David Clarke

The White Rat

Chapter One

"I'm sorry, Master David," said Mrs Devlin, struggling to remain polite. "I'm afraid the phone rang, and I had to answer it."

"I'm not interested. Just get me some fresh slices, now."

Mrs Devlin simply picked up the tray and carried it back to the kitchen, trying to stay calm. Obnoxious little brat, she thought. If either of my boys ever spoke to me like that, I'd smack them into next week. Not that they would – they're both good boys. But this one – if he was mine I'd have him put into care, so I would.

Of course, having no father about the place didn't help, and his mother was so tied up in her burgeoning political career that she was didn't take the time to sort the boy out any longer. Mrs Devlin knew the story – after all, she'd been acting as house-keeper to the Villiers-Gores for over a year now (and that was a lot longer than previous house-keepers had lasted, too) – the father was a minor offshoot of a fifth-rate noble family, and the mother was an ambitious woman who thought that a hyphenated surname and the money that came with it would help her career along. Quite what Mr Villiers-Gore got out of the marriage Mrs Devlin couldn't tell, unless he was one of those men who needs a strong woman to organise his life. If so he'd changed his mind after the wedding: first it had been the cigarettes, then the drink, in ever-increasing quantities, and eventually his liver had given up the unequal fight. That left Mrs Villiers-Gore with a posh surname, a large house, plenty of money, and a fourteen-year-old son whom she made little or no effort to control.

At least the little bastard was out of the house for most of the day, at least for the next four weeks, until the Easter school holidays came round. Mrs Devlin was praying that Mrs Villiers-Gore would be at home over Easter, not gallivanting about the county with her big-shot Tory friends, because a solid two weeks of young David acting all high and mighty was more than she thought she'd be able to take. Indeed, if it wasn't for the fact that this job was better paid than most she would have quit months ago.

She went through to the kitchen and shoved a couple more slices of bread in the toaster, and when they were done she spread them with butter and carried them back through to the dining room. She got the usual amount of thanks, which is to say none at all.

"You'd best eat it fairly quickly, Master David," she advised. "The taxi will be here in five minutes."

"Then he'll have to wait," replied David, taking his time about spreading some jam on his toast. "If he arrives before I've finished, tell him I'll be there when I'm ready, and not before."

Mrs Devlin didn't bother to answer: instead she just picked up the tray and went back to the kitchen.

David finished his breakfast in a leisurely fashion, then got up and went back to his bedroom, where he put on his school blazer and picked up his briefcase, which was a proper leather one his mother had bought for him in Italy – not like those nasty cheap plastic things most of the boys carried, even at a decent school like King Edward the Fifth. He enjoyed plonking it down ostentatiously on his desk in the mornings so that the rest of the boys in his class could see how much better it was than the rubbish they had.

He went downstairs to his mother's office, where she was busily typing something – no doubt something boring, as usual, he thought.

"Off to school, darling?" she asked, looking up as he came in. "Don't forget we're going out this evening, so try to get some of your homework done at lunchtime if you can."

"All right, Mother, I'll try. But about tonight… I'm wearing long trousers, okay?"

"Oh, but darling, you know how nice you look in your shorts. The other ladies always say such nice things about you, about how sweet you look, and so on, and it all helps."

"Mother, I'm fourteen, not four. Just because I'm still only five feet [1.50 m] tall, doesn't mean you should treat me like a baby!"

"Oh, have you grown another couple of inches? I'm sure you were only four feet [1.45 m] ten last time we looked. Anyway, darling, that's not why I do it, as you know very well: it's important that I make a good impression on the other ladies if I'm going to get anywhere."

"I don't see how sucking up to a lot of horsey county women is going to help. Anyway, why should I? What's in it for me?"

"Because the Conservative Party has always thought the family is one of the most important things there is. That's why Ted was never the right man to lead us: he's not married. But Maggie is, and she's going to take us places… anyway, if I can show them that I can bring up a young son on my own and still do a good job for the party, they'll say good things about me to the people who matter, and the fact that your father is no longer with us will actually count for me, not against… Look, darling, if you help me with this and everything goes well, I'll be really pleased with you… didn't you say you wanted a new bicycle?"

"Yes, I did," said David, suddenly taking interest. "That thing of mine is over a year old, and it's only got five gears. So… if I wear my shorts tonight and make all those old biddies think I'm Little Lord Fauntleroy, you'll buy me a proper ten speed bike?"

