PIETER'S BARROW

BY LOWLIFE

Friday, mid-August

Pieter did the same thing every summer.

It was a pleasant way to spend the warmer days, outside in the
sunshine and fresh air of the Dutch Nordsee coast, and it paid
enough to keep him in beer and fags as well as food.

And that was after paying for the pitch in the far corner of the
campsite, where his battered old caravan resided from the end of
June to the beginning of September. The owner of the site was
happy enough to accommodate his wish for privacy - nobody else
would have wanted to stay in the grotty bit of the site beside
the defunct and rundown old shower block and blighted by noisy
pumping station the town authorities had built right next door.

The work wasn't difficult by any means and he liked the early
shift - for eight hours a day, five days a week, he was solely
responsible for keeping the busy seafront free from litter. He
was given a battered old galvanised steel barrow, his own set of
brooms and tools, and two clean sets of overalls each week and
nobody bothered to supervise him, for he had been doing it every
summer for years and was damned good at his job. The guys who
covered the rest of the week wasn't so conscientious but what do
you expect from casual summer workers?

The barrow was like an old friend - each year his heart gave a
little skip when he drew it from the municipal stores - old and
grimy, it had a chamber fore and aft of the central axle, each
with a removable liner, and a smaller bin attached to the back,
between the handles, into which he emptied the litter as he
patrolled the seafront.

Even when the sea breezes struck up or a summer shower sent the
punters scurrying to the cafes and amusement parks, he was very
content with his lot. There was always plenty to see - the
topless birds up the north end and plenty of innocent little ones
playing around on the sand in their skimpy bathing costumes.
Plenty to keep his imagination fired, he reflected contentedly,
laying his broom into the clips along the side of the barrow and
taking up the grabber pole to capture the chewed remains of a
discarded hotdog.

Today was another fine day and all in all it had been a great
summer so far: one of the best. The forecast was good and the
popular seaside resort was packed.

He finished sweeping the area in front of the pier at noon, as he
did each day, and moved the barrow to a quiet spot behind the
ice-cream kiosk, so that he could remove the now full plastic bin
from the back of the barrow and lift the lid at the front, to
empty the contents inside.

He looked around before doing so - it didn't do to have an
audience.

For when he pulled the handle and swung open the top of his cart
and peered into the void into which he was about to tip the
trash, a pair of moist, round blue eyes blinked back. Had anyone
looked inside the front chamber of the barrow, they would have no
doubt have been surprised to find that the eyes were those of a
very small, very scared little girl, no more than eight or nine,
wearing a filthy pair of pink patterned bikini briefs. Her skin
was encrusted with dried grime; her shoulder-length blonde hair
wild and matted, with wrappers and cigarette butts and God knows
what embedded in it.

The reason she didn't make a sound was that around her mouth,
tied so tight that her cheeks were white, was a filthy band of
cloth that had once been the back of a man's vest. And her legs
were crossed beneath her and were tied at the ankles with an old
stocking and her hands were tied up behind her back with another.
She sat in the stifling gloom, already up to her waist in crap.

She closed her eyes quickly against the bright sunlight, and to
protect them from the torrent of filth being cascaded over her
head and her shoulders and down her naked chest and back.

As he closed the lid, Pieter whispered into the hole.

"Only half an hour to wait, my pretty little one, and then I'll
let you have your lunch."

In the evil-smelling blackness, the girl shook her head
vigorously, to get the latest layer of litter off her head.
Though her tummy ached constantly from hunger, the prospect of
lunch was far from appealing - lunch for her simply meant
spending five minutes sucking his willy and swallowing the thick
smelly stuff that squirted out the end. The only consolation was
that inside the shed where he took her, she could stand up for a
few minutes and the pain in her bent legs and arms was
temporarily forgotten.

Pieter smiled and pushed the cart back out on to the promenade.
Life was good. The little cunt in the barrow was the best yet - a
pleasant surprise. He had not been too sure about getting a girl
that old this year (hitherto he had liked them younger), but
those extra couple of years had meant that her body was just a
bit more able to withstand the treatment: with luck, this one
would last the whole season.

And she had been so easy to find.

As always, once he had set up the van at the start of the summer,
he had trawled the coast, way down into Belgium and up as far as
Zandvoort. Obviously to abduct a girl in Katwijk itself would
have been foolish and so he liked to get one from at least an
hour away. He scouted the resorts and the usual adventure parks
and residential campsites. This one had practically volunteered
herself, walking back unsupervised from some Kids' Club in a
place rather like Center Parcs. Security and cameras were an
increasing hazard but Pieter was no novice and the girl was
stashed in the boot and he was on his way, unobserved, in only a
matter of moments.

That was a month ago and the media had long forgotten her.

Pieter's cock was stirring in anticipation of his midday break
and he paused from picking litter from a floral display to recall
the moment he first had her all those weeks ago. The first time
was always special.

He had exclusive use of the old shower block - the owner lent him
a key and he had fitted his own additional padlock just in case.
Having brought her to the campsite, he had left her to settle
down, untouched and untied, but with her ankle chained, in one of
the shower cubicles in the women's side. He liked to give them 36
hours on their own, to adjust and fret. And he was considerate -
he left the shower to drip, so she could raise her chin and let
the water seep through the hollow ball gag, and in the floor of
this cubicle there was a drain without the usual cover for when
she needed to relieve herself and even a blanket for if she got
cold at night, wearing just the cute bathing costume that she had
been in when he snatched her.

She had made all the usual noises and of course cried a lot when
he finally went back to her and in the dark, turned the shower on
full - cold - to wake her up. For her debut.

He had been pleased to note that she must have defecated at some
point during her solitary wait - the drain in the shower stank
and he was glad to have given it all a good sluice down. Later
her bowels would be conditioned via his special diet, to keep her
ready to serve him at all times. Just enough nutrients to sustain
her, with the added benefit that she would be perpetually hungry.
Which gave him another thing with which to control her. He
considered himself something of an expert in the conditioning of
little girls.

Without speaking, he led her by the chain through into the
changing area and tied her face down over the big plastic drum he
had laid on its side in the middle of the floor. The loops of
rough blue nylon rope looked great against her soft pale limbs,
reddening it so satisfyingly where it bit hard. So frightened and
bewildered was she that she had only needed the one good slap to
shut up and cooperate whilst he prepared her.

First things first.

There would be plenty enough time to explain a few basic rules
later, but her backside was what he needed right now: it had been
a long time and he had anticipated this moment almost since the
end of the previous summer.

He eased her bikini briefs slowly down her skinny legs, still
cold and wet from the shower and covered in goosebumps.
Her cute little labia were posed between her upper thighs,
fleshy, smooth, pink, squeezed like a ripe split peach and framed
by her slim, pale legs.

With her pants removed, he adjusted the ropes so that her feet
were now pulled and tied wide apart and he felt a thrill at the
now wonderfully exposed little dimple of her anus, wrinkled and
dark pink between the splayed white cheeks of her firm young bum.
The little girl sniffled and whimpered but was given no choice
other than have her body spread flat across the large drum.

He had all the time in the world. It was so exciting: forcing
himself to take it easy yet having such temptation laid out
before him. Self-control enhanced his pleasure. Pieter peeled off
his own clothes, unable to take his eyes off the girl as he
methodically hung his kit from a peg.

The small girl wailed and tried to beg him to stop, so he slapped
her buttocks hard and informed her that he would not tolerate any
more noise. Her wailing shrank to a miserable, sniffy snivel.

But she still screamed at the top of her voice when he sank the
end of his cock deep inside her rectum for that first, painful,
wonderful time.

***

It was a warm Friday and inside the barrow, amidst the stinking
trash, the temperature by noon was over 40 degrees. When he
reached inside to lift the girl out, she was lolling drowsily and
very dehydrated. Her skin was slick with sweat, greasy wet and
gritty from the steady influx of litter that he had deposited
over her during the course of the morning.

Pieter grunted: a nine-year-old was a lot heavier than a really
small girl, even a chubby one like last year, especially when she
was a hot, slippery deadweight.

