's outfit just to save face.

I'd have paid good money to see that…

(You see what's coming, don't you?)

"So are we still on for tomorrow, old man?"

"Of course. I'm sure Andreas will be looking forward to it," Father replied.

Like hell I was! I couldn't stand the little bitch. And yes, that was how I thought of her.

It wasn't that night, of course, as Bertrand was nowhere near healed up. It was after Dieter came to us, though, so it would have been sometime that summer. Wait a moment, I'm sure Bertrand will remember. – Yes, it was just before we started palling around with Wolfram as well. Just before he went back to school, when Bertrand was deemed fit get around again. He was still sore, but he was in no danger of dying.

We might be getting a bit ahead of ourselves here in the narrative, but this was Elise, after all. She didn't like to wait. You'll see what I mean.

In short, Elise was fascinated by Bertrand's gelding, and quite put off that I'd left the dinner table in such a rush that night. She'd been hoping to see him, I'd later come to find out. That very much angered me. Bertrand had just been gelded, you know! He wasn't something to be ogled and poked fun at. I'd gotten lucky that night, in that Elise's parents wouldn't allow her to follow me to the barn under pretense of caring for my pony and our new working boy.

Bertrand and I didn't get that lucky some weeks later, though. Once again, it was dinner with Elise. Only this time, it was us going to her house.

"It's totally proper," Grandmother was saying, "Now that the little weasel's got no glands down there to get him into trouble and embarrass us!"

She meant Bertrand, of course. I was, as usual, dressed in my purple formalwear, while Bertrand wore only his collar. Well, I suppose I should say that my tunic had wanted to be purple. It was more of a bluish maroon. Purple was a really hard color to make and costly. And what about my glands? What if I freakishly and suddenly hit manhood? Wasn't I a danger?

"She only wanted us to come over so that she could stare at, and tease Bertrand," I protested, as we got into the coach.

"Stop picking at your shirt's front, Andreas!" Mother scolded me.

"It itches, and it's hot!" I remember telling her, watching as Bertrand got to his usual place, holding onto the rail at the back of the coach. It made me almost panic in that he might fall off some time. Just once, I wished he could ride inside with me… or that I could ride on the back too! It sounded exciting.

"More so, if you let go!" Bertrand always joked. That was my Bertie. Always with the joke, despite how badly they treated him.

"Yes, I'm sure you'd just love to go, looking like your slave?" Grandmother snapped at me, giving me a slap to my arm.

"I wouldn't be so hot," I muttered, "And they might toss me out!"

"She's a very nice young lady," Mother put in.

"She's almost ten," I complained, "And I don't like her."

"Noble boys have to do a lot of things they don't like, young man!" Father warned me.

He was right. So did slave boys, too. I was sure that Bertrand wasn't looking forward to it at all, either.

Gods, why do we have all that formal introduction? We know who each other is, all right? "Mister and Missus so-and-so and their Noble son, Andreas, and his bitchy old Granny have arrived!" No mention of Bertrand, though. And what about the driver and poor Dieter? Did they get dinner? Dieter was nearly a nervous wreck over his first time on the coach (any coach), and here I'd just gotten him settled down. More about that later.

We gave Bertrand a moment to tidy up in the small slaves' area, where incoming house servants were to clean up. I would have helped my friend, but oh no… Grandmother just huffed and snorted at how long he was taking to rinse off the dust and smooth what little hair he had. He was trying to look nice, after all. He came back smelling like a rosebush. Must have been some perfume in there?

"It was there, so I thought to use it?" he hissed at me, "I'd just as soon wait outside!"

"You smell like a whore from a Dark Sea brothel!" Grandmother told him.

"And how do you know, Mother?" Father wondered. That shut her up.

If introductions were tedious, then dinner was a nightmare. While the adults chatted and talked about wine, the Village Council, school, our instructor's curriculum, whether girls should be allowed to attend, blah blah blah… Bertrand and I were at the other end of the long table (about 200 seats down, it seemed) with Miss Elise and her two-dozen sisters. All right, there were four of them, and Elise was the oldest. Bertrand was made to stand behind us with a fan. I had to sit by Elise. We ate while Bertrand fanned and watched, pausing to fill cups and fetch things. He'd get to eat after dinner, with the rest of the help. Leftovers. I knew people with dogs that sat on their laps and ate at table.

It made me angry.

"You're upset, Andy?" Elise wondered, looking very pretty, I had to admit, in her finery. The woven flower tiara was a bit much, though.

"You noticed?" I sniffed. Bird! Why did everyone serve roast bird? Just once, I wanted a big slab of half-raw fish, or a nice fat pork sausage.

"So how is Bertie?" she asked.

"His name is Bertrand," I corrected her. And steamed carrots? From last season? Really? What was next – turnip pâté? "Why don't you ask him? He's not mute, and just there!" I pointed at him.

She looked at him, but didn't ask. Bertrand smiled at her and topped off her drink. Weak tea with a touch of honey.

"I'm recovered, almost fully. Thank you," Bertrand told me, which I told her.

"He's allowed to speak to me, you know," Elise sniffed.

I held up a knife. "Want me to cut your tongue out now, Bertie?" he grinned.

"You're awfully familiar with your slave boy?" Elise wondered, giving Bertrand an appraising look, and nibbling at a buttered carrot.

"Familiar? Why wouldn't I be? We do everything together! I don't let him out of my sight!"

"You even bathe together?" Elise winked.

"YES! What of it?" I retorted.

The younger girls giggled, and they'd been sneaking glances at Bertrand's prick. Finishing their meals, a serving girl escorted them out. She was dressed in a plain dress, but it was cut to accentuate her youthful curves. I'd imagined that Elise's father had picked it out.

"Ah, love," I could hear Grandmother saying.

"Ah, jousting," Father corrected her. "This is a nice wine!"

I could smell the wine from there. It was swill. I liked wine, and that wasn't wine.

"Aren't you hungry, Andreas?"

"NO!"

"Then I could give you the tour!" Elise smiled, as Bertrand scooted her chair out for her. I got up by myself.

"You hungry?" I asked Bertrand.

"I had soup at home, Master, no," Bertrand grinned at me as another older girl joined us. I could see the adults watching us.

"Lovely, isn't she?" Elise's father asked, and I was beginning to see a pattern.

"Shouldn't they have another escort?" Grandmother asked.

"Bertrand is gelded, and Andreas wouldn't know what to do with a girl," Father replied. He was right. At that point in time, at least. Not that I would have wanted to, even if I had known. And certainly not with Elise.

"Elise's maid will handle any problems, I'm sure," her father told mine.

"They're children, for gods' sake!" Elise's mother complained.

"That's the problem," I heard Mother mutter, the first thing she's said all night, as the ladies got up to do whatever it is that ladies do. Gossip in the parlor? Knit? Drink?

As we toured the house, the first time I'd ever been dragged past the dining room, I noticed that it wasn't much different from ours. Whoever built it must have known the people who designed ours? Elise rambled on and on about this and that and the other. She finally began directing her chatter at Bertrand, who politely replied as was expected.

"My rooms have a lovely terrace, where you can see the stars," Elise then said, "And my maid will escort us. I expect you both to act like gentlemen?"

Did gentlemen jump off terraces? We didn't have a terrace at home.

There was another maid just tidying up Elise's rooms, which were as large as my own. We went out on the terrace, and the maid lit the lamps.

"Isn't it lovely out?" Elise asked.

"It's hot and sticky, and the mosquitoes are out," I grumbled, "And it's light out. What stars?" Bertrand and I just stood there.

"Oh, sit down!" she told us, then she grabbed Bertrand's hand and shoved him at a chair. He gasped. So did I. Elise was studying us, I thought – like a cat stalking a rat.

"Did it… did it hurt badly?" she then asked Bertrand shyly, "When they… cut you?"

That was it. I got back up. But before I could say anything, Bertrand did.

"It was the most awful pain of my life, Miss," he nodded. "It still hurts a bit to sit."

"They do that, don't they, so you can't ever do anything with girls?" she leaned in closer to him, sneaking a peek at his scar, "You do know about that, don't you?"