"I should think I should be able to manage that. Oh, and don't forget to call me 'Mummy', will you, darling? 'Mother' is so formal…"

"I'm sure I won't forget," he said. "Bye, Mother – Mummy, I mean."

She raised a cheek to him and he kissed it quickly and then strolled out to where the taxi driver was waiting and looking fixedly at his watch.

"We're going to be late, Master David," he said.

"You'll have to drive a bit faster, then, won't you?" said David, installing himself on the back seat.

The driver closed the door for him and walked back to his own side of the car, thinking yet again that although this was a regular job, and one furthermore that meant he didn't have to fight his way through the town centre in the rush hour (David's school was on this side of town), he really might be better advised to ask the controller to find another driver to do it: just being in the same car as this mouthy little brat every day was doing his blood pressure no good at all.

At school David walked to his form room, placed his Italian briefcase on his desk and walked out again. He knew that most of the boys in his form didn't like him much, but that was fine because he didn't like them much, either. Most of the boys in the school had got there by passing the eleven plus*, and the rest – like himself – by way of the Common Entrance exam**. The CE boys had of course come from prep schools, and so were mainly from good families, but the rest came from all sorts of backgrounds – some even lived on council estates. David saw absolutely no reason why he should associate with that sort of riff-raff, and so, as far as possible, he didn't. And it didn't matter that his classmates didn't like him, because there was nothing they could do about it: he had friends.

Well, make that one friend – but what a friend that was! He was protected by the most powerful boy in the school, the Head Boy, and that meant nobody could touch him. It didn't matter that he was small for his age, or that he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag, because being Garrett's right hand man meant that he never had to fight anyone.

He was prepared to admit that he'd been lucky to start with – Garrett might have picked any kid to run that first errand for him almost a year ago – but everything he had done since was down to his own cleverness.

David had joined the school at the start of the previous academic year: he had done rather less well in the CE than had been expected, and as a result failed to get into any of the major public schools. Instead he had come to the local grammar school. Of course, that meant that he joined the school at the start of the third year, by which time most of his form-mates had been together for two years, and that made it harder for him to make friends – had he actually wanted to make friends with council-housed oiks, that is. For the first two terms he just kept his head down and got on with it. He hated being called 'Titch' or 'Blondie-boy' but there wasn't much he could do about it back then.

But then early in the summer term one of the new prefects had emerged from the prefects' common room just as he was passing, and had told him to take a note to the PE master at the gym. David didn't appreciate someone from his background being expected to act as an errand boy, but he couldn't really say anything, so he took the note and delivered it as instructed. And as he came out of the gym he spotted two boys disappearing out of the small side gate to the school that lay next to the gym.

The school rules clearly stated that only sixth-formers were allowed out of school during the day, and these two were obviously far too young to be in the sixth form. So David ran back to the prefects' room and found the one who had given him the note.

"I thought you might like to know I've just seen two juniors sneaking out of school," he reported.

"Really?" said the prefect. "Which gate?"

"The one by the gym."

"Come on and show me, then."

So David had led the prefect to the gate, and five minutes later the two boys reappeared and were promptly collared.

"Thank you… what's your name?"

"Villiers-Gore. Er… if I spot anything else that shouldn't be happening, should I come and tell you about it?"

"Yes, OK. I'm Garrett. You know where to find me."

So David's career as snitch-in-chief to Garrett had begun, and after that he hung around gates looking for boys sneaking out; he checked the toilets and bike sheds, looking for smokers, and in general he tried really hard to find people not sticking to school rules. At first Garrett despised him – after all, nobody likes a snitch – but he was happy to use the information to make himself look good.

And then at the start of the next academic year it bore fruit: the boy who had been scheduled to be Head of School didn't come back after the summer holidays because his father had got a job in Ireland and taken the family with him, and Garrett, in view of his fine disciplinary record the previous term, was made Head Boy in his place, and after that David's career really took off.

The Head Boy was allowed a lot of leeway in maintaining discipline in the school: he was allowed to cane boys if the situation merited it, or take any other measures to ensure that everyone obeyed the school rules, and Garrett's job was made much easier by the presence at his side of an extremely efficient spy and sneak. He still didn't like David much, but the boy was so useful to him that he was happy to put up with him. Besides, David began to demonstrate a talent for dreaming up what are usually described as 'cruel and unusual punishments'.