At least she didn't coat herself in her own vomit any more, as
she had done all through her first week.

He laid the filthy girl on the dusty floor. They were inside
another favourite haunt: the council-owned shed at the end of the
promenade that was only used in the winter, for storing signage
and traffic cones, and like the shower block back on the
campsite, it benefited from the addition of another sturdy
padlock, for which Pieter had the only keys.

She stirred and opened her eyes and groaned as he released her
bent arms and legs and the circulation slowly came back and the
muscles throbbed. He straightened her body on the floor. Her
white skin was streaked with dirt, caked in rivulets across her
shoulders and bony chest, where a half-empty can of drink had
emptied itself and the morning's muck had stuck and congealed on
her skin.

He unfastened the tight gag and she gasped in the clean air,
trying to purge her lungs and nostrils of the oppressive stench
to which she was subjected inside the barrow.

Pieter knew she wouldn't make a sound. She had hardly said a word
for three weeks. Not since she had tried to escape and been
severely punished for it.

By now, she knew all to well that she was just another piece of
trash.

He dragged her into the corner of the shed, the dank, smelly one
where he placed her each day. He propped her up and passed her
the large bottle of clean water and she sat silently, sucking on
it like a baby at the breast. She always faced the same problem.
If she drank too quickly, it made her tummy hurt so much. If she
made it last, she might still be trying to drink when he did it
and that might make her sick again and then she would waste the
precious water.

Today she didn't quite judge it right, for just as she was
lifting the bottle high, to drain the last of the tepid water,
the jet of hot urine hit her square on the chin, splashing across
her face and running down her throat and chest.

Pieter played the spurt up and down her small body, scourging the
engrained filth from her and leaving her glistening wet. He was
feeling charitable today and aimed most of it away from her head.

There was no spirit left in her, she just sat still in the corner
as the trickles of piss wriggled down her and turned cold on her
skin. She stared blankly at nothing in particular. She hardly
bothered to think any more, to dare hope that she would ever be
released from her living nightmare. She was immune to her own
stink. She just sat and waited for her lunch.

That retribution for her bid for freedom had broken her
completely and ever since, she had been almost robotic, silently
compliant, as if she had resigned herself to her fate.

Not that Pieter minded. She was easier to manage that way.
Nothing like the scheming little bitch she had been in the first
week.

Although he would be the first to admit he had become a shade
complacent this year and he had only himself to blame for the
nasty scare when she made a bolt for it. He had been lazy and not
bothered to padlock the shower block door behind him when he had
taken her back there for the night. He had ignored the signs. All
that evening, as they lay together, hot and sweaty and naked on
the bed in the caravan, as they did most evenings, she had
strained and fought against the ropes and even as he was
climaxing inside her tight little ass she had been whingeing into
the ball gag. It had irritated him, for he liked to listen to the
wireless as he screwed her, taking his time, doubling his
pleasure.

But later, as he was occupied arranging the chain inside the
cubicle where she slept, she had made her move and before he knew
it, she was out of the door and pounding across the campsite,
still gagged but otherwise totally naked.

Thankfully in the early hours of the morning, there had been
nobody else to witness the chase, nor the moment of capture, or
the wild look of fuming anger in Pieter's eyes as he carried the
squirming child back to his caravan.

He was livid with himself - never before had one of his little
toys tried to get away like that - and he channelled his ire into
making her pay for her folly.

Yet though his instinct had been to beat her, to scream and shout
at her and give her the fright of her life, that was not Pieter's
way and he willed himself to be calm, occupying himself with the
details as she lay tightly bound back on the bed in the van,
shaking and watching him with increasing dread, for she knew she
had broken her promise to him, her sworn vow, and she had no
doubt she would regret her bid for freedom.

Hers would be a calculated, unforgettable punishment.

During the rest of that night, she passed out three times and he
had had to revive her with iced water, so that she would be fully
conscious as he plied her with yet more pain. He said very
little, calmly informing her every now and again of what he
proposed to do next and occasionally offering her a murmured
commentary, for as she was hogtied, face up, with her wrists and
ankles bent agonisingly tight under her back, she could not
actually see much of what he was doing between her legs.

But she was acutely aware of the pain.

Each time he pinched her swollen and tender little brown nipples
and twisted them without mercy till her head thrashed from side
to side and her throat burned from yelling into the gag. Each
time he pressed the stiff bristles of the scrubbing brush into
the sizzling skin of her inner thighs or tightened the ropes so
that she was bent over backwards even more than she would have
imagined were possible and her muscles screamed in protest. And
each time the needles passed through the glossy pink skin of her
cunny, and the raging red tidal wave rushed up through her
nervous system and engulfed her brain. Her fleshy outer labia
were spread wide, viciously clipped back by half a dozen spiteful
metal clips that were attached to thin string passed beneath her.
The shiny pinkness of her cunt was obscenely exposed like the
innards of a blooming rose and across every square centimetre of
the delicate flesh, tiny droplets of scarlet blood marked the
progress of the needle, where he had pricked and wiggled it,
savouring each moment her body whipped at the initial shock and
writhed as the pain peaked and ebbed and came back with renewed
vigour as he pushed it a little further in and moved it around to
concentrate the agony, watching her helpless distress.

Normally a little girl's genitalia didn't interest him very much,
yet he was fascinated at the way he could send put her through
such unimaginable torment simply by sticking a few boiled needles
from his sewing kit a couple of millimetres into the little
bitch's cunt.

He saved her clitoris until the end, as the first light of dawn
peeped around the thick blinds, and she was once again awake. Her
small, drawn face was white yet her eyes were ringed red from
hours of crying, her cheeks and forehead wet and caked with the
streaks of the night's tears.

"I am confident that you will never again be so foolish as to try
to run away - that is so, is it not? You will never again be so
stupid?" he asked, in the peculiar, stilted language he affected.

From somewhere, she found the strength to shake her head.

"You will always be my little bitch and only do what I tell you?"

She nodded, trying to demonstrate how much she promised.

"For if you ever defy me, you will suffer in ways you cannot
dream of. This will seem like a pleasant moment of fun compared
to the torture I would put you through if you disobey me.
Understand?"

Once more she nodded.

"We shall see. I can no longer trust you. You will have to
convince me. And just to ensure you appreciate just how much pain
you might have to endure if ever you displease me again, I shall
spend the last few minutes before I have to get ready for work in
a brief demonstration."

He knelt and crouched close over her crotch. Placing his arm over
her lower stomach, he steadied her and his fingers pulled aside
her tiny clitoral hood and he placed the needle precisely in the
centre of the small, paler area of flesh beneath and pushed it
in, very slowly.

She made a deep grunting sound at the back of her throat. Her
head snapped back heavily against the mattress then like an oil
well about to blow, an almost inhuman shriek formed deep in her
chest and exploded through her mouth and nose. Her tightly
stretched torso heaved and shuddered as she fought for breath and
finally a thin jet of pale urine erupted from her urethra,
narrowly missing Pieter as he stooped low over her splayed young
cunt.

He ignored the distraction and the wetness on the sheet and the
succession of small squirts that echoed each fresh prick of his
needle. Pausing just long enough for her tiny body to stop
bucking, sufficient for him to select another place to insert the
needle, he tormented her for another five minutes until she
slumped limp once more, unable to sustain the agony, overwhelmed
by her senses and incapable of remaining conscious any longer.

All told, she had been very well behaved since then, he reflected
as he ate his lunch.

Pieter finished the last bite of his sandwich and looked across
the shed at her, and he congratulated himself on how successfully
he had broken the little cunt that night, literally in fact. From
then on, she had been utterly cowed, a pliant living doll, who
silently allowed herself to be used however he chose and who was
inordinately grateful for even the slightest signs of
appreciation. Yes, despite that setback, she had been a lucky
choice. He unzipped his fly and walked across to her. She
instantly snapped out of her trance-like inertia and knelt
upright and held out her hands and opened her mouth and laid her
soft young tongue over her lower lips, ready to receive his
hardening cock.

"Good girl," Pieter smiled and her sad eyes briefly sparkled with
pleasure from his praise and she closed her lips around him and
began her duty.