Well of course we did! We watched animals mating all the time, and we had Eryk for advice, you know, and I told her that.

"Boys are so obnoxious," Elise sniffed.

"So I can't make babies, and yes, Miss, so I'll be no good to a girl when I grow up," Bertrand headed that one off.

So, apparently girls like Elise knew about mating too? That was a surprise. It was also a surprise when she patted Bertrand's cheek. "And you'll never have a beard, will you?"

"No, Miss. Which isn't bad. The Master complains about shaving his face every day."

"I've never seen a eunuch boy this close before," Elise admitted, "Of course I know what they are. I was always curious. Is that…" she pointed at Bertrand's scar, "Healing well? Will you be all right now? I have some skin cream? It's very soothing."

"What do you CARE?" I demanded of her, "And NO! You can't touch it!"

Elise blushed. It was clear that she was about to ask. How rude, I thought. "I think it looks very nice, not having that little pouch," she then added hastily, "Not that I've seen many. Our male slaves wear aprons, as it offends Mother. I'm always worried about what some of father's men might get up to. I think he should geld all of them, as your father does."

"Hang on, so why did your mother invite Bertrand, too?" I had to ask.

"Because he's just adorable!" Elise rolled her eyes, and got up to fetch that skin cream. "His skin looks a bit dry."

"You looked that close? THANKS!" I snatched the jar and gave it to Bertrand, demanding we not watch while he used a bit.

"Thank you!" Bertrand nodded.

"You're adorable, you know?" I told him.

"I know," Bertrand smiled back.

"Is it true that you take in boys as apprentices, and geld them as well?" Elise then asked. She sure was good at speaking her mind.

"We do," I sort of grunted, "Dieter is minding the coach, along with Mattias, the driver. He usually gardens. But Dieter isn't a slave. Father believes it's a good, safe way for an aspiring boy to get to be a eunuch."

"Was I aspiring, Master?" Bertrand asked, taking his rôle a bit too seriously.

"No, you were a baby," I reminded him.

"Thank you, Bertrand," Elise then patted his hand, "For letting me look. I think you look lovely." she touched his collar. "Yours is much nicer than the usual slave collar? That soft material inside?"

"I made it," I just managed, stifling the urge to fling her over into the roses below.

"I think that boys look much better without that awful pouch down there, you know," she repeated, giving me a look, "I have a cousin who was gelded, but he's off at school somewhere now. I never got to see him, afterwards. He's such a kind boy, too," she mused, looking at the both of us. She smirked at me again. "Might do you some good, Andreas?"

"Bertrand has to be kind," I reminded her, ignoring that bit, "Or they'll whip him."

"I didn't mean it like that! You're so rude, Andreas!" she told me flatly, "I know you didn't want to come! You Noble boys all think you have it so bad, don't you?"

"You don't know the half of it, Miss!" I retorted, tempted to tell her about working.

"Yes, I hear you work," she headed me off, "You're not as soft as the rest, like that Wolfram boy down the way? I hear he's sickly? Didn't they geld him, too?"

"Miss, I do not think this conversation appropriate," the maid cut in.

"I'll tell you when it's appropriate, Anna!" Elise snapped at her, and Anna nodded and went back inside. She turned back to us. "You all have school in the nude, don't you? My cousin said he did. Even after they gelded him."

I nodded. "Wolfram's glands were bad," I fibbed, "He's still not healthy. I worry for him," I admitted. And then, "The other boys won't have a thing to do with him now." I have no idea why I said that to her. Like she'd care?

"He's such a pretty boy," Elise went on, "Too bad he'll never marry, or have the Estate. But he'll live, I think. And that's important. You're his friends, aren't you?"

WHY did girls get like this? Did they all take drama lessons in their classes or some such?

"Yes, we are, Miss," Bertrand agreed, "I like Master Wolfram. He's the only other boy at school who's polite to me."

"It's nice that you're his friends," Elise told us, "I'm sorry I'm putting you out so, this evening. I don't know much about boys, you see. Maybe I'll sneak a peek at your classes? It must be exciting, riding horses or running to school? Outdoor athletics, nude? Whatever boys do? Swim? Archery? Sport?"

"Work, study, work, but yes, some play time," I admitted. "I'd rather work than study."

"I'd rather study, sir," Bertrand put in.

"You have a kind voice, Bertrand," Elise told him, touching his pert nose. "You both have the cutest noses!" she giggled, giving mine a poke that made me sneeze. "I'm sorry, we're studying art, boys. My tutor says that I'm quite the talented one." she went and fetched a sketch for us to see.

"WHAT is she on about, Andy?" Bertrand gasped, "Is she mad?"

"I don't know! I've never talked to a girl before, for this long!"

Elise's sketches were very good. We looked at ones of flowers, horses, ladies, her father, the house, and anything else around in her book as she prattled on and on…

"…and Mother's always on about cooking and baking, even if you have servants. Telling me all about how to catch a husband," Elise said.

"Can't help you there, Miss," Bertrand joked, and she laughed. She touched his short hair.

"It's the same color as yours, Andreas," she observed.

"Common shade," I sighed.

"I'm usually kept shaven bald in the summer, Miss," Bertrand told her.

"What I wouldn't give to have short hair. It's so hot," Elise complained, and I knew that feeling. "Or to just go and swim whenever, in cold water? Just take a pony and go? Perhaps hunt – kill a stag?"

She certainly had romantic notions of what boys did all day?

"But you have lessons in finishing, decorum, and all that? Art? Art of conversation? Handwriting, poetry?" Bertrand wondered. Gods, he was saving me from her! I loved him for it. He knelt down beside her. "It's not much fun, is it? Being told what to do, when to do it, and how, Miss?"

"Oh! You'd know, wouldn't you?" Elise sniffled, pulling her handkerchief. I nearly threw up at her performance. "Do you hate them for it, boy? What they did to you… down there?" she glanced at his gelding scar again.

"Oh, no!" Bertrand didn't hesitate at all, "It's just how it is, Miss! Like… like your lessons, or those hot clothes? And having to act just so? We're just both… slaves to our own Masters, aren't we? What's the use in being angry? But no, Miss. Sometimes, when I'm not collared, I could run away. All our slaves could, but we never do. Andreas is just as good as my brother, and I love him. And he loves me. We do everything together, and even if I didn't have to do everything he does, I would."

I wasn't sure what to say about that. We told each other that all the time, usually under duress, like after a whipping, or after Bertrand's gelding. But to say it to her?

Elise then turned to the lurking Anna. "Not a word, woman!"

Anna just nodded. Gods, I couldn't imagine being her slave!

"So, tell me all about what boys do, then?" Elise then asked. The adults were talking on the patio below, I could hear. And drinking. All of them together. That was unusual, and they were probably eavesdropping on us. Actually, the ladies were talking to one another, as were the men. Grandmother was cutting in now and again to offer her opinion.

"Oh, wait!" Elise then jumped up, and returned with a pencil set and her sketch pad. She put on a fresh leaf of paper and ordered Bertrand to sit on the rail, just so. "May I?" she asked, and I sighed. I nodded. She put one of his legs up, the other down. She moved his arm, feeling his muscle. Of course, she had a clear view of his groin.

I rolled my eyes. How brash of her, touching my Bertrand like that!

"Now sit still! Look up!" Elise told him, "Please! Oh, that's very nice, Bertie!"

I didn't correct her.

"You know, other than my cousins, I've never touched boys before!" Elise giggled, "But now I'm too old to play with them, they say."

"All you did was pose me, Miss," Bertrand replied. Gods, better him than me! If our parents knew…

So, we talked. Elise drew. Elise talked. We told her all about school, the other boys, working, and what we did for fun. She could draw and talk at the same time.

"It sounds like such fun!" she then exclaimed, turning the paper to show us.

The likeness was uncanny. In fact, it was frightening. It was as if Bertrand were really there, smaller, on that paper. At school, we'd once seen one of our instructor's works of art – angels, he called the, but they looked like eunuchs to us. We would later find out that any Deity or His henchmen were depicted as such. Elise had given her drawing of Bertrand a halo and glow, but no prick.