A caning was a caning: it hurt – and when Garrett did it, it hurt a hell of a lot – but it was still done in private and over fairly quickly. But one day David asked if Garrett was allowed to do anything other than caning miscreants.

"I can do pretty much what I want, short of actually expelling someone, and even there if I tell the headmaster that someone should be expelled he'll usually listen to me, I think. Why?"

"Well, I was thinking – if you make the punishment really, really embarrassing, it's pretty unlikely that whoever it was would ever do it again. I mean, take Osterley, that third-year you caught this morning bullying first-formers: if you cane him, he'll have forgotten how much it hurt in a couple of weeks, and then he might do it again. But suppose you made him dress up in girl's clothes and then go and wash the blackboards in all three first-year form rooms, like a cleaning-woman – I bet once he'd heard the entire first form laughing at him he wouldn't feel like doing it again, especially if you told him that the second time around he'd have to do it with no knickers [panties] on, so the kids would be able to look up his skirt while he's cleaning the top of the board."

"Whoo-ee, V-G, that's a brilliant idea!" said Garrett. "In fact, I want you to go and tell Osterley to come for his punishment tomorrow lunch-time, instead of today. That'll give me time to find some girl's clothes – I expect my sister's old stuff would do. Got any more good ideas like that?"

"Well, yes, one or two. I think the best way to make sure someone won't make the same mistake twice is to make their punishment as embarrassing and humiliating as possible. I mean, even caning can be made worse if you want."

"How?"

"Well, at the moment you just get them to bend over the back of a chair for it. Suppose instead we made them take all of their clothes off out in the hall and come in to be caned completely naked? That would be a whole lot more embarrassing – plus, you could be sure they hadn't got an exercise book tucked into their underwear if they weren't wearing any."

"I like it – in fact we'll start doing it like that from now on. Okay, you'd better go and find Osterley – and keep on thinking up stuff like that, too: it'll make my job a lot more entertaining…"

So the following lunchtime Osterley had turned up, expecting detention, or at the very worst a couple of strokes of the cane, and instead had found himself the first recipient of one of David's increasingly nasty punishments. He tried arguing, of course, but Garrett pointed out that bullying was one of the headmaster's pet hates, and that if it was referred to him it might even mean expulsion.

"It's up to you," he ended. "Either you can go and clean those blackboards, or we'll go and see what Noddy has to say about it."

'Noddy' was really Mr Alan P Weston, MA (Cantab), the headmaster, but all the boys called him 'Noddy' because of his habit of nodding continuously whenever he was talking about something he cared about – such as why bullying was one of the lowest forms of human behaviour.

Osterley thought about it for a few seconds and realised that even if he didn't get expelled, it was a certainty that Noddy would write to his parents about it, and that would be almost as bad.

"OK," he said, reluctantly, "I'll go and clean the blackboards."

"Right. In that case you can start by taking your uniform off – all of it – and then we can see if my sister's knickers fit you."

So Osterley had to strip completely naked, which was embarrassing enough, and then put on a complete set of girl's clothes, including the knickers, which were extremely uncomfortable. And then David escorted him, first to the cleaning cupboard to find a bucket, then to the toilets to fill it, and finally to the first-year form rooms, where the results were everything David could have wished: the first-formers fell about laughing, and Osterley was so embarrassed and humiliated that he was actually crying by the time he finished the third board.

At last David took him back to Garrett's office, where he was allowed to put his own clothes back on.

"Just remember," Garrett told him as he was tying his shoelaces, "if we ever catch you bullying again, we'll make you clean every blackboard in the lower school dressed like that – except next time you won't be allowed any knickers. So if you want every first- and second-year in the school laughing at your pathetic little prick, you know what to do. Okay, get lost."

"Bet he'll never do it again," said David, once he had gone.

"Bet you're right," agreed Garrett. "Which is a pity, really – I like the idea of all the first-years looking at his balls while he's trying to clean the board. Oh, well, I suppose the idea is to stop bullying, not to give the first-years a good laugh. Good one, V-G: keep those ideas coming."

So David had kept those ideas coming, and Garrett had been delighted by them, happily trying most of them out at the earliest opportunity. He had also added one of his own: whenever a repeat offender was caught, Garrett would give him the choice of either getting a double caning, or sucking Garrett's cock. Of course, they almost invariably went for the caning, but one of Garrett's canings on the bare backside could feel like the end of the world, and quite a few changed their minds when Garrett offered them the chance to reconsider after three blows.