"This is the last lunch of the week, my pretty," he added,
running his fingers through the gritty, tangled mass of blonde
hair. "I can hardly believe it's the weekend already."

Despite herself, she felt her empty stomach tighten in an
involuntary spasm. For tonight was her one proper meal of the
week: real food instead of that thick liquid stuff she had to eat
the rest of the time. And a break from the awful monotony of
spending her days tied up inside the cart and her nights curled
up, shivering on the hard floor of the shower cubicle.

******

Sunday Morning

The first intrepid bathers of the day were tiptoeing over the
sand towards the chilly fringe of the Nordsee as Pieter guided
his ancient Volkswagen Passat along the front, towards the
caravan site.

Sundays were special and he was at his happiest.
He had had his weekly one day's respite from the cramped squalor
of the caravan; time to feel smart and good back inside a
tailored shirt, with clean fingernails and a decent shave and cup
of excellent coffee from his own filter machine. Back in the
city.

Once a week, he resumed his real life.

There had been an especially fine performance by a Czech string
quartet in the Muziektheather in Amsterdam the previous evening
and after a good night's kip between the fresh sheets of his
king-size bed back in the spacious waterfront apartment, and a
sumptuous soak in the spa bath first thing this morning, he was
more than ready to put back on his shabby clothes and return to
Katwijk and his summer alter ego.

As usual, he first drove to the lockup in Schiphol, to collect
the clapped-out VW and secure away his treasured Jaguar then it
was on to the A4 motorway for the quick trip back to his
alternative world as invisible street cleaner in the small Dutch
holiday resort.

As he pulled into the back gate of the caravan site, his penis
was already stirring in anticipation of his little pet's
accommodating young bottom. The familiar image of the
nine-year-old's narrow hips beneath his body formed and remained
in his mind. Those slim shoulders beneath her stringy blonde
hair; the delicate line of her back, twisting in the throes of
taking his length inside her. Her breathy whimpers.
Fuck, he was feeling horny!

He parked up and chucked his overnight bag in the caravan. He
even found himself whistling the final few bars from the previous
night's performance.

"Good morning, my pretty little thing," he drawled, bolting the
shower block door behind him. "I hope you are ready for me."

Routine was important to Pieter. After weeks of meticulous
training, he expected the small girl to have done her part
without bidding. After all, she had been unmolested for
twenty-four hours.

Pieter walked through to the female changing room. He smiled. She
was ready.

Good girl.

Kneeling on all fours in the centre of the room, the girl looked
up at him with rather appropriately puppy eyes, for she reminded
him of a rather sad Labrador, with her long pale blonde hair
loose and her bum in the air. She even had the right collar. All
she needed was a tail to wag.

It had taken her some considerable time and effort to adopt this
position. For strapped to the backs of her upper and lower limbs
were the canvas pouches he had developed over the years, between
them containing approximately the child's own bodyweight in lead
fishing weights. She had worn the pouches since he had set off
for home the previous morning and though she had effectively been
free to move around within the dual-locked shower block, in
practice any movement she attempted was not unlike that of a
deep-sea diver wearing lead boots, and so she spent most of her
respite period flat on the cold floor, where the weights rested
on the tiles and provided some relief from the constant pull of
gravity.

Just to be on the safe side, he had also put on her pairs of
leather ankle and wrist cuffs, the halves of each pair connected
by very short lengths of fine chrome steel chain. Her hands were
fastened behind her back and so no matter how she tried, she
could never quite reach the fastenings of the canvas pouches -
there was just sufficient slack in all her bondage to allow the
very tips of her fingers to touch the buckles, but not quite
enough to let her fiddle about to release them. She had spent
many agonising hours trying, each Saturday. The feeling of
helplessness was calculated to remind her of her subjugation and
it worked well - by Sunday morning, she was invariably like putty
in his hands.

Pieter was particularly fond of his most recent addition to her
ensemble, purchased from Japan via eBay earlier in the year and
now put to good use. On the naked girl's back, strapped over her
shoulders, was an authentic red vinyl school satchel. The straps
were tightened to the maximum, and her pale shoulders and armpits
tingled pink from the constant chafing.

It looked rather good on her naked body and set off her blonde
hair very nicely. Very animé.

The combination of weights on her limbs, the cuffs and chains and
the half-dozen housebricks stuffed inside the satchel ensured
that no matter how she lay, she would never be quite comfortable
enough to sleep for any length of time and so that even though
she had been left to her own devices for a whole day and a night,
she had still endured his measured torment. And she was very
hungry, for the last meal she had been given had been the weekly
treat of burger and fries on Friday night.

It was the sixth or seventh weekend as his captive and now she
was so dependent upon him that she actually looked forward to his
return. Though what she knew was in store was not so welcome.
She knew exactly what to expect and her legs and arms began to
ache as she held her body still, waiting. The first of her Sunday
ordeals.

The girl braced herself: her knees and elbows were already sore
from crawling across the floor. When he did it, she had to
remember to count each one out loud and then thank him
afterwards. But the sooner it was done, the sooner she could eat.
Her entire existence was now made up of simple steps, endure
something and be rewarded. Or, and she dreaded the prospect, be
punished.

This didn't count as punishment of course. The horrible man did
this every Sunday morning just for fun. It made her bottom
extra-sensitive, ready for her second duty of the day.

Pieter had turned the Sunday morning caning into something of a
choreographed ritual, which today he performed naked for a
change, as it was already warm and stuffy. His thick erection
flailed in front of his thin, muscular frame as shuffled and
sashayed and positioned himself to deliver the next swingeing
blow of the long bamboo stick. It was an old friend and four or
five very young girls had come to know its sting over the years.
In the still, damp silence of the old shower block, the swish and
crack of the cane cut through the heavy air, followed by the gasp
and stifled cry of a little girl in pain, then a gulp and her
small voice, choking on the tears, sounding out the count so far.

"...elf, twaalf, dertien..."

Yes there was a balletic quality to her beating, worthy almost of
the Muziektheather itself, in the dramatic angles Pieter assumed,
to slice the cane down on to her skinny little ass so that her
buttocks and the backs of her thighs were evenly covered in
narrow bands of red and white swellings. Each stroke was
carefully planned, aimed and executed and designed to tenderise
her entire rear end.

He paced it carefully, and was irregular in his strokes,
sometimes feigning and pausing for several minutes to build the
tension.

Thanks to the great weights on her arms and legs, she was
effectively pinned to the spot, with her narrow white bum fully
exposed and vulnerable to his performance.

"...twintig," she spluttered, coughing on her own saliva. "Dank
u, de heer."

The ritual was complete.

Pieter crouched beside the sobbing girl, running his hands over
her hot, rough flesh, slipping his fingers down between her legs
and stroking between her labia. Her body spasmed as she cried,
flexing her exhausted muscles. His fingertip located her anus and
pressed until the sphincter yielded. His penis hardened.

He liked to take her whilst the pain in her ass was still fresh.
He always took his time on a Sunday morning, making her lick him
many times as he got her ready, simultaneously working her anus
with one then two fingers then having her suck his hardness and
coating it with her spit, before he squatted behind her and
pushed the glistening crimson head into the centre of her
puckered, relaxed little hole.

With a truly delicious slowness, he sank his rock hard cock
inside her, the tingling tightness down the backs of his legs as
he squatted simply magnifying the exquisite pleasure of impaling
the tiny immobile girl.

Having accommodated his penis several times a day for all these
weeks, her rectum was well-accustomed to his girth yet each and
every time he entered her, he marvelled at the unbeatable way in
which it caressed every part of his excited cock with its smooth
firmness. Taking her in this position was his own weekly treat,
for her sphincter pulled along the top of his penis and he could
look down his trim body and witness the ever-thrilling sight of
his bloated member easing slowly in and out between her flushed
and swollen young ass cheeks.

It was a weekly challenge, to see how long he could remain
penetrated, defying the protests of his legs, gripping her waist
or hips and withdrawing then driving down again and again,
pushing forcefully until he felt the softness of her bottom
against his belly, and listening to the sucking of her breath and
the delicate, sotto voce gasps as he stretched and filled her
obedient young body.