"Do I really look like that?" Bertrand asked me. I could only nod. I was impressed, I admit.

"Oh, your days sound like they're just packed!" Elise sighed again. She blushed. "I didn't think it proper to draw your…"

"Never mind," I cut her off.

"What would you do then, Miss, if you could?" Bertrand wondered.

Elise blinked at him. "Why, all the things I'm not allowed!"

"If I may?" Bertrand went on, and she smiled at him. He knelt and took her hand. Where did he learn this stuff? "The next time you see your boy cousins, pinch a set of clothes. Find a boy's hat. Hide your hair, and dress up! Sneak off with them, have a day! Bribe a slave to take you, make up a story."

I had to admit, he had a good idea there! My luck, she'd do it with us. I had to admit, though, being a girl sounded awfully dull.

"Elise," I finally said, still amazed at the drawing of Bertrand, "Just… look, Anna isn't going to tell, so just talk, all right? You won't embarrass us, and all this girly-stuff is making me nervous!"

"It's not very ladylike," she admitted.

"You've been dancing around something for an hour," I complained.

Elise blushed deeply. Then she said it: "What's it like, seeing a gelding? Will you tell me?" she almost begged, "I sometimes imagine it, but as I'll never see one?"

We both just sat there, stunned. Bertrand's face went very pink.

So I'd been wrong…

Looking back, I think the little minx, being a bit older than us, might have known things! I didn't dare ask. After all, THAT was the last thing I'd expected her to throw at us. It made me wonder just what those bored ladies got up to, when the men weren't around all day? Mother sometimes said that girls matured faster than us boys, so did this put Miss Elise on par with Eryk?

"That's not very ladylike!" I had to agree.

"I never claimed to be one, at least, not right now!" Elise replied haughtily. "You boys! You're all the same – act all proper and such for our benefit, and when we turn our backs, you're belching, breaking wind, pissing on trees, telling crude jokes! Now – OUT with it!"

"It's, ah…," Bertrand stammered, blushing worse.

"Yes, it's very…?" I added helpfully.

"Crowded!" Bertrand squeaked.

"Do tell?" Elise smiled sweetly. She wasn't letting us get away so easily. I suppose we could have jumped, rosebushes or not?

"Well," I began, "It's a village event, you see. Almost everyone, the Commoners, come to watch, you know. And it's not just boys. That is, they only do it once a month, through the spring and summer. It's a lot like a festival. Shoppes do a great trade, food, drink, shopping, and the crowds?"

"Yes, the crowds," Bertrand added nervously. After all, he'd been the one strapped to that gelding table and had his future manhood taken away right there in front of everyone! "Most times, they're gelding slaves. Older boys and men. Criminals, even!" He nodded quickly, hoping to soon be done with this talk, I could tell.

So was I.

"Gods, what if your parents find out?" I worried.

"They won't!" Elise grinned deviously.

What HAD I gotten us into?

"You've been to festivals?" I wondered. Elise nodded. "Same thing, sort of. Crowds, vendors, a good time," I seemed to be stuck.

"Then there's the Gelder's shop, it's kind of an exposed office," Bertrand cut in, "You know he's also sort of like the physician? He's not always… gelding! Sometimes he's tending to broken bones, or other hurts."

"I just can't believe he cuts boys' parts off in front of everyone!" Elise declared, "Slave or not, I think it's rude! He should do it in private." She patted Bertrand's hand again. I found that odd, the way she snapped at her own serving girls.

"Everyone watches," Bertrand mumbled, perhaps encouraged? "After you're washed up, the Gelder and his assistant strap you down to this table and put a gag in your mouth to bite down on. Then he ties up your pouch with a leather string to cut off the blood to it, so you don't bleed to death." Bertrand shrugged. "When the pouch turns colors, he slices it off fast with a hot knife, then burns the wound shut with a small hot iron. In a few weeks, the tie falls off," he pointed to his scar, "And you're a eunuch!"

"What does he do with the bits?" Elise wondered. "Is it very bloody?"

What? Bloody? Girls didn't talk like that!

"Oh, yes, blood everywhere," I humored her.

"They're, uhm, well… they're put in a jar… sometimes? Sometimes, if it's a criminal, he throws them in the fire," I just went ahead and told her. Miss Elise was fidgeting in her chair, almost as if she had to visit the toilet? Or she had an unladylike itch? (Of course I'd later learn what she was on about! She was getting aroused. Maybe she was more mature?)

"Did you get to keep yours, Bertie?" she then asked.

Bertrand's face was red by then, and he could only nod. Elise had taken up a hand fan. It was rather warm in the room. My prick was stiff, too, and I was trying to hide it with my legs crossed, which pinched my glands. Not that it was difficult to hide something that small. I swore that if she asked to see that jar the next time she visited us, I'd murder her!

"I'd like to have a cute little eunuch serving boy," Elise then informed us, "But I'm afraid I'd be such a tease, knowing that he might like girls, but not ever be able to do anything about it. I might be cruel to him, making him help me dress, or teasing him about his useless little -"

"Elise?" Her mother stuck her head in the doorway and called, "What are you doing?"

"- nub of a charcoal stick! Fetch me a new one, boy! I'm sketching, Mother," Elise replied smoothly, "And the boys were just telling me all about the food stands at the festivals, the entertainers, and the like. Andreas has invited me to come and ride his new pony, too!"

I had?

"Ladies do not ride ponies," her mother sighed, looking flustered. I wondered if she'd been out there, listening?

"They make ladies' saddles, Ma'am?" I offered, digging my hole deeper. "Father says even the most Noble lady should know how to ride. What if there's an emergency, Ma'am?"

"We'll see about it," Elise's mother conceded, "It's time to go, boys. It's nearly dark. Mustn't be out on the roads in the dark!"

Thank all for that! We were saved. Gods only knew what Miss Elise might do with her own eunuch boy, and we didn't want to know.

We came downstairs, said our goodbyes, and Elise thoroughly embarrassed us with all that hand-kissing and bowing stuff. She even patted Bertrand's head when he bowed. "He's so cute, just like a puppy!" The adults didn't seem to approve. "Well, he's more dignified and smells better than HE does!" she pointed at me. Then she backhanded me on my upper arm! "Is Bertie for sale?"

I gaped at her. "NO!"

"Can I borrow him sometime?"

"NO – you cannot BORROW him!"

I think our parents must have liked to watch us sparring, as children were supposed to be mannerly and quiet. They were snickering as Elise put her flower tiara on Bertrand's head. Grandmother just made an unladylike noise. Elise's father squeezed Bertrand's arm and commented on how firm his muscle was. He offered Father a large gold piece for him. They started haggling. Father wanted twenty! I started to sweat.

I think Elise's mother could see our distress. "Only if they finish him up, and make a proper eunuch of him, for tending girls," she threw in, somewhat rudely for a lady, I think? And what did she know about eunuchs that tended girls? All they had were female servants.

"Excuse me? I should check on Dieter!" Bertrand scampered off.

"Woman, do you have any idea how difficult it is, or how much it costs to cut off a boy's… what he's got LEFT?" Elise's father gasped, "I could buy two good girls for that! Six, after we buy Bertrand and pay to have him trimmed up further! NO!"

And that was that. Her father winked at me on the way out. Elise gave me her little fan. "You look hot," she commented, as she curtsied and went back inside with a very flustered Anna and her girls.

"I like that girl, knows what she wants!" Grandmother was saying on the way home.

"She's rude, Mother," Father replied, "Almost as bad as you are! I'm embarrassed, and they must be totally humiliated over their little vixen!"

"You should just give that little weasel to her as a betrothal gift," Grandmother added.

"I'm not marrying her!" I protested, shoving that little fan at Mother. She laughed.

"She'll be an old maid in a few years," Grandmother sighed.

"She's not even eleven!" I protested, giving serious thought to gelding myself when we got home.

"You don't know much about girls, child," Grandmother agreed, which was unusual for her. "I was married when I was fourteen."