David viewed this with disgust – sucking another boy's cock seemed to him to be about the most degrading thing anyone could do, and he was absolutely convinced that in their position he would take the caning every time. On the other hand, he never failed to watch the performance, finding it sick but fascinating. Garrett had a large hairy organ, and David was amazed that the boys could actually get it into their mouths at all, but somehow they all managed it.

"Why do you do that?" he asked Garrett once, when the victim had left the office.

"Because it feels fucking great, that's why."

"Yes, but… doesn't it make you feel like a poof?"

"Nope. It probably makes them feel like that, but there's a world of difference between sucking and being sucked. Obviously I'd never suck, because that really is queer, but being sucked feels pretty much the same whoever is doing it – if I close my eyes I can pretend it's Bo Derek, or someone like that. And to be honest, one or two of the boys here do it better than my last girlfriend did. They probably practise on each other… Look, next time we get one in, I'll make him suck you, if you want. That way you'll see for yourself what it's like."

"No, thanks, Garrett," he replied straight away. It wasn't just that the whole idea felt queer to him: more importantly, he didn't want anyone to see his cock, not even Garrett, who by now he got on really well with. David was small for fourteen, but his cock would have been small for fourteen months: it was tiny, only about an inch [2½ cm] long, and still less than two inches [5 cm] even when fully erect. Puberty, he sometimes thought, was something that only happened to other people: his genitals were as tiny and hairless as they had been five years previously. No way was he going to let anyone suck it, no matter how good Garrett said it felt.

So now here he was, almost two terms later, and thoroughly enjoying life, even though most of the school despised or feared him. He knew they called him 'The White Rat' – he'd got close enough to hear it more than once – but he didn't care, because with Garrett behind him he could do pretty much whatever he wanted with absolute impunity. And Garrett's position was unassailable – some of the teachers occasionally heard rumours of excess, and even Noddy sometimes wondered how he had achieved it, but there was no doubt that his methods, whatever they were, worked: nobody at all had been expelled in the past two terms, and the number of miscreants appearing before the headmaster was down by almost 50% on the previous academic year.

So this morning, as he usually did, once he had left his briefcase on show in the form room David went out to see if he could find any sinners at work. He only had about twenty minutes before he had to be back in his form room for registration and this part of the day was generally very poor in terms of rule-breakers: it was too early for the smokers, and obviously nobody could sneak out of school before they had actually arrived; but he had sometimes spotted a bit of bullying, or pupils arriving without their blazers on. Today, however, he was out of luck. Oh, well, he thought, we'll have to try again at break.

And at break he got lucky. At the far end of the school grounds was an area once used by the school's cadet corps: there was a rifle range, and an equipment hut, and beyond both, in a sunken bit of ground between the range and the high wall that marked the edge of school property, was the old assault course. It hadn't been used much even before the corps was disbanded: it was too small to form a proper challenge, and instead the corps used to make use of one on a regular army base a couple of miles away. The school course was now overgrown and neglected, and it was also strictly out of bounds.

David had on a couple of previous occasions found smokers hiding behind the rifle range, so he checked it out today just in case, and instead he found two first-formers inching their way across one of the narrow raised planks that formed part of the old assault course. Jackpot, he thought.

"Hey, you!" he shouted.

They spun round so quickly that one of them lost his footing and fell four feet to the ground, though there was plenty of long grass underneath, so it didn't do him any harm.

"Oh, shit, it's the Rat," he heard the other one say, in a low (but not low enough) voice. Well done, he thought, you've just earned one of my special punishments.

"Come here," he ordered, and slowly they trudged towards him – there was no chance of running, because the course was enclosed by the school wall, the back of the swimming pool and the side of the Cadet Hut: the only way out was back past the rifle range.

"Names?" he asked

"Sherwood," said the shorter one. "He's McMillan."

"Ties?"

It was a school rule that everyone had to have a name tag sewn onto every article of clothing, and checking the tag on someone's tie or shirt collar was the easiest way to confirm that they were who they said they were. Nobody ever seemed to go to the trouble of sewing a false label onto their ties. These two ties bore the given names, anyway.