And when the incredible sensations finally became unbearable and
the breathless whimpers filled his ears as he curled over her and
pumped deeply down into her belly, and her little frame seemed so
thin and tiny against his own body, he threw back his head and
shut his eyes and felt the intensity from every nerve in his
groin as his eager cum welled and exploded along his shaft and
filled her hot, captive innards, wave after throbbing wet wave
until his balls literally ached from the prolonged release of his
pent-up semen.

Sunday morning was just so special.

Pieter wiped the perspiration from his brow and climbed off the
little girl, whose body swayed and shuddered and her head hung
low from her shoulders as she panted for breath.

He crouched, took a handful of her fine, damp hair and pulled her
face upwards. Her eyelids opened shakily and she focussed on the
thick red cock inches from her mouth and she obediently lapped at
the slick coating of semen and bodily juices. It was an automatic
reaction. For all her pained, addled brain could envision at that
moment was the dog bowl of scraps and liquidised diet food he
would soon place on the tiles before her once she had cleaned him
up to the required standard.

***

The closest she ever got to any form of near-normal contact with
her captor was on Sunday afternoon, when Pieter fucked her
without any form of restraint or superimposition of pain. It was
almost affectionate in its intimacy.

But of course Pieter would not have been satisfied with simply
buggering the girl. He still required some props.

She was left on her own for a few hours, licking the very last
traces from her bowl, whilst Pieter shopped and did his
housekeeping in the caravan. For those precious moments, she was
for once free of all ropes and gags and straps and weights and
able to shower as long as she wished and scrub herself clean of
the engrained grime of the week and clean her nails and wash her
long hair over and over again so that it smelt of shampoo
whenever she moved her head. She loved that smell. It was for her
probably the highlight of her week. A brief hour or two when she
felt like a living being again rather than a piece of meat. He
gave her a clean towel and she was able to wrap herself in it and
walk unsteadily around the changing room to exercise her
perpetually-aching legs and arms.

Pieter referred to it as 'the nest'.

It was in fact the old boiler room that still supplied hot water
to the entire site and it remained locked during the week but on
Sunday afternoons, he would lead her into it for another of his
weekly rituals. She stepped down on to the musty old mattress and
waited for him to unfurl the foul-smelling sleeping bag. The
stuffy dry air was hot and within moments she felt her nice
fresh-smelling skin tingle with perspiration, undoing the
glorious glow of cleanliness from her long shower. He passed her
the folded polythene sack and she crouched down and pulled it
like a huge sheath over the bag.

Her nose wrinkled at the wafts of stale sweat expelled from
inside the thick plastic. Despite being overwhelmed by the stench
of trash inside the barrow for much of the week, her sense of
smell had had time to recover, and it served to remind her how
soon her body would once again be dirtied.

The furnace was actually oil-fired and every few minutes would
click and whoosh and fire up, and as it topped up the supply of
hot water to the rest of the campsite, the heat would radiate
from it and her skin would prickle as her pores opened.

Pieter peeled off his tracksuit and climbed into the bag. He held
the top open for her and she squeezed herself in alongside him,
legs first, and slipped down until her head disappeared and she
was squashed against his body in the blackness and heat. Within
minutes, their bodies were slippery with sweat and he closed his
eyes and concentrated on the singularly wonderful sensation of
her small, hot little body sliding up and down his own and the
caress of her little fingers stroking his balls and cock, then
the feather light touch of her lips and the tickle of her soft
young tongue, up and down his shaft and over his stomach and
chest and down between his legs.

Little girls' fingers: so unbelievably small and delicate. And
with enough training, so fantastically adept and a treat to
watch. Once they had been bent back a few times, they pretty
quickly learned what to do.

Deep inside the clinging nylon sleeping bag, cloaked in the
oppressive heat, she slithered against his hard body, his scent
filling her nostrils and the salt of his sweat thick on her
tongue.

She knew not to stop. She knew to wrap her arms and legs around
him and press her crotch and breasts against him and squirm and
snake over his hard body. To stroke and caress. For what seemed
an eternity she squeezed against him within the tight confines of
the bag, now hotly damp from their combined sweat, her mouth
roving over his hairy skin, kissing and licking and sucking. Her
jaw was aching and drips of perspiration kept running into her
eyes but she knew she had to go on. To risk upsetting him was
something she could never do again.

The needles were never far from her thoughts and at night, as she
curled in a ball on the floor of the shower, they would come to
her as she slept fitfully and she would wake, startled and scared
and she knew she had no choice but to obey him.

For ever.

So she squirmed and wriggled inside the sweltering bag, running
her soft hands and face over his sweat and listening attentively
for any sign that she pleased him - a grunt or a sigh and she
understood what she had to do.

Pieter reached inside the bag and guided her head out into the
open. Her hair was wet and matted to her head, her face scarlet
and dripping. She gratefully filled her lungs with relatively
clean air.

Then she shuffled back down without requiring instruction,
pressing her body as flat as she could, with her face squashed
into the smelly mattress and drawing up her knees, frog-like, the
inside of her thighs flattened downwards, at least as far as she
could within the confines of the sleeping bag. Pieter straddled
her then lay on top of her and the feel of her tiny, burning
body, slippery and hard beneath his chest, was all that was
needed to swell his cock to its full glory and he wriggled his
hips so that the shaft was pressed firmly between her tender
little buttocks and he rocked slowly, sliding up and down the
shallow, wet cleft and up on to the hollow of her back. Her hair
smelt hot and clean.

She was all but crushed under his weight but it was essential
that he slid up and down over her entire body, lubricated by
their mingled sweat. He breathed in the thick, primeval odour of
their bodies and lusted for her sweet ass once more.

He could feel her tense as his cock probed and tested her anus
and he felt her shudder as it thrust aside the muscles of her
sphincter and began to slip inside her.

They were as one.

It was as if their bodies had melted and melded and he pulled her
tight under his body with her head under his chest and fucked her
ass gently, slowly, even passionately. It was the only time he
spoke to her as he took her, pushing his face down into her damp
hair and whispering a string of obscenities into her captive ear
as his cock swelled and spat its cum high up into her tight young
belly.

***

The sun was low in the red sky and would soon dip below the
horizon way out to sea, to signal the closing of another glorious
August day. All across the Dutch seaside resort of Katwijk, in
their hotel rooms and caravans and tents, holidaymakers were
changing and bathing and readying themselves for the evening's
entertainment. A night at the casino perhaps, or a show on the
pier, or a meal and a few drinks along the brightly-lit seafront.

And at the very far end of the promenade, in a private and
rarely-used corner of a large caravan site, a nine-year-old girl
was curled up in a deep yet fitful sleep.

As a reward for her efforts inside the sweat-soaked sleeping bag,
the girl was allowed to rest undisturbed for the early evening.
The unpleasant dampness and heat and cloying atmosphere meant
nothing, compared to the sheer joy of a soft surface beneath her
bony hips and freedom to sleep in whichever attitude she wanted.
Her bottom was sore, not just from the prolonged sodomy that left
her rectum filled with semen and her sphincter pink and
stretched, but all across the surface of her buttocks, the welts
still smarted from the sustained caning Pieter had given her that
morning.

When he woke her, she winced as the immediate emptiness in her
stomach twinged, reminding her that all she had eaten for two
days were the scraps and gruel in her dog bowl first thing that
morning. Yet she was less than thrilled when the man prodded her
with his boot and said, "Wake up, you pretty little cunt, it's
time to sing for your supper."

For she knew precisely what that entailed.

In fact the moment she opened her eyes, she realised it was that
time again and she was consumed by a black despair. This was
worse than her days tied up and covered in crap inside the
foul-smelling cart. Worse than lunchtimes, when he pissed on her
and made her suck his willy. Worse than all the times he put his
big fat thing up her poor little bum.

She shivered. The only thing worse had been the needles. But this
was almost as bad as the needles. Her big blue eyes watered with
fear.