"And he jumped off a cliff a fortnight later," Father whispered to me, which got me to laughing.

"She likes you," Mother cut in, "She gave you a fan!" she winked at me.

"She said I smelled bad!" I countered, "Then she hit me!"

Grandmother looked pleased.

No, I didn't know much about girls – and I planned to keep it that way! No, I didn't like Elise then, and after her little performance in humiliating Bertrand, I liked her even less. He was visibly upset when we got ready for bed that night, and with good reason: an experienced servant boy, especially gelded at his age, could bring a very good price. And if Father decided to risk having Bertrand's prick taken off? He'd be worth a fortune.

If he didn't end up dead, that was.

Taking a boy's prick off wasn't as easy as simply gelding him, you know. There was a lot more blood, and the boy couldn't piss for three days. Our Gelder didn't much like doing it, even though he had a better success rate than most with it when he had to do it. Then again, he was cutting grown men, too, Father said.

"We'll run off, if Father tries to sell you," I assured Bertrand, full of boyhood bravado. "You heard what her father said! It costs too much."

In the end, Miss Morgana had to bring a tonic to settle Bertrand's nerves. I was wishing that Elise were a boy for just a short time, so that I could punch her right on the nose! They were right, as I didn't know much about girls, and I wanted to keep it that way. So long as they were doing their girly things and not under our feet, that was fine!

Worse yet, I had the awful feeling that Grandmother and Mother were right – Miss Elise liked me. Gods, if she did, we might never get rid of her!

"Poison," I wondered to myself, cuddling up with Bertrand, who was already asleep, as any number of scenarios of her demise filled my dreams that night.

"Do you take this woman…?" A monk was asking me.

"NOOOOO!" I woke up screaming… it had only been a nightmare!

Andreas and Bertrand take in a friendless little eunuch boy from school. The boys all sneak off to see a Gelding Day, where a criminal finds out the hard way how this village deals with rapists.

I think this long-winded bit could be called "Eunuchs I Have Known," and believe me, I've known a great many! This little memoir is mainly about my friend Wolfram, with a little bit of Bertrand and Dieter.

Being bored and complaining about it, Father said, was a sure sign that Bertrand was on the mend and would be up soon. At almost two weeks, his tie fell off and left an angry, round, pink scar. I kept him entertained in the evenings, bringing him schoolwork and dinner. I'd had no luck in my skipping class arguments, and I had a nervous Dieter to deal with when we did our school work in the evenings. I kept Bertrand clean and changed his bandage, and Father joked that we had traded places: I was now the servant for the slave, and never left Bertrand's side when he was awake.

I wasn't gelded, though, and it was painfully obvious that Bertrand was. Every time I saw him without the bandage, I was reminded. Every time I saw any of the workers, especially Dieter or Eryk, I was reminded.

Still, we didn't understand the arguments, for or against, routine or Noble geldings. Wolfram was the only one of those around, and this tale is mainly about him.

"What difference does it make, having glands, if you're Noble or not?" Bertrand asked me, near the end of his convalescence. "Who wants to shave his face or make babies?"

I agreed. "And squirting that white stuff out looked painful to me," I added, "I hope I don't have to do it anytime soon!"

"You won't," Father assured us, having sneaked in on us, "Not for many more years. And it wasn't painful, boys. To a man, or a boy who is becoming one, it feels very nice. Why do you think the male animals go crazy to mate, if the female is in heat?"

"It didn't look nice, sir," I mumbled.

"Neither does Miss Morgana's meat pie, but it tastes good," Father answered. Well, he had us there. "And speaking of, it's time that little Lord Bertie got up out of his sickbed and came down to dinner properly. It's been nearly two weeks."

Father liked to call him that. He thought it was funny, but it hadn't always been so. I'll tell you about that later. It made Grandmother nearly hysterical, too. I think that's why he did it. Of course, having Dieter come in for lessons, even wearing his work apron, had caused her to take to her bed in shock. I figured if I got another servant boy to help out, it just might kill her!

Normally, servants and slaves or employees didn't dine with the family. However, as Father had acquired Bertrand when he'd been but a baby, no one had ever thought to assign him to the other household servants. They had just raised us together, which, I often overheard the adults gossiping, was highly unusual. That, and my screaming fits and refusal to eat without him, Mother had told me, had turned the trick and ensured his place at the family table. Not that Mother had done much work with us; we were brought up by serving maidens before handed over to the men.

And I just couldn't resist it that night. I had to do it. It was so hot, so I didn't dress for dinner. I also put my work collar on, and Bertrand wore his slave collar. The only difference was the imprint in the leather, you know. His was stamped SLAVE, and mine was stamped WORKER. And that was all we wore. Well, it was all that Bertrand ever wore.

"Most spoiled little slave boy I ever did see," Grandmother often reminded us, even though Bertrand was always the one to fill my plate and goblet. "A proper serving boy should have a collar around his neck, standing naked behind his master with a fan, who'd be DRESSED for dinner!" she'd always point out to Father, "You treat him like another son, instead of the slave that he is. It's humiliating, having the guests see him at table with us! What will they think?" It was the same old speech, every time, guests or not.

"Who cares what they think?" I always muttered.

"Elise likes me," Bertrand would sometimes say.

Then Grandmother noticed me coming in, naked but for my collar, and fainted – falling right over backwards out of her chair!

"Is she dead?" I gasped, as Father and the servants tended to her.

"No, just a faint, sir," one of the scullery girls pointed out.

"Pity," I mumbled to Bertrand, as we were unable to keep from laughing when Father dumped a pitcher of iced water on her head. Wicked old shrew she was!

About our collars: They were made of iron wrapped in thick leather and stamped with our family's name. Also, the word 'SLAVE' or 'WORKER'. They had brass fittings and locks. The leather was woven around the iron, so it could be replaced if needed. I think I've mentioned that? Bertrand only wore his on special occasions: meetings with other Estate owners, big parties, entertaining potential customers for our goods, and basically anything formal that required our presence and being shown off. Thank goodness there weren't many of those! I wore mine when working.

I hated it that Bertrand had to wear his to school, since he was off the property. The other boys always teased him about it, and once, one of them even brought a leash! Of course our instructor whipped him for it, as Bertrand was one of his prized pupils. I think that was why the other Noble boys hated him so.

First thing we did when we got home was take his collar off. It was one thing I wouldn't budge on, whipping or not. At home, I was the master of Bertrand's collar. But I liked working in mine. It made me fit in. Those times that I worked at something fun, learning new things from Armand and the other older, wiser workers were great. Those days where no one was calling me 'sir' or acting afraid of me. Those days when I could be 'just a stable boy' and not some made-up little doll, entertaining the likes of Miss Elise and her adoring parents. But, they were kind to Bertrand?

Things were back to normal after Bertrand was back up, though. He wasn't supposed to do any hard work for another week, the Gelder had said, after the scab below the tie where his pouch had been had fallen off. Not that he did hard work, anyway. We went back to school, and everyone approved of his gelding. Our instructor thought it had turned out nicely, lecturing about how his little round, pink scar had turned out just right. But the other boys still teased him, and Bertrand was still sore.

"You won't ever be any good to a girl now, Slave!" Some of them laughed.

"I only have to be good for my master," Bertrand brazenly retorted, which only made the Noble boys laugh all the more. I didn't see why that was funny, but, again, I'd find out some time later.

"You should see a Gelding Day," I changed the subject, still thinking often of watching those young men, helpless and frightened, strapped to the Gelder's table to be unmanned. There would be one in less than two weeks.

"I hear it's wicked fun!" One of the boys remarked.

"Not for the boy getting cut," Wolfram added.

"Wicked painful," Bertrand muttered.

Hearing him say that made me sick to my stomach, too. But leave it to Bertrand to make me feel better. He wanted to come home, play sick, put our collars on, then sneak out to see Armand and find something to do. After all, he'd been in bed for two weeks.

He didn't have to ask twice!

"You socialize with your slaves?" Wolfram asked, as we walked home. Wolfram rode his pony, as his parents thought him too frail to walk so far. It wasn't even half an hour?