"Lunchtime at Garrett's office," David told them. "Right at the start of the lunch break. Don't be late," and he strolled off happily, smiling even more broadly when he caught the word 'rat' in the rebellious murmur that broke out after he had moved away.

He glanced at his watch. Just time to check out the toilets for smokers before the end of break, he thought, and so he headed back towards the main block, and as he entered the boys' toilet he bumped into someone on his way out.

"Watch where you're go… oh, it's you," said the other boy.

David looked up: it was Osterley, the third-year who had been on the receiving end of David's first inventive punishment early in the autumn term. In the past six months or so he had grown a bit, and was now three or four inches [8-10 cm] taller than David.

"Been bullying anyone lately?" David asked, with a smirk.

"Don't you know?" replied Osterley, made bold by the fact that he was now taller than the other boy. "I thought you knew everything that went on in this school."

"Don't be cheeky, Osterley."

"Or what? I haven't done anything wrong this time, so you can't touch me."

"Is that what you think?" said David, smiling nastily. "We'll see about that."

He moved past Osterley, on into the toilets. How dare he be insolent to me? he thought. He needs teaching a lesson…

The toilets were sadly free of smokers, and a couple of minutes later the bell rang for the start of the next lesson.

As soon as the lunch bell sounded David made his way to Garrett's office.

"I've got a couple of first-formers coming in," he said. "They were out of bounds in the old CCF area. What do you reckon, a tug of war?"

"That seems a bit harsh – unless they've been here before, of course. Names?"

"Sherwood and McMillan."

Garrett consulted his punishment book, which held details of everyone he had dealt with since the start of the school year. It didn't, of course, list the actual punishments, because this was the record that Noddy consulted every time a miscreant came before him, and quite a lot of the things that had been done to wrongdoers would have taken Noddy's breath away. But it did give the name and form of everyone who had been punished, and also what the offence was in each case.

"No, looks like a first offence," he said. "And I don't like going too far over the top with first-years – not because they don't deserve it, but because if we overdo it they're the ones most likely to go home to mummy and complain, and I'd sooner avoid that. Pop your head out and see if they've arrived yet."

They had, and David ushered them in.

"Villiers-Gore tells me you were trespassing on the old CCF area," Garrett said. "Is that true?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Sherwood, scowling at David. "But we weren't doing any harm…"

"That's not the point," said Garrett. "The rules are there for a reason. That area is out of bounds because it's dangerous and it's out of sight of the school, so if you fell and hurt yourself nobody would know about it."

"Yes, but there are two of us, so if one of us got hurt the other could go for help," Sherwood pointed out.

"Not if the first one pulled the second one down with him. Anyway, I'm not getting into an argument about this – you were out of bounds, and that's all there is to it."

"Shall I get the cane out?" asked David, eagerly.

"No, thanks. You know I don't like caning first-years, V-G."

"Yes, but these two were insolent to me as well. I reckon it should be six each, with the cane."

"I'm afraid not – and you know why not, too. Get the belt instead. And you two – get undressed."

"What?!" queried Sherwood.

"You heard me – strip. Like I just said to Villiers-Gore, I don't cane first-years unless I have to, so we have to find other ways to make sure you don't do it again, and the best one seems to be to embarrass the hell out of you. I want you to go away from here determined never to come back. So get your clothes off – or maybe I will use the cane, after all."

Reluctantly Sherwood took off his blazer, and McMillan followed suit, and soon they were both naked, hunched up with their hands in front of their groins.

"Face each other, stand up straight and put your hands on your head," ordered Garrett, and they slowly complied.

David looked at them, enjoying their discomfiture, and to maximise it he came and stood between them and to the side, looking them both up and down slowly and grinning at them. McMillan's penis was long and thin, with a small nozzle of excess foreskin on the end; Sherwood's was shorter, thicker and circumcised. Both boys had soft, dangling ball-bags and neither had any hair. David's enjoyment was slightly tempered by the knowledge that these two eleven-year-olds were both better equipped than he was, but he did enjoy the look on Sherwood's face, which was one of barely suppressed fury. McMillan just looked ashamed and embarrassed.

"Okay, now I'm going to give you three each, provided you do as I tell you, otherwise it'll be more," Garrett told them. "And because you're friends I'm going to give you the chance to help each other through it. Move forward until you're touching each other – yes, like that – and now put your arms round each other – go on, Sherwood, properly… good. Okay, stand still."