Yet she had no choice and miserably trudged through to the
changing room to get ready, to take another shower (quick and
functional this time), then dry and plait her long hair the way
he liked it.

The way all the men liked it.

******

Sunday Night

When he backed the Passat up to the door, she was already bundled
up safely inside the blanket and he placed her gently in the
trunk for the fifteen minute drive, away from the lights and
noise of the promenade to the deserted dunes a few kilometres up
the coast from the bustling Dutch seaside town.

Though it was now dark, Pieter could see his destination as soon
as he pulled off the coast road on to the sand track that wound
through the low hillocks: a derelict wartime coastal defence
bunker that formed two sides of a small square. Completing the
square were a motley assortment of ancient camper vans, tents and
improvised shacks made of pallets and canvas. In the centre, an
open fire of piled driftwood provided warmth and illumination for
the half-dozen or more beach bums and drifters who had descended
on this remote spot for the summer. It was a good location -
there was a freshwater standpipe against the wall of the old
bunker and the ever-tolerant local police had a tacit
understanding with the travellers that meant they were untroubled
provided they kept to themselves and didn't bother the locals or
paying tourists.

He had discovered the encampment late the previous summer: one of
the casuals who worked for the parks department had landed there
and Pieter had gone back one night out of curiosity. He had
located it again shortly after arriving in Katwijk for this
summer and had been made welcome by the current assortment of
oddballs who lived there. Bringing a case of cheap plonk and slab
of canned beer had helped.

Though it went against the grain, for everything Pieter did was
meticulously planned and calculated in the finest detail, this
year he had decided to take a great risk and carry out a
practical experiment: sharing. Which meant on Sunday nights, when
he joined the guys around the fire for a drink and a spliff or
two, he now brought along something else to make the party go
with a bang.

The idea came to him over the winter and he had tested the water
in the first couple of drunken evenings in June, waiting until
the drink and grass had taken effect and then dropping into the
conversation some comment about how much more fun it would be
with a bit of skirt. Of course this opened the floodgates to much
ribald banter but the next time he was more scientific, subtly
leading the collective imagination, drawing out from the group
their attitudes and preferences, and testing their morals. Even
more discreetly, he also sounded out each one of them in separate
boozy chats before making his decision: it would indeed be
fascinating to see what happened if her shared her with his
drinking buddies.

He had not been disappointed so far, with her first four Sunday
Nights.

He parked and carried the bag of booze towards the fire. His real
purpose was to check who was there tonight, for he was careful to
share his secret with only the core long-term residents. Had
there been any newcomers or drifters passing through, he would
have left her in the boot of his car. It had happened three weeks
before and then he followed Plan B: dropping off the booze and
simply taking the Belgian guy back to the caravan site, where
just the two of them had fun with her until the early hours.

But a quick survey of the men lolling around the campfire
reassured him, as he greeted them and chucked a can to each.

"Yo, brother," drawled the thirty-something wannabe West Coast
surfer from Delft, who had the orange VW camper van. "Brought the
little pussy with you?"

The men chuckled and guffawed. Pieter laughed.

"But of course, my friend. She's not eaten for two days and is
hoping you might let her earn a few scraps."

He set the cans and bottles down and dragged a PVC chair closer
to the fire and sat, grinning around at the assortment of scruffy
men. All the regulars were there, as he hoped and expected: the
fat Belgian pisshead who shared his own sexual tastes almost to
the letter and who was the only one of them to feature in both
Plans A and B; Dude, the surfer who had asked him about the girl;
and that unpleasant rat-faced biker from Bavaria, who pretended
not to be interested yet who always ended up taking her away for
ten or fifteen minutes and then sat there with a smug grin for
the rest of the night. There were the two big Scandinavian
dopeheads whom he hoped might repeat last week's cabaret; the
spotty teenager, Sonny, with the pup tent and rusty Ford Taunus;
and of course Griff, the de facto leader of the group, sprawled
majestically in his ripped and faded denims across the remains of
a car's rear seat, nursing a can and drawing periodically on a
massive joint.

The men chuckled and Griff nudged the impromptu barbecue grill
with his boot. It was made out of the side of a supermarket
trolley, and was nestling amid the embers at the edge of the
crackling fire. Some charred shapes that may once have been meat
were stuck to the metal grid.

Sharing centre stage with the fire in the centre of the
encampment was a large wrought-iron table, no doubt liberated
from outside a seafront cafe somewhere nearby.

Before Pieter collected the girl from the car, he reached in his
pocket and tossed a handful of condoms on the tabletop.

"Just a reminder, gentlemen. The usual rules apply: do whatever
you like but her cunt stays out of bounds, if you want a blow job
be kind to her and have a rinse under the standpipe first and if
you want to take her up the ass, please use one of these. Other
than that, just have fun and remember don't give her any food
unless you're satisfied she's earned it. Enjoy!"

There was a spontaneous cheer.

The night breeze coming off the sea whipped up under the short
skirt of the cheap, white summer dress he had found for her on
the market and the welts on her bottom stung when the skin had
broken out in goose pimples. She was of course naked beneath. The
wind permeated the thin fabric and her immature nipples
shrivelled and hardened. Her heart was pounding with fear and her
large, sad eyes were already rheumy with tears. She waited as he
attached the chain to her dog collar and followed him miserably
as he made the usual theatrical entrance.

Pieter stood back and adjusted her plaits. The final touch was to
hand her a grubby teddy bear he had rescued from a bin a while
before: it hung limply from her hand, as forlorn as the girl
herself. She looked so frail and small and young and virginal and
just begging to be harshly abused.

The girl scanned around anxiously, noting which men were gathered
around the fire and associating each with her memory of what they
had done to her before. She saw the one with the narrow eyes and
leather jerkin and shuddered. He scared her the most.

Pieter cleared his throat and she suddenly remembered she had to
curtsey before the grizzled older man on the car seat. He grinned
at her and held out his hand and he pulled her to him and
gathered her up and plonked her across his lap, sitting the small
stuffed bear alongside him with a chuckle.

"Hello, princess, come and have a drink with Uncle Griff."

She choked and spat out the beer he tried to pour into her mouth
and fought hard to suppress the tears as his rough hand slid up
her thigh and under her skirt and fondled her pubic mound. His
breath stank of beer and smoke and his grey bristles scratched
when her pulled her round and pressed his lips over her own.

Yet the alternative to letting the man do what he wanted was too
awful to contemplate.

Soon the novelty of the girl's arrival passed and everyone
resumed their smoking and drinking and lazy conversation and card
games. Pieter settled down next to the Scandinavians. He was
passed the remains of a joint and was dealt into the next round
of blackjack. Sonny, the lad with acne, strummed his guitar again
and on the bench seat, Griff sipped from his can and grinned and
stroked her plaited hair as her delicate young fingers nervously
teased him to a highly productive climax that sent strings of
yellowy cum streaking across the pure white front of her 'party'
dress.

"She's all yours", he announced to no one in particular, pushing
the girl off on to the sand. Sand stuck to her sticky fingers and
she wiped her hands on her dress - it was going to get filthy
anyway, she was sure.

Her skin crawled at his touch. The piggy-eyed man repulsed her,
with his cold, clammy hands and rank breath.

She had barely landed on the grey sand before the Belgian had
snatched her wrist and pulled her up. He still could not believe
his good fortune - a weekly chance to play out an old fantasy
with a little girl who dare not refuse him. He glanced at Pieter
and winked, then led the girl away to his van.

It was the largest vehicle around the fire and was a homemade
conversion from a delivery van. She wrinkled her nose at the
overpowering odour of stale sweat. The sliding side door slammed
shut behind her and her tummy tightened in anticipation of what
was to follow. The fat man did the same thing each week.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stood her before him. His eyes
twinkled and he licked his lips as he looked her up and down.
Then he reached out and placed his hand on her inner thigh and
slid it up under the hem of her dress. The Belgian's pleasure was
all in the foreplay: those few outstanding minutes with a
captive, helpless little girl, during which his hands and fingers
could rove at will across her small, warm body, seeking out the
soft curves, the nooks and crannies, the forbidden, private
places.