"Yes, it's great fun!" I told him, "You should come over for dinner, after we sneak out!"

Having another Noble boy come visiting wasn't that uncommon, but as I didn't care for any of them, it was just as bad as having dinner with Elise. I was sure Wolfram's parents would let him come. I'd never asked him before, though. He looked confused. "I'd love to come!" he squeaked in surprise. Turned out, he'd never been to anyone else's home before, or ever had anyone else over. I'd never considered him, because I'd thought he was just like the rest of them. He'd never asked me, either.

"He's a shy, sad little boy," Bertrand said, as we arrived home. And he was right. Wolfram was about as different as you could get: blond, small, sickly, a firstborn son, Noble, and a eunuch. The only one of those around.

"I don't think he's got any friends?" I wondered.

"He's got us," Bertrand replied.

***

After school, we sneaked up to my chambers and I got my collar. Dieter came up, nearly died of shock seeing me with my collar on, and we did schoolwork. He was improving every day, and it turned out, he wasn't stupid. He'd just never been taught.

We used a lot of paper, though, and Father kept that in his desk. And we were out that evening. I went down to get some, and when he closed and locked the drawer, I saw something marked THE BOYS at the bottom. But he shut it before I could ask.

When we were done, we dodged servants and Grandmother, made our way to the big barn, and begged Armand to give us something to do. And we told him about Wolfram. He knew what I was up to, and he put us to making new rope. The big fat ones that you made from weaving smaller ropes. When Father came looking for us when Wolfram arrived, Armand simply stood there and pointed at us. "That boy be the death of me yet, Master," he sighed dramatically.

And Father believed it. He knew what I was up to.

"Young Master," he told Wolfram formally, but smirking at us, "It seems that your new friend has gotten himself into trouble with the Overseer? I'd be humiliated to see you socialize with this lot?"

"It's all right, sir," Wolfram replied, "Father says I should see how they work, and that Armand is the best Overseer in the Province?" He nodded to Armand. Ingratiating himself, he was! He was in on the plan.

"It's nice to know that some poor Noble has one good son around here," Father threw up his hands, but it was all an act. He knew what we'd planned, too. He always did.

When he'd gone, Armand turned to Wolfram. "Aren't you hot in them clothes, child?" Wolfram blinked at his familiar tone, not used to it. Then he grinned and stripped his good clothes off. I thought Dieter would faint as Eryk hung up Wolfram's shed garb.

"You're a eunuch, young sir!"

Wolfram just grinned. "So are you, Dieter?"

Dieter did faint. Somehow, we were going to have to get him over this problem of his.

We had sausages and fried potato chunks for dinner that night with the stable crew. Wolfram learned how to make rope. It was great. It also got Dieter over his fears, when he saw me naked and collared and working with Eryk and them all. I didn't think I deserved that swat to my bare butt for working slowly, but Armand did it for Dieter's benefit. Armand was good that way, even if it did sting. Wolfram thought it was hilarious. I also slipped Armand a silver coin. I knew where the money was hidden, you know, and how to get in to Father's treasury. "When you take Dieter's papers to the village, find me a boy with lice and buy his hat, would you?"

"You wouldn't?!" Wolfram gasped, grasping his long, tied-back, blond mane.

"It's hot, and I hate the way Grandmother does up my hair, like a girl's!" I told him.

"Wish I could get mine cut," Wolfram sighed.

"Fall in a pitch bucket," Armand suggested innocently, winking at me. (Hey, it works? You can't wash that stuff out.)

"I'm not allowed outside with the workers," Wolfram sniffled, "If Mother knew I was out here, she'd probably lock me in my rooms for years!"

"Eryk, why don't you take a fast horse to Wolfram's? See if he can stay the night?" I thought it up right then.

"I don't want to be a bother?" Wolfram protested. "A maid would have to make up a room, and…"

"Room's all ready, boy!" Armand pointed at the ceiling, to the hay loft, and laughed.

Another first for Wolfram. And he never even sneezed once.

And about that hat thing? Long story short, we had to fumigate the barn three days later for lice when I got the hat. I wore it for two days. My rooms were scrubbed top to bottom, and my bedding and clothing all boiled. I didn't get to go to the next Gelding Day, either, even though I asked. All the stable hands got their heads shaved – me included! Bertrand was used to it, and Grandmother was beside herself and spent a week in bed. My hair had just gotten long enough again to do up, since the last shave – where I'd stuck my head in a bucket of pitch. And I was glad to be rid of that hot mop! Those dumb ribbons and metal ornaments and pins went in a drawer where they belonged.

Looking back, I guess I wasn't the typical Noble brat. But if it hadn't been for evenings like that, I'd not have become the person I am now.

And speaking of, I still wanted to know what THE BOYS file in Father's desk was? It had to be about us, didn't it?

***

It was near the end of summer, with so much to tend to at the Estate, that school closed for a while so that the boys could help work. As if Nobles worked?

Well, Bertrand and I worked alongside the slaves. Father just tried to look busy. In fact, most of the family did one thing or another, usually management. Mother was with child again, finally, as they were worried that I might be killed in some accident or carried off by some plague and leave them all with no heir. I proposed that Bertrand could take my place if that happened, but they only laughed at us. We didn't know that a eunuch slave boy couldn't inherit anything, even if I declared him free, and thought it most unfair.

"Don't you want a baby brother or sister?" My mother asked me.

"No! I've got Bertrand," I told her, which didn't go over well.

"Can't Father get some concubines or something, if they need another boy so bad? Then you wouldn't have to do all the work, Mother?" I asked. I didn't see what was wrong with that. Wolfram's father had concubines? And a passel of kids. Mother didn't see it that way, but I think she was considering it!

Just so you know, Father did have more children with Mother later on, and more with some of the household girls. He paid them very well for it, and I had more siblings than I thought I needed. Another long story…

Turning nine that summer caused a problem, too, just as birthdays always did. No one knew when Bertrand's day of birth was, so I always insisted we celebrate his with mine. It wasn't fair that no one cared about his, nor made him a special dinner, nor got him gifts. I always shared my things with him. What I did, he did. Where I went, he went. That was the year I decided to dress him up in a set of my formal clothes, too, for 'my' party. Our party.

We could have been twin Noble brothers when we stepped into the dining room.

In short, it was a scandal. Some of my guests even left. Good riddance! (Elise stayed) It was also one of the rare times that Father actually whipped me, and when he was done, he went for Bertrand. Most of the Nobles had whipping boys. The way it worked was, that when a Noble boy messed up, they beat the whipping boy and not him. It was supposed to make the Noble boy feel so bad for the other boy that he'd not misbehave again.

It seldom worked. Most of the Nobles I knew found it amusing to get away with anything, when their whipping boys got thrashed for it.

But Bertrand was my servant, and my best friend. I would no longer permit it, I decided that day. It was quite the role reversal.

It was illegal to dress up a slave boy like a Noble, you see – but I'd done it anyway. A whipping didn't stop me, either. Father understood, of course, but he was still angry at losing face. I had embarrassed him. After my whipping, he explained it all, told me how much he loved me, and then gave me Bertrand's whipping.

Never mind that Bertrand hated those clothes as much as I did. I couldn't sit for a week when it was over, but it was worth it. Bertrand couldn't believe it and cried for hours. Father made him wear his slave collar for a month straight. He also put heavy cuffs on our wrists and ankles, but didn't put the chains on. Me, I got the same too, and Armand worked my tail off.

"You want it to be fair, boy? I'll give you fair! You can be a slave for a while!" Father told me.

It was great – if not unheard of!

Grandmother and Mother were so embarrassed by our antics that we were exiled to the barn for the whole month, too. We had to eat all our meals with Dieter and Eryk and the crew, which amazed them. We even had to sleep in the hay loft, although Dieter offered to share his bed. Damn. It was all he had in the world, and he was willing to share it.

It was the best month of my life so far.