He pushed them as close together as possible and then drew a chalk line a couple of inches behind each boy's heels.

"Okay, you're now standing on the bridge," he told them. "As long as you stay between the lines you'll only get three each. Step over the line on either side and you'll get six. Now, I'm going to beat Sherwood first, so McMillan, your job is to hold him in place and to make sure he doesn't cross the line. You can talk to him, hug him, do whatever it takes, but don't let him flinch so far that he crosses the line, okay? Ready…"

He picked up the thick leather belt, doubled it over and swung it against Sherwood's naked bottom. The first-former gave a yell of pain and jerked forwards, but McMillan stood firm, preventing him from moving far enough to push him over the line. A second blow, and Sherwood managed to do no more than hiss, though David could see his arms tighten, squeezing McMillan against him; and then a third, which once more drew a little cry. David was disappointed to see that Sherwood's eyes were glistening, but he wasn't actually crying. But he was pretty sure that Sherwood was the tough one, and he thought McMillan would react in a much more entertaining way. Indeed, he was already trembling before Garrett moved across to his side.

Garrett could see it, too, and cruelly he held back his first blow to draw out the anticipation. David wished he had a camera: the two first years were now standing pressed together, their naked genitals squashed against each other, and McMillan looked as if he was going to faint in terror at any moment.

Finally Garrett swung. The belt struck McMillan's buttocks with a satisfying 'crack!' and McMillan cried out and jerked forwards. Sherwood barely kept him in place.

"It's okay, Ally," he said in his friend's ear. "Only two more. You can do it."

The belt swung again, and McMillan squealed once more and bucked forward, and for a second Sherwood was on the brink of overbalancing. He caught himself at the last moment and pushed McMillan back to their starting position. "Come on, Ally, one more, okay?" he said, hugging his friend hard, and McMillan gave a shaky nod and tried to brace himself.

"Would you like the last one, V-G?" asked Garrett, and David seized the belt enthusiastically. He'd have preferred to beat Sherwood, who was the one to have called him the Rat, but he reckoned that if he did it hard enough he could push them both off the bridge and so get six more to hand out. So he took a step back, wound back his arm and delivered the blow as hard as he possibly could. His aim was a bit out, however, and the blow landed on the top of McMillan's thighs, and the boy shrieked out and convulsed, pulling Sherwood to the floor with him.

"They're off the bridge!" shouted David, happily. "That means more, doesn't it?"

"Actually," said Garrett, "I'm afraid they're not, not quite: they fell sideways. And, anyway, I don't think that last blow was really fair – you missed his bum, or didn't you notice? Okay, you two, that's it: you can get dressed now."

David was disappointed, though at least he saw that he'd made McMillan cry – Sherwood still had his arm round his shoulders and was trying to comfort him, and McMillan was trying hard to pull himself together. At last he gave a final sniff and a nod and started to get dressed, and Sherwood, still looking anxiously at his friend, did likewise. Eventually both were dressed once more, and Garrett told them they could go.

"Bye-bye," said David, grinning at them as they passed him on their way to the door. "Be good, now."

Sherwood glared daggers at him but kept his mouth shut.

"I don't think that one likes you much," observed Garrett once the door had closed behind them

"I seem to have that effect on quite a few people," said David. "I can't say it bothers me, though. Can I borrow the Book for a moment? I want to look something up."

"Help yourself."

So David consulted the punishment book, leafing back to the previous September – yes, there it was: Ian Osterley, form 3C, punished for bullying Downing and Lithgow, of form 1A. He made a careful note of the names and put the book back in its drawer. Guess what, Osterley, he thought, there's a surprise on the way…

He got home that evening and took his school uniform off, pulling on some casual clothes instead, and then he went downstairs and ate his tea. He was on his best behaviour because his mother was eating with him, so Mrs Devlin had nothing to complain about, and he was also on his best behaviour when the taxi came to take them to the Conservative Club, though this was not the same driver who took him to school. By that time he had changed into another set of smart clothes, including a clean white shirt, long socks and the shorts he wore for going to meetings with his mother. These, like all shorts in the seventies, were extremely short and quite tight, though as he had nothing much to make a bulge in them they looked quite presentable. It would be fair to say that wearing these clothes and with his silky blond hair nicely brushed, he didn't look a day over ten.