She loathed the feel of his greasy, podgy fingers, up under her
dress, squeezing her tiny, flat breasts and spongey labia majora.
She thought he looked like a pig, licking his lips and slobbering
as he stroked her inner thighs and kneaded her tender buttocks.

And she hated having to talk to him. Even his thick Flemish
accent repelled her. When she had to call him 'Daddy'. He wasn't
her Daddy. Her real Daddy wouldn't put the end of his finger into
her little hole and make her gyrate her hips and smile. Or tell
her how sexy she was, how pretty was her front bottom or how cute
her tiny, sensitive nipples.

He unfastened the buttons at the front of her dress. Slowly, and
unnecessarily as it pulled over her head easily without being
undone. But it gave him more opportunity to touch her, be
intimate, whilst his erection slowly swelled and hardened between
his flabby thighs. He pawed and fingered her, whispering to her
in baby talk that gave him a thrill.

"Let's just see how your botty-wotty is. Turn round, that's nice.
Now lean over Daddy's knee. You've been a naughty little girlie
haven't you? I think Daddy will have to give you a little spanky
won't he?"

She had no choice. She played his game and cried for her Daddy to
stop as the fat palm slapped her poor, sore young bottom.

And afterwards, when her short little fingers with the bitten
nails had finished their toiling around his fat cock and he had
tied them out of the way and made her bring him to climax with
her mouth, she tried not to think of her real Daddy and her Mummy
and the rest of her family. And like a good little girl, she
thanked her Daddy once the strings of his spunk had stopped
streaking across her upturned face and she smiled when he finally
untied her hands from behind her back and as she wiped the sticky
drops from her cheeks and smeared them over her little tits like
she had been told.

Back at the bonfire, she knew to sit quietly to the side. She
stared without emotion at the moth-eaten teddy in her lap.

Pieter played his hand successfully, and gathered his winnings:
three Euro forty. He kept a proprietorial eye on his young pet
and smiled inwardly as the spotty boy laid down his guitar and
went across to the girl, looking around slightly embarrassed as
he gathered up the end of her chain.

The others paid no attention as he led her to his small tent and
followed her inside. Only Pieter had noticed him earlier slip
away from the fire and use the standpipe, so he had some idea of
how Sonny planned to use the girl.

Though he was still a little concerned by the boy.
The others he had few worries with. He thought they were happy
enough to get a bit of free sex to keep their mouths shut. Even
if they might not necessarily be completely comfortable with the
concept of being sucked off by a nine-year-old acting under
duress, a BJ was a BJ and he doubted these bums were offered too
many of those.

But the boy was younger, more thoughtful, and probably less able
to divorce emotion from physical gratification. Pieter was
worried he might try to communicate with the girl, or worse. And
that would ruin everything.

Pieter excused himself, muttering that he needed a piss and he
wandered casually between the parked vehicles and out towards the
dunes. But he doubled back and crept through the darkness, to
listen at the boy's tent.

A narrow shaft of light speared the dark, from a small hole in
the side of the canvas and so Pieter peered inside.

To his surprise, relief and then delight, he found his misgivings
unfounded. For Sonny, far from taking pity on the girl and
perhaps trying to befriend her, had in fact more than entered
into the spirit of the evening. Pieter just had to watch what
happened.

In the stark glare of the gas lantern, he saw that Sonny had
rather ingeniously rigged up a small trapeze-like bar that was
hung by two ropes from the ridge pole of the tent. He had
suspended the small girl, inverted, with her legs bent at the
knee over the trapeze part and wound some prickly flotsam rope
around her them to pull her ankles and thighs tightly together,
and thus keep her in place.

It looked splendidly uncomfortable for her: Pieter was impressed.

The lad had stripped her of her dress and was naked himself. He
was knelt facing her, so that her pigtails fell between his legs,
and her head, flushed from being upside-down, was at just the
right height. Her mouth was clamped over the head of his penis
and he could see her cheeks flexing as she sucked and licked him.
And he had his own diversion, for in defiance of Pieter's
stricture, his fingers were holding her upturned cunt wide open
and his own mouth was exploring the little girl's cute little
twat.

Pieter frowned, for he usually disapproved of anything that might
give the little slut any physical pleasure, but he merely watched
for a few minutes, glad that his fears were misplaced. Then the
girl suddenly pushed herself away and coughed and spluttered.

Angrily, Sonny grabbed her head and shoved his cock back into her
mouth.

"Do as you're told, you fucking little bitch," growled the lad
and he reached down and gave her nipple a truly vicious twist,
that had her bucking around on the trapeze and squealing in pain
behind the thick mouthful of hot cock filling her mouth.

It was music to Pieter's ears and he found himself stroking his
own cock, fascinated at the way the youngster was using the girl
so effectively. He waited until the boy's semen had emptied into
the back of her mouth before he rejoined the card players.

A few minutes later the boy returned. In his absence, someone had
fired up a CD player and so he left his guitar alone.

Pieter had a moment of concern.

"She all right?" he asked Sonny casually, concealing his true
thoughts.

The boy smiled widely and blushed. "Very good, thanks" was all he
replied then he realised that Pieter was asking more than just a
simple question and so he explained that Ralf, the mean-looking
biker from München, had led her away.

Pieter nodded. He smiled too, for the girl had told him about
Ralf, and what he did in the ruined bunker the week before, and
he knew she was going to be earning her keep: the Bavarian had
actually had a quiet word with him earlier and received Pieter's
assent to his request.

At that precise moment, she was cowered in a tiny ball, pressed
right into the dank, mossy corner of the concrete chamber,
against the rough cold wall, as if she hoped she might just
disappear and the terrible man with the leather clothes and
narrow eyes wouldn't find her.

It was very dark, and cold, and the walls smelt foul from piss
and mould and salt water, but after her weeks inside the barrow,
she hardly noticed the stench, so used was she to being immersed
in filth. There was faint illumination from moonlight through
holes in the walls and her eyes had gained their night vision.
The short, nasty man had dragged her roughly to the bunker
entrance by her chain and then literally kicked her inside,
ordering her to wait for him to go and fetch something.

He kept his bike in the bunker - she could make out its shape -
and she knew he had returned when his dark silhouette passed
silently in front of it, briefly obscuring the moonlight glinting
off the chromework.

Momentarily she lost track of him and then the leather belt
cracked just in front of her and she cried out. He laughed and
switched on the battery lantern, looming over her and waving the
long length of leather in her frightened young face. Leering, he
ignored the chain on her collar and instead took a handful of
plait and tugged her across to the bike.

Though it was very cold in the bunker, she instantly hauled the
flimsy dress over her head when he ordered her. With mounting
dread, she watched in the dim, eerie glow of the lantern. The man
poured something from a tube, on to the top of the saddle.

"Sit down," he snapped. She sat on the scratchy concrete. It hurt
her bottom when he roughly tipped her to one side and bent her
leg doubled, winding a length of rope around her thigh and ankle
and binding her leg tightly. The grit grazed her calves when he
repeated the action on her other leg, so that she was in an
enforced kneeling position. But then he picked her up by the
waist and the oily stuff felt cold and wet on her skin as he laid
her face down along the saddle, with her chin resting on the
chilly metal of the fuel tank. With her feet unsupported and
tightly-folded legs hanging each side, her body pressed down on
the length of the saddle, from her chest to her crotch and she
was sure she was going to slide off.

"Hold on to the handlebars"

She reached out unsteadily and curled her slim little fingers
around the handgrips.

"You're going to use that cute little pussy of yours to polish my
saddle, make it all shiny like new. You better make a start
because I'm going for a smoke and when I come back, I'll expect
to see my face in it. If not..."

She winced as he snapped the belt against his hand and the crack
echoed around the reinforced concrete walls.

She didn't know it, but she didn't even have a fighting chance of
getting any form of sheen on the worn, cracked leather, for the
slippery stuff coating the front of her cold, tired body was
nothing more than baby oil. And though she gripped the handlebars
with all her strength and hauled herself up and down the saddle,
all that was in fact happening was that she was exhausting her
already weak arms, and tenderising the soft flesh of her tummy
and pubic mound. With her feet bound to her thighs, had no way of
using her legs to assist and again and again she had to push,
then pull, her own deadweight along the surface of the
motorbike's saddle.