This was not to say that we didn't have time for fun, though. Eventually, our exile ended. Those days were the best of my life, like I said, and I'd give all I have now to relive just one of them. There was fishing, riding, swimming, and all sorts of things to keep us busy. We were allowed back in the house. I asked Father what I'd have to do to get punished so again.

"Nice try," was all he said, and that was that. He knew what I was doing, and I think he respected it – even if he didn't understand it.

We even went with Wolfram that summer on a short trip to visit his grandparents in the next Province – our first time so far away from home. We all had a wonderful time, even though Wolfram's extended family pretty much ignored him. That was fine by us, though, as Wolfram's young cousins got on well with us and we had plenty to do.

Poor Wolfram. Looking back, I can see now that Bertrand and I were his only real friends. He came to our place, and he often called on us to come to his. I never saw another of our school peers there, or heard him talk about them outside of classes. It was obvious that they saw him as different, as he was a rare Noble eunuch. I thought he was lucky, and told him so often enough. His parents loved us, especially Bertrand. Not sure why?

"Are you talking about those two heathens?" Father asked them at dinner one night at our place. One of those dress-up social events, where they'd ask to take us along. We played nice, though, since it was Wolfram's family, and we wanted to go. I dressed, and Bertrand was the perfect slave boy for us.

Wolfram's parents were concerned that he'd be lonely on that long trip, and might take ill with melancholia or something else fatal. It would be a huge setback for him, and could we possibly come along to keep him company? After all, since he'd started seeing us regularly, his condition had so much improved. We were all he talked about. I wondered what they'd think if they'd known that our work regimen was what was curing him?

I think Father understood the problem, though, just as I did: no one liked Wolfram because he was gelded, like I said, and the fact that I now had a Noble friend was important to Father, too. That, and Wolfram had one of those countenances, that, if he turned on the tears, adults would just go all to bits over him and he'd win every time.

So we got to go. Long story, but I'll share a bit…

We sneaked off to see Gelding Day, at my insistence, of course! Not a day went by that I didn't think about it, and I began to notice that when I did, my prick would always stiffen. The day we went with Wolfram, we took one of his grandfather's slaves with us. He was a very large man, olive-skinned with a black stubble over his shaven head. Most of the slave eunuchs got that way, you know – large and imposing. We swore him to secrecy and bribed him. He had been gelded just at the start of his manhood, Wolfram told us. That had made him a bit more muscular than average, with a larger than average (but still useless) prick. His name was Basil, a common name in his homeland. Armed as he was, it was unlikely that anyone would would trouble us.

"I still don't think this a good idea, young Masters," Basil told us, "It's illegal to masquerade as slave boys!"

"But I am a slave?" Bertrand joked.

"We've got forged documents," I reminded Basil, rubbing my freshly shaven scalp and fingering the child's slave collar around my neck that Wolfram had sneaked from his grandfather's shop. It said my name was Tomas and that I belonged to their family. "And we're just going into the village to get things for the Masters. They all know you in town, Basil, it will be fine," I told him, as we cantered along on the horses. It was a painful reminder that I was not a eunuch.

"And what if someone sees you, not even cut at your age, Master? What if I get in trouble? What if they throw you on that gelding table? Your Father will have my head!" Basil fretted.

I thought I should be so lucky, as to be mistakenly gelded.

"No, he won't," Wolfram assured him, looking miserable in his Noble outfit. After all, someone had to do it, and Wolfram was known in his grandparents' village. He couldn't have succeeded with my disguise; his hair, for one thing. "His mother might have a boy this time, so that baby boy could inherit the Estate if Andreas gets gelded or killed. An heir is an heir, even a concubine's son if the Master claims him. Shit, I'm the oldest, and they gelded me!"

"You were a frail, sickly, little thing, young Master," Basil reminded him, "Castration were just what you needed, child. Last time I saw you, you looked awful. Now you look good." (We called it 'gelding'; Basil called it 'castration'.)

That gave me an idea, too! Maybe I'd get lucky, and Mother would have twin boys? All the way into the village, I daydreamed about it. I even fantasized about being exposed and gelded. By the time we got there, my glands were so sore that I was ready to volunteer for the Gelder's table! "You're the lucky one," I told Wolfram again.

"Thanks for coming," he whispered to me.

Another long story, but Wolfram had a passel of little brothers, what with all his father's women. He couldn't inherit the Estate, even though he was a Noble – because he was a eunuch – but he did all right in life. Looking back, he was such a sweet boy. I didn't know how anyone could not like him.

Gelding Day in any village was much the same: crowds of people, even women, young and old, Common and Peasant, and Nobles. Stands and shoppes were open, and all doing a fair trade. It was like a small festival. We emptied our coin pouches by the end of that day, and all went home feeling a bit sick from indulgence.

One good thing about Wolfram's misery in his finery was that it got us a front row view of the festivities. I got more than a few looks and questions, too, but Basil explained that I was 'a bleeder'.

I confess myself disappointed.

"Hell's fire! I'd kill him, and have to pay for him!" The Gelder exclaimed, which brought much laughter. "What are you doing with a defective like him, Wolfie?" he asked my friend. Wolfram just shrugged and told him that I'd be sold off very soon. Slick!

"He remembers all the boys he cuts," Wolfram told us, "It's not often he gets to cut a Noble like me."

Well, that explained that: they'd brought Wolfram back here for his gelding.

"Come over here, boy, before I get busy," the Gelder told Wolfram, familiar as he was with him. It was like my friend was a Commoner or Peasant? Almost everyone knew him. Not at all like back home, where the boys at school just ignored him, and Wolfram didn't get out much. They hadn't lived in our Province for long, though, so Wolfram not only had the distinction of being a eunuch-Noble, but the new boy as well.

I was surprised to see the Gelder help Wolfram out of his clothing, checking him all over, measuring his arms and legs, and even examining his backside! I listened to the buzz of the other few Nobles that were there, and found that they felt sorry for him. His grandfather was pretty popular too, and Wolfram being gelded was still quite the gossip. Despite the well-wishes from those who knew him, I could tell that my friend was still humiliated.

Nowadays, no one thinks twice about it. But that was then.

"Hard to believe you're the same sickly boy what almost died on me," The Gelder told him, giving his bare butt a playful slap. He also gave him a bottle of some kind of tonic. "You drink that, one swig a day! And eat lots of meat, boy! Get out in the sun more, you're still pale! Look at your little slave over there, that Bleeder-boy! Don't look too sickly to me! You should look so good!" Wolfram then whispered in his ear, and the Gelder roared in laughter.

"Boy, are you mad?" the Gelder asked me.

"I think so, sir?" I laughed with him, as it was time to begin the festivities.

"All right, any volunteers?" the Gelder shouted at the crowd, and everyone looked around. Of course it was a good joke that never got old. For just a second, I considered raising my hand. "What about YOU?!" the Gelder pointed at a village boy, all of ten or eleven, standing there with his mates. The boys scattered, yelling and laughing, as if they knew the joke.

"C'mon, Hammie!" the other Common boys grabbed their smallest mate, dragging him back, "Get those glands sliced right off!"

"Make you all the better for it!"

"Mister Gelder could never find them!" another teased his friend, but it was all in good fun.

I wondered what the Gelder would do, if someone did volunteer?

"THIEF!" someone then shouted, as something crashed. We all turned to see a vendor's table full of pots and pans going over, clattering loudly, as a young man jumped it and missed. He was carrying a small bag in his hand, and clearly a Peasant. He might have been of age, I couldn't tell, as he went dashing by with the vendor a couple of Officers in hot pursuit.

It wasn't long thereafter, as the chaos settled down, that the two Officers came dragging him back. The thief wasn't full grown, but he was old enough to be of age. Pretty nondescript, just an 'any old fellow in the crowd', I thought. Another Peasant no one would notice, until he stole something, that is. He was well-built, as most Peasant men and boys were from hard work. Those that hadn't starved, that is. It made me think of Dieter, and how he was doing back home. This could have just as easily been him.

"Looks like we've got us a new recruit!" one of the Officers announced, as they dragged the struggling and screaming young man to the gelding table. "Caught, red-handed! But we'll cut something else off, I think? Not your hand!"