"Now remember, darling," said his mother as they got out of the taxi, "best behaviour, all right? There are going to be a couple of people from Central Office here tonight and I want to make a good impression."

"Don't worry, Mummy, I won't forget," he said, and she smiled at him, adjusted his tie and led him inside.

The meeting was as boring as it usually was, with a couple of people making tedious speeches and then a lot of circulating with wine and canapés, but David, with his mind firmly set on the promised new bike, managed not to yawn too often, and replied politely whenever anyone spoke to him. A couple of the usual blue-rinse brigade cooed over him as they usually did, but tonight there were three or four people there that he hadn't seen before. There were a couple of large men in well-cut suits, who were presumably the men from head office – David was introduced to them by his mother, who seemed uncharacteristically nervous in front of them, but he smiled at them and said all the right things – and there was also, to his considerable surprise, what he thought of as 'a bloody nigger' – well, okay, he wasn't a full-blown nigger, because his skin was quite light in colour: probably he was a half-caste, or something. David couldn't imagine what he was doing here: there were hardly any coloured people in this part of the country to start with (there were only two non-white boys at his school, a Hong Kong Chinese boy in the Lower Sixth and a kid from somewhere in North Africa in the second year) and as far as he knew the Conservatives were very anti-immigration: the idea that a coloured man was a supporter of the party seemed bizarre.

He was sufficiently curious to wangle an introduction, and learned that the man's name was Mr Dhif, and that he came from somewhere called Oran. He managed to ask the question quite diplomatically, for him – at least, he didn't actually blurt out 'What the hell is a bloody nigger doing supporting the Tory Party?'

"This is the future," Mr Dhif told him, in response to his more moderate phrasing of the question. "Mark my words, this country has had enough of vacillating between governments and always doing what the unions want. Mrs Thatcher's got all the answers, and she'll be around for a very long time. And I like backing winners – it's very good for business." And he smiled and moved away.

David still found it a surprise that they'd let him in: he was too young to remember the 'Rivers of Blood' speech, but his own inner conviction would have been that "Enoch was right" – frankly, he didn't like coloured people, and didn't think they should be allowed to mix with people from good families, such as himself. He didn't think there was much future in trying to get rid of Sun, the Chinese boy: the sixth form were really out of his reach. But he resolved to see if he could find a way to dispose of the second-year kid. KEV is supposed to be a decent school, he told himself: it's bad enough that they let working class kids in, but they don't have to let foreigners in, too. I'll have to look into that tomorrow, he thought – if I can find time to do that as well as putting Osterley in his place, of course…

So now you've had a first sight of the obnoxious Rat and you're probably thinking that his personality has one or two small flaws. In the next chapter we'll see him stitching up the unfortunate Osterley and what happens as a result.

Chapter Two

In this chapter David arranges for something highly unpleasant to happen to Osterley and starts to think up ways to get Dhif expelled. And he also ends up with an apprentice, who is going to play a substantial part in future events.

As soon as he got to school the following morning the first thing he did was to go to 1A's form room to look for Downing and Lithgow. Downing had not yet arrived, but Lithgow was already there, so David caught his attention and beckoned him out of the room. Lithgow looked nervous: everyone in the lower school knew that when you caught the eye of the White Rat you were usually in serious trouble. But it was sensible to do what he said if you didn't want things to get even worse, so he swallowed and followed David outside.

David led him round the corner out of sight and asked, "Everything OK, Lithgow?"

Lithgow nodded nervously, wondering how long everything would be OK for.

"Not had any trouble with bullies?"

Lithgow shook his head, equally cautiously.

"Suppose I told you that you were still having trouble, with one bully in particular?"

Lithgow just looked confused. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Let's just say I think Osterley needs another lesson, and if you and Downing were to complain to Garrett that Osterley's still bothering you, I could make sure he gets one."

"Yes, but he isn't."

"But you could say he is, couldn't you?"

"Well… I suppose so – but it wouldn't be true, would it?"

"That doesn't matter, does it? OK, let's put it another way: Garrett and I need to make an example of someone. Personally I'd prefer it to be Osterley, but it could just as easily be you, or Downing, or both of you. I'm sure I could catch you doing something you shouldn't if I tried hard enough, and even if I couldn't actually catch you, I expect Garrett would believe me if I said I'd caught you… oh, I don't know – say, smoking, for instance? Now do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Yes, I think so. You want me and Stuart to say Osterley's been bullying us again, and if we don't, we'll be in serious trouble?"