In spite of the cold, her face soon broke out in perspiration as
she slid herself up and down.

She had had a brief introduction to the man's belt the week
before and so she thought of nothing else, other than the awful
prospect of him lashing her poor bum, which was still sore and
lightly bruised from her earlier caning and the fat man's
spanking.

The chill was easily ignored. And though the soreness of her skin
was nasty, it was surely preferable to the sting of the belt. She
was panting. She willed herself to continue, hauling her body
along towards the tank, even though her arms and shoulders were
throbbing. She even forgot the constant dull ache from her empty
stomach.

She smelt the tangy smoke of his spliff and her heart began to
race.

Again she pushed hard against the handlebar and slid her body
backwards over the slithery saddle, lest he should see that she
had all but given up through exhaustion. He stood in front of the
bike, watching her pitiful effort with an amused expression.

"OK, sit up," he said.

She tried to push herself up but her tired arms just would not
straighten and she suddenly tumbled down, narrowly avoiding
hitting her face on the petrol filler cap. Ralf stepped forward
quickly and grabbed her by the armpit and lifted her tiny frame.
When she was upright, his palm slid round to the front of her
oily chest and her kneaded the small swellings of her breasts. He
could feel the rapid beat of her anxious heart and her laboured
breathing.

He moved round to the back of the machine and leaned her body
backwards, his hand spread over her little tit, and peered down
over her shoulder. Even in the weak glow from the lantern, he
could see the redness at her inner thigh, from the chafing of the
side of the saddle. And as for the bike's leather, though it
glistened with warm baby oil, beneath it was plainly as dull and
crazed as before.

He shook his head. He clicked his tongue.

"Oh dear, that's no good, no good at all. You've put no effort
into that at all have you?"

He could tell she wanted to blabber something. Her eyes had
filled with tears, but after the weeks of suppressing herself,
she knew better than to try to make excuses or beg for
forgiveness. She knew she was a worthless piece of garbage, who
was only fit to be hit and covered in trash and pissed on and
have men stick their willies in her. She knew she would be
beaten. She deserved it.

She heard him take a last noisy drag on the joint and at the
corner of her eye saw the butt spark as it hit the wall where he
had thrown it. Suddenly he had grabbed each side of her head and
his mouth was over hers and when she opened it to snatch some
air, he forced in some thick, bitter smoke that made her panic
and choke and the back of her throat stung when she inadvertently
swallowed some and he held her tight against her face until he
had emptied his lungs into her captive mouth then he pulled away,
roaring with laughter and she clung to the greasy saddle and
coughed and spat and gasped for air.

She was still spluttering when the brilliant white flash
temporarily blinded her.

He picked her up and laid her on her back, with the back of her
head resting on the handlebars and her bound and folded legs
apart on the saddle and took another shot with his mobile phone
camera.

"I thought I would send some of my friends a souvenir holiday
photo," he laughed. "I was thinking of inviting them to come here
for the weekend and maybe they might like to meet you!"

She lay still, trembling, terrified to move in case she fell from
the bike. Ralf pocketed the phone and she blinked and her eyes
slowly adjusted to the darkness. She started when he placed his
hand over her cunt. His fingers danced lazily over her smooth,
soft mound, still slippery from the baby oil.

"Soon be time to show what your sweet little Möse is for," he
teased. She tensed.

"But I think we'll wait until my friends get here," he added so
that she had yet something else to fret about.

She did not understand his words, but there was something in his
tone that chilled her to the core.

For a couple of seconds, she did not realise what had happened.
Perched so precariously on the saddle, bound so awkwardly, she
had to squint along her own body to see what the man in the
leathers was doing. He had moved suddenly and something blurred
had flashed in front of him. She had heard a dull thud and was
aware of something touching her, right between her legs.

Then suddenly the pain registered. Such a totally surprising
pain, all-embracing, that she could not at first locate the
source. Except that it passed up her body and she instinctively
tried to tighten her back and her head lifted and fell hard
against the handlebars and she screamed.

The blur moved again and this time, centred at the core of the
burning pain, a renewed sharpness focussed on her pussy and
through the fog of horror, she at last realised that he had
brought the end of that leather belt down, right on to her
exposed labia.

Gasping, she tried to call to him, to beg him to stop, but before
her tense throat could form any words, another faint slap was
followed by a surge of agony that swamped her senses and stole
her breath.

Time and time again, as she struggled for breath and fought to
keep her balance, she was vaguely aware of him, moving from side
to side to obtain another point of aim on her crotch and the
string-tight sinews of her inner thighs. Time and time again she
felt the first contact as the narrow leather landed and curled
over her tender young skin, then instantaneously the pain would
take her, robbing her of conscious thought and demanding release
through her panting and yelling and screaming.

Just once he paused enough for her to recover.

He stood beside her, clutching the folded belt in front of him
and he leaned down and taunted her, leering into her scarlet
face.

"This is nothing, kid. A gentle little pussy-whipping to give you
food for thought. Just imagine what it will be like when I get
you all to myself."

She had no time to reflect on that at the time, for he quickly
returned to the back of the bike and stroked her burning thighs
and cunny then brought the end of the belt hard down again right
across her pubic mound once more and she was yet again submerged
under a black throbbing blanket of pain and despair.

The relentless sting of the belt overwhelmed her and she gave up
the struggle to maintain conscious thought.

Yet from that evening, rarely an hour would pass without her
returning to his words and wondering what he meant.
Then being very, very scared.

The two Scandinavians gave a cheer when Ralf led her back to the
campfire. The girl was ashen-faced and subdued and she stumbled
unsteadily when he tugged on her chain. She could barely walk.
When she came within the glow of the fire, everyone seated around
could see the vacancy in her pale face and the hopelessness in
her eyes, which were dark and red-rimmed and her cheeks were
still wet with tears.

"Hope you haven't worn her out!" one called to him.

Pieter raised an eyebrow and checked her out. From the way she
was walking, stiff, with her thighs clenched, he rather suspected
she had been given a rough time. He thought she would have to get
used to that.

This was turning into a very good evening, for apart from the
surfer, who was passed out on a lilo, it looked as if everyone
was going to take advantage of her in their own particular way.
The previous week, the two Nordic drifters had lain her down
between them next to the fire and passed her to and fro as they
smoked a joint, lazily climbing on to her and giving her ass a
lazy poke between drags. It had been quite amusing to watch.

If anything, the pair of them, muscular lads in their
mid-twenties, were even more stoned than before. This time they
were sprawled on adjacent deck chairs, with their arms draped
over the sides and their cans of beer just within reach.

One of them put his hand up and took the chain from the German.
He pulled the girl to him and stood her between his legs.

Concentrating very hard, for his vision was a bit blurred and his
coordination compromised by half a day's consumption of weed and
booze, he unclipped the chain from her collar, then reached down
and lifted her skimpy dress over her head.

Her lily-white skin glowed from the light of the fire and her
cute bumps and dimples were magnified so beautifully by the deep
shadows. Between her legs, the angry redness of her inner thighs
and labia was plain to see.

With a leer, he unzipped his fly and nodded to her. She
understood.

But no sooner had she knelt and begun to fellate him than his
companion hauled himself steadily out of his deckchair and
dropped his jeans.

"I see you've been enjoying yourself, Ralf!" he joked to the
biker, pointing to the girl's wet, crimson and still partially
dilated anus. "Thanks - means I don't have to bother with
foreplay!"

The ensemble found this very funny and Pieter used the laughter
diplomatically to hand the young man a condom. After a moment or
two's fumbling, that earned him some ribald cries of derision
from the others, he finally managed to put it on and squatted
beside the girl's upturned bottom and he clumsily forced his cock
into her.

She cried out, for she was incredibly sore already and the man
was less than gentle.

"Hey!" chuckled his seated companion, don't put the little cunt
off, she was just getting good at this!"