"NO! Please, not that!" the thief begged.

"Get you into a better career than stealing!" the other officer told him, "Regular meals, nice uniform, lots of exercise, but no women!" he laughed. From the sound of his voice and his height, I thought he must be a eunuch, too.

"Oh, I hate criminal forms," the Gelder sighed, handing some to the other Officer and the robbed vendor to fill out. "Shall we dispense with the usual pleasantries and get right to it?"

The crowd cheered.

Who'd have thought gelding could be so legally complicated?

The Officers then set in to cutting away the man's ragged clothing. He screamed and fought, but one good beating later, and he was in no shape to resist. He might have been my uncle's age, like that one slave I'd seen cut. He had man-hair, of course, and under his arms and even a few on his chest. He just seemed to give up as they hoisted him up onto the gelding table, strapping him down. Me, I was hiding behind Wolfram to hide my stiff prick! There were a lot of 'tenting' tunics in that crowd, too! Men and older boys were excited by it, and some of the women stared, thinking whatever it is that women think when a man is gelded?

"You get a stiff prick watching this?" Wolfram wondered.

"I can't help it!" I hissed back at him.

"Drive a man mad," Armand had told us. Surely this man had known women before? I hoped he'd enjoyed his last time, because he'd sure never do it again!

"Does anyone know this man?" the Gelder asked, as he and his assistant set in to washing the victim and getting him shaved. He was getting stiff, too, and his prick was pretty big. His glands were as big as bantam eggs, too. He was sure to miss those.

"I know him!" a woman spoke up, a Commoner of the village, from her garb. "I never thought to see his face here again!"

The man turned his head to face her. His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped.

"That man," the woman accused him, "Is the one that had his way with my sister!"

"She was a whore!" the man protested, thus incriminating himself.

A buzz of murmuring ran through the crowd. Of course we knew what sex was – it was just like the animals mating. All of us boys knew about it. And we knew what 'having your way' with someone meant! Boys like dirty-talk like that, you know. Don't deny it, you know you did, too!

I should probably explain that while some Provinces much further away held the woman responsible in such crimes, ours did not. Nor did any of the surrounding ones. To force oneself on someone was a high crime, punishable by gelding – or death. Your choice.

"But why would he have come back?" the assistant wondered.

"If I may? Because she is a witness and can identify him, sirs," Basil spoke up, "It is an old story, good sir," he told one of the Officers, who looked us over, looked our papers over, and seemed satisfied. I cringed behind Basil, and it worked. They didn't notice me being intact.

"Came back to finish off the crime, did we? Eliminate the witness?" the Gelder laughed, "Well, we'll fix that right up! Cure you of this problem you have with women!"

The thief renewed his struggles, but he wasn't going anywhere. Once shaved, with the crowd relishing his protestations, the assistant gagged him and handed the Gelder the usual leather tie.

"No, in the case of violating a woman, and coming back to do murder, I think, you'll need two ties," one of the Officers said.

That meant one thing.

The crowd buzzed again, louder.

The thief screamed into his gag and struggled harder, his muscles bulging against the thick straps. His prick was large and throbbing with his pulse, and his pouch had tightened in anticipation.

"Are they gonna…?" Wolfram whispered to Basil.

Basil nodded. "They will cut his prick off, too!"

"The law is the law," one of the Officers announced, and the crowd (them that knew) went wild! There was jeering, shouting, clapping, pandemonium! The women were yelling very loud. I could see why. We were going to see a prick cut off! None of us had ever seen that before, and I was flush with anticipation.

The thief froze in his bonds, as if he knew too. He stared at his doomed manhood, then relaxed and sobbed into his gag.

"Shall we kill him then?" one officer asked.

But the thief shook his head 'no'.

"Should have thought about that sooner," the Gelder told him, showing him the second tie and the long metal plug. Given Armand's tale of wonder, I knew what the plug was for. The assistant put the small spatula iron in the brazier, and then added a rod tipped with a round end – it was just round enough to cover the area left by a sliced-off prick!

The Gelder then tied off the thief's glands. The thief grunted as the ache began to grow into pain, and he tensed up. The crowd shushed to watch, and we all edged closer. Men were putting boys up on their shoulders for a better view. Some got boxes and crates to stand on! My own prick was so hard that it hurt, and I could feel it throbbing with my heartbeat, too.

He then looped a tie around the thief's throbbing prick. Clear fluid was leaking out of it already, and when he'd pulled the wet tie as tightly as he could, he put another around it. The second was as close to the thief's body as the Gelder could get it. Then he waited.

We all waited, watching as the thief's manhood slowly turned red, then bluish, then finally purple. Vendors with snacks moved through the crowd, selling finger food and cheap clay cups of drinks. We were all transfixed as the Gelder then shoved a large, oiled plug into the thief's bottom!

Again, the thief screamed into his gag.

"Can't have you take a shit on my table!" the Gelder explained.

"Oh, my!" Wolfram gasped.

"Shove it up his bum! Make him suffer!" some of the women were shouting.

"I'm so glad they didn't do that to me!" Bertrand gasped too, and for just a moment, I thought of him with no prick: just smooth skin at his groin, as the harem eunuchs in Armand's tale. Smoother than women. I felt faint.

When enough time had passed, the Gelder picked up his knife. He would make two cuts, though – one for the pouch, one for the prick, he announced. His assistant primed the brazier. Smoke rolled. We could feel the heat as the irons glowed orange.

"Take his prick first!" someone shouted.
"Make him see it!"
"Make him suck it!"
"Shove it up his bottom!" the jeers called out.
"Roast it for lunch!"

"That's disgusting!" Wolfram exclaimed.

"You cook animals' bits?" Basil reminded him. "Some cultures see that as empowering one's manhood, eating balls and pricks!"

"Won't do me much good?" Wolfram snickered.

"Mine got pickled in a jar?" Bertrand put in.

"Mine too," Wolfram nodded, as the crowd chanted…

"Cut it off! Cut it off! Cut it off!"

The Gelder then grasped the thief's purple cock, the veins nearly exploding under pressure. The thing looked horrible, the head of it grossly swollen. Gods, I hoped mine never grew like that! No more fluid could get out due to the tie, and as the assistant rubbed the thief's cock, the victim staring at it in horror, he tensed up and screamed into his gag. He looked to be having a spasm, covered in sweat, and screaming over and over with each surge he made against his bonds. It was as if each stroke of his engorged prick were agony, not pleasure.

"He is shooting his seed, but as it cannot get out, it will rush back into his piss bladder," Basil explained it to us, over the roar of the crowd, "It is painful, I hear. Three days from now, if he lives, his piss will flush out the last of that seed. It may damage him inside, and he may be apt to piss himself for the rest of his life."

The Gelder then laid the blade aside the thief's cock, between the ties, and sliced.

The large member came away cleanly, the ties holding, as the Gelder placed it on the thief's chest. He stared at it in horror. The assistant then grabbed the round iron, the Gelder grabbed the plug, and they moved quickly. This was obviously not the first prick they'd cut off. As the assistant burned the raw area that was hardly a stub, the Gelder shoved the metal plug into the hole. It was as long as my finger, and the thief screamed again. The assistant reheated the round iron, and burned the wound again, longer this time.

"The plug will heat, and burn him inside," Basil told us. "He will suffer greatly. If, in three days, he can piss, he will live. If not, he will die. It will take him months to heal."

The Gelder then sliced off the thief's pouch and glands, but the man had since fainted.

Into the fire the severed bits went. The air filled with the smell of burning meat.

The crowd shouted wildly again.

Just like in Armand's tale!

When the cheering was done, and the victim bandaged and chained, the Officers dragged him away. They took him to a watering trough with a pump, and poured cold water over his head. The man came to and began screaming again, staring at the bandage between his legs.

The woman who had identified him spat in his face, walking away with head held high and smiling. I leaned on Basil, near a faint, blinking. Had I been older, I'm sure I'd have shot my seed in my pants, just as some of the men and boys had done. There were a good many wet spots on their fronts that some were trying to hide. It was all in good fun, though.

Well, not so good for the victim?

"Bet he'll wish they'd killed him," someone said, "When the army ships him out to the Hinterlands."

"You know, I think I could burn your wound closed in time?" the Gelder then asked me with a wink, but Basil waved him off.

"My Master would take my head!" he explained.

"And your father would murder me!" Wolfram fretted, jabbing my ribs.

The Gelder laughed, as Wolfram had let him in on my little romp, remember. "Livers, boy! Eat lots of offal, it thickens your blood!" he joked.

"We're going to get murdered when they find out we sneaked off," Bertrand fretted, but that didn't matter just then. The next customer was stepping up.

He was a shopkeeper, from the looks of him. He was leading a boy along, already cleaned up and naked and ready to go. The boy looked to be a bit older than us, not much. Another boy, no doubt his older brother, held his other hand. No collar, no chains. It was the usual case of 'the spare son', most likely being gelded to further his future career in academia or clergy or singing.

The crowd's reaction to this gelding was much different. There was no teasing. Many encouraged the boy. Some that I guessed were already eunuchs praised him. They were pretty easy to spot – men with long limbs, boys' voices, and no beards. Women patted his head and many told him how brave he was. Some kissed his cheeks. Of course, in a small village, everyone knew everyone else and their business, too. I could hear them talking about the boy going to school at Court! It looked like going to Court-school (whatever that was) was a really important thing, though, especially for a Common boy. There were even other merchants, friends, I assumed, giving the boy small gifts and even money. Still, others chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the boy, awaiting the next adult gelding or criminal to heckle. Still, other young boys paid close attention to this one.

"Ah, Franzie!" the Gelder greeted him, "Finally listened to your instructor, did you?"

The boy just nodded. His father smiled, "Can you believe it? My son, passing the Court exams? Them wanting him to come and study in the city? And him being so scared to take the exams for this long?" The man was just beaming as the assistant took the boy in hand, getting him strapped in and making sure that he was clean. The boy didn't fuss at all. "You must come to the party before he leaves for Court," the father added, "Bring your boy, too!"

"Pretty boy like you will be famous at Court!" the Gelder told Franzie, taking up a smaller knife and heating it as the assistant tied the boy's pouch off. Franz grunted and didn't fight, accepting the cloth gag without a peep.

"They're very small and hardly dropped, sir," the assistant told the Gelder, struggling with the boy's glands in their tight pouch, "I think we'd better warm him up more, sir?"

I felt sort of jealous of this boy. I wasn't the model student, after all, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing about being the one on that table. More and more, I was doing that. And more and more, I was beginning to think that I really wanted to be gelded.

Still, part of me knew I was a firstborn Noble boy. What was wrong with me, I asked myself?

"Wish I was smart enough to get to go to school at Court," Wolfram sighed, "Those boys get right in with the highest up Officials, the Lawmakers, and Governors! He might even go on to Royal training!" He glanced at Bertrand. "You're top of the class, you know, Bertie. I bet you could pass court exams in about three or four years, and you're already a eunuch!"

Basil snorted, smiling. "They get up to a lot more, too, at Court," he said, but didn't explain it. (Of course I would come to find out what that meant some years later.)

"I don't wanna go!" Bertrand fretted.

There wasn't much to tell about this boy's willing ordeal. The Gelder quickly sliced his pouch off, put the severed bits in a jar for souvenirs, bandaged him, gave him a potent tonic, and sent the family on their way. It was still exciting, though. But being gelded, just to attend a special school?

All in all, we watched ten geldings that day. There were the usual slave geldings, new acquisitions, mostly, that drove the crowd wild. The only other young boy that was gelded was also a new slave, having just arrived with a man who would be using the boy as part of his daughter's marriage dowry. He must have been from the far, far south – as his skin was very dark and his hair black and wiry like the boy in Armand's tale. I'd heard of these people before, but I'd never seen one until then. I figured I'd ask Armand. He knew things like that.

When it was finally over, and we'd returned to Wolfram's grandparents' Estate, we were exhausted. It was a good thing that Basil remembered to get that collar off of me and get me my clothes a bit down the way, or we'd have been caught! We all had a laugh about that, but all good things come to an end.

Summer was waning, harvest was coming, and we'd have to go home soon.

"I wish I could work more, with you," Wolfram told me, when we finally arrived home. Armand met us at Wolfram's place to escort us home.

"I wish I was you," I replied.

"Light duty?" Bertrand asked. "At least get him out in the sun some more?"

"The Gelder and the physician did say so?" Wolfram smiled. "I'll ask Father." He held up a note. "From the Gelder, and Grandfather! They're on our side!"

So it was that Wolfram talked his parents into letting him spend some more time with us outside. As he wasn't allowed to work at home, they'd never miss him. Armand didn't work him hard, and Wolfram wasn't collared. He was naked, though, and issued an apron for dirty work. Eryk, Dieter, and the rest took him in hand, and his father came to make arrangements. He was visibly upset by the idea of his son essentially being a worker for so many weeks, but when Father presented me and Bertrand, the man couldn't argue. We were in excellent physical shape, after all!

"He's always been so small and frail, we just don't know what to do with him," Wolfram's father fretted, looking us all over. "How do they do it, Nigel?" He asked my Father about us.

"Sir, with all respect," I bowed slightly to him, "We'll take good care of Wolfram. Father works me hard, sir, and I'm fine. It's good for a boy, him and Armand say. I may be out of line, but I think you baby Wolfram too much. That's his problem, sir. You keep him inside with tutors and books and no exercise. Being a eunuch isn't what's hurting him, and you shouldn't be ashamed of him. He's a very good boy, I think, and my friend. I'm worried for him, too. I promise that if he gets sick, we'll get him the best care." I glanced at my father, and he nodded. "And if Wolfram doesn't like it, we'll bring him straight home. You have my word, sir."

So Wolfram got to stay for the whole harvest season. His Mother nearly had a nervous collapse, when she found out that Wolfram's head has been shaved. Pitch buckets work wonders for haircuts.

"Well spoken, son," Father told me, "I'm proud of you."

That meant a lot.

"But if that boy keels over on your watch…" he left it hanging.

Wolfram didn't 'keel over' though. He thrived. I'd been right; fresh air and sun and good food were what he needed. None of that high-class awful food we had to eat. We spent those harvest days naked, working from sunup to sundown. We ate with the slaves and workers, mainly eating the stuff not good enough to store or sell. Fresh stuff. Real cider and new wine from the kegs. Cold water from the spring in the rocky hills north. We didn't get baths much, but for being rained on, or jumping in those ice cold ponds. We slept in the barn in the fresh hay. There was so much to do, and it was all new and wondrous for Wolfram.

With so many eunuchs around, he lost his self-consciousness. He even tried on a new worker's collar, stamped his name on it with our seal, and wore it on trips to the far ends of the lands when we went to round up feral stock. Of course, he tired easily at first, but Armand saw to him. If not Armand, then one of the boys. You could almost see Wolfram changing by the day, getting tanner, leaner, stronger. His hair bleached out to almost white when it came back in, and he built up better muscle tone. Not once did he get sick.

It made me love harvest time even more.

Although it ran until a bit past the first frosts, it was over too soon. Things were busy at all the Estates, and Wolfram's parents didn't get by to see him until it was time for him to go home, and for school to take up again.

***

I suppose it may spoil further tales, but so be it:

Wolfram, being a eunuch, was barred by law from inheriting and owning an Estate, just as women were. His next younger brother, Timothy, saw to his future, though, as Tim could produce the next family heir. Wolfram's marks in school improved (thanks to us) right along with his health, and he became a tutor. Eventually, he took over the school, refusing to turn away any boy – Noble, Common, Peasant, free or slave, who came to him.

Through it all, he remained our good friend. And when we were older, he became a passionate lover. Being a eunuch didn't stop him or Bertrand, you know. If anything, their gelded states gave them a richer love life than any intact man could have hoped for. We could always count on him to come for those special celebration days of the year, and, of course, he never missed a harvest season!

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