Pieter watched with detached amusement as his young captive's
body took a cock at each end. She was quite limp, very tired and
obviously in distress, desperately trying to keep her mouth
performing around the sitting one's penis whilst the other man
held her hips and ground into her backside. He did not want to
intervene at this stage.

"Swap?" suggested the first after a couple of minutes.

"Nah," replied his companion, "I want to try something
different."

And with that, he withdrew from the girl's abused behind and
suddenly picked her right up off the ground, his hands under her
thighs. Denied the attention of her lips, his mate watched with
drunken interest as the girl was bounced and bent until he had
her cradled against his stomach, bent at the waist so that her
knees were up to her chest and her feet were up in the air either
side of his head and most importantly, her open crotch was held
available and accessible to the front.

"There you go, mate!"

She was held tight, the Scandinavian's elbows pressed to her
shoulders and his hands under her knees, pulling her into a
compressed ball against his stomach. He bent his knees so that
her anus was at the right height for his pal to enter.

The second one stood with his hand on his prick and threaded the
bell end into her still-gaping anus.

"Shall we dance?" he cried and they burst into drunken laughter.

The rest of the group sat up to watch. The girl's ass was being
fucked in time to the music. It was hilarious. Her tormentor
played to the crowd, slamming up into her as the beat dictated,
grinding inside on the high notes.

She was crying hard, but her pained yelping was drowned out by
the music and the men's laughter.

When the one holding her's arms tired from trying to support and
contain the bucking little naked body, he yelled, "Swap!" and the
two men exchanged roles, passing the helpless young girl between
them and crushing her into a ball ready to have her poor butt
reamed once more. The men stopped to swig their beers, literally
dropping the floppy child as they drained their cans then with a
cheer from the others, they picked her up again and banged her
until first one, then the other, emptied himself into his condom.

Her tiny naked body lay sprawled beside the fire. It had served
its purpose. Griff broke open a fresh slab of beer and the men
passed around the cans.

Pieter grinned wildly. This had been a great evening - he could
hardly have planned a better humiliation and suffering for the
little cunt.

He prodded her with his toe as she groaned beside the campfire,
curled in a sniffling ball on the dirty grey sand amid the ash
and fag ends. She was still conscious, so that was OK.

"Take your bowl round and see if these fine gentlemen think
you've earned your supper," he snarled coldly and pushed her hip
with his foot.

She dragged her aching body up. In the glow of the fire, she
staggered over to the table and picked up the plastic dog bowl
and she crawled and stumbled, half comatose, around the group,
holding it half-heartedly in front of each.

"Please, sir?" she remembered to ask each man.

The fat Belgian was the last to contribute and with a playful but
stinging swipe across her little behind, he sent her reeling
across to where Pieter was sitting. He indicated for her to kneel
and show what she had earned for her evening's ordeal.

Some cold beans, one and a half sausages, a crust of stale bread
and some unidentifiable, burnt pieces of charcoal that may once
have been meat chops.

She looked up expectantly, her wide eyes, red and wet and crusty
from tears, pleading for permission to eat. Throughout the last
horrible time, with pinned between the two men, her bum burning
and sore, her whole body feeling battered and bruised, she had
tried to block out what was being done to her by looking forward
to her food. To ignore the sickly stink of beer on their breath,
and the pain and the jeers and cries of the other men as they
gathered round to watch her suffering, she tried to imagine what
it would be like. Her tummy was tight from hunger and her throat
thick with anticipation. It didn't matter how disgusting were the
scraps - she just had to eat something to stop the hunger pains
that had been building up all day.

Pieter made her wait, surveying her with a cold disdain that
belied the elation he actually felt, seeing her so debased. He
would have liked to take her himself then and there but he did
not perform with an audience. She could suck him off before he
let her sleep tonight.

Finally, he spoke.

"Is that all you're worth, cunt? All those cocks to please and
you get just a few leftovers? You're fucking useless aren't you?"

Her innocent young face could not disguise her hurt, but she just
wanted to eat it, no matter how meagre or inedible the contents
of her bowl. The nodded, looked to the ground and whispered.

"Ja, de heer."

Pieter affected to be angry with her.

"If that's the best you can do, you fucking little bitch, you
don't deserve to eat!" And he swung his hand across her, sending
the bowl flying. The contents scattered across the adjacent sand
dune.

"Pick it up!" he snarled, pointing at the bowl.

The cowering girl, her face frozen in horrified disbelief,
scurried over the sand to retrieve it. Her tears were in full
flow when she brought it back. Two of the men were laughing at
her.

Pieter threw her dress and chain at her.

"Put those on."

She struggled into the filthy dress and her shaking fingers
fumbled to attach the chain to her collar. Pieter snatched it
from her and finished the job himself, stooping to growl in her
ear.

"You had better hope I calm down by the time we get back. At the
moment I'm planning to whip you till you bleed."

And he yanked the chain as he strode off, and she tripped and
scrambled to keep her balance and scuttle along behind him,
clutching her empty bowl and the flea- bitten teddy bear.

"Thanks a lot for a great evening, boys. Same time next week?"

Cans and bottles were raised as the group cheered and bid him
goodnight.

He strode in the direction of the VW, the girl trailing in his
wake.

Ralf, the biker, broke away from the others and trotted to walk
beside him.

"Have you decided?" asked the German.

Pieter nodded without breaking his stride.

"Oh yes, my friend. I leave in two weeks' time, at the end of the
month, and then she's all yours."

Ralf gave a thin smirk of satisfaction, glancing back at the
girl, and he licked his lips. He had such plans for her. And her
tiny Möse. He and his biker pals.

"And the price?"

"As agreed, fifty Euro."

The men briefly clasped hands to seal the deal. Not a bad price
for a piece of trash.

***

Postscript - The First Monday In September

Amsterdam

At the National Clinical University, the Head of Behavioural
Studies was well known for his unfailingly dapper personal
appearance and an almost obsessive dedication to his work. By 7
a.m., his classic Jaguar was cooling down in the underground car
park and he was already at his desk, dressed as always in crisp
tailored shirt and handmade silk tie, hacking his way through the
huge backlog in his inbox.

He had all but cleared it by the time his personal assistant
entered the outer office. She popped her head around his door.

"Welcome back, Professor, how was your vacation?"

Pieter looked up from the screen and grinned.

"Very good, thank you, Sylvia. Yes, very good. Just the usual
seaside thing of course: plenty of fresh air and relaxation.
Though I did find time to do a bit of private research."

Wassenaar

The owner of the rental beach bungalow would not be happy when he
came to collect the keys the following weekend. Not only would
the group of German bikers have left already without waiting for
him, but they had also trashed the place.

But at the beginning of the week, there was still some semblance
of order. The lads had only gathered the previous night and as
always, they had celebrated with an all-nighter. The floor of the
lounge was already carpeted in debris - pizza boxes, empty cans,
cigarette papers and tab ends. But so far, the furniture was
intact.

The last of the half-dozen men had finally dozed off, joining the
others in a stoned and drunken slumber after a wild night that
ranked up there with one of the best ever.

And if you could step over the prone denim- and leather-clad
bodies snoring on the floor and in the assortment of chairs, and
pick your way through the trash to the far corner, you might be
surprised to see, surrounded by the discarded food wrappers and
empty bottles, the naked figure of a very thin little girl,
wearing a leather collar from which a chain is padlocked to the
radiator.

She is curled in the tightest of balls yet she is not asleep. Her
white face is blank; her dark, hollow eyes wide open yet seeing
nothing. At her ankles and wrists, the skin is red and broken
from hours of struggling against rough rope. She is trembling,
too frightened to sleep. And if you look closer, you can see the
bruises all over her body, and the mass of red and black welts
across the back of her thighs where she has been thrashed with
belts, and the cigarette burns on her flat little breasts and
down there, on the inside of her thighs and all around her raw,
bruised pubis, you could not fail to notice her soft, pale skin
is stained red and grey from last night's blood and the seemingly
endless volume of semen deposited inside her.

She is desperately hungry. She misses the comforting darkness and
the familiar, cloying stench inside Pieter's barrow.