"Now you've got it. Right, I'll leave you to tell Downing about it, and then you'd better go and report it to Garrett at break, hadn't you?"

David walked back to his form room, feeling pleased with himself. That's the skids under smart-arse Osterley, he thought. Now, the only other thing I've got to do is find out a bit about the coffee-coloured kid in the second year, and see if I can find a way to get him expelled. After all, we can't have any old riff-raff in the school, can we?

He had to put that on hold at the start of break, because he wanted to make sure he was with Garrett when his tame first-formers came in to report that that horrible Osterley was still being nasty to them: he was pretty certain Garrett would do the right thing, but he didn't want to take any chances.

In the event he needn't have worried: Garrett was as keen to see Osterley brought to heel as he was, and never for a moment questioned the truth of Lithgow and Downing's complaint. All he said at the end of their rather wooden recital was, "Thank you, boys: I'll make sure he doesn't bother you again." Then he turned to David and said, "Go and tell Osterley I want to see him at lunch-time – and then you'd better come and help me look for those old clothes my sister gave me."

Brilliant, thought David, and ran to give Osterley the good news.

"Why?" asked Osterley, when David told him he had to report to the office at lunchtime.

David shrugged. "I'm just the messenger," he replied.

"You're never just the messenger, you know that," said Osterley. But David just winked at him and left him to it.

Finding the girls clothes and getting them ready took most of the rest of break, so David postponed his immigrant hunt – in any case, if Garrett kept his word to send Osterley round all the junior form rooms he'd get to see which form the boy was in at lunchtime.

"No!! It's not true, I swear!" cried Osterley. "I haven't been near those kids again, I promise!"

"That's not what they say," Garrett told him. "They both came in here at break to complain about you again."

"They're lying! Christ, Garrett, you've got to believe me – I swear I haven't done anything like that since… well, since."

"Sorry, Osterley, but I don't believe you. Why should they lie about something like that? Anyway, you know what I told you would happen if you did it again – or would you prefer us to go and talk to Noddy? You know as well as I do that two instances of bullying is automatic expulsion…"

For a few seconds Osterley was seriously tempted to take his chances with the headmaster – after all, he really was innocent… but he knew that Garrett was right: everyone would believe the two first-formers rather than him, and he also knew that the head hated bullying – probably he wouldn't even get a chance to defend himself.

"Please, Garrett, not that," he begged. "Can't you just cane me, or something?"

"Oh, I'm going to cane you, don't worry," Garrett assured him. "But once you've been caned you're still going to wash the blackboards. Now get your clothes off."

Slowly Osterley stripped, and once he was naked he was made to lean over the back of the chair kept in the study for exactly this purpose. David noted that not only had Osterley grown taller since his last punishment, but there were signs of growth in other areas, too: how he had wisps of hair around his penis, which also seemed bigger than David had remembered it, and the same went for the balls, which now hung down rather than nestling tightly against the base of the penis. Once again he felt aggrieved that everyone else in the world seemed to be reaching puberty before him.

"Go on, Boss," he encouraged, "as hard as you can."

Osterley glared at him, but the glare was instantly replaced by a grimace of pain as the first blow landed, and by the third he was sobbing and begging for mercy. David's eyes shone with excitement: this is what you deserve for not showing me respect, he thought. Bet you won't make that mistake again…

The sixth blow landed and Osterley jerked upright, clutching at his bottom and howling, with tears rolling down his face, and David couldn't have felt happier if he'd just found a thousand pounds in his pocket. And this time it was even better, because he'd brought his Polaroid camera into school today especially for this occasion – and as Osterley hopped about in front of him David whipped the camera out and took a photo.

"One for the scrapbook," he told Osterley. "Now get your girlie clothes on and we'll take another one."

"You can't do that!" cried Osterley, outraged. "Come on, Garrett, you can't let him do that – it's not fair!"

"Nor is bullying," said Garrett. "Isn't life tough, Osterley? Now get those clothes on, or we'll start the whole punishment again."

Osterley looked at the pile in front of him. "Where are the knickers?" he asked.

"You don't get to wear any this time. I warned you last time, remember? Now get a move on – if all six boards aren't clean by ten minutes before the end of break you'll have to come back tomorrow and go through the whole thing again."

Osterley stopped arguing and threw the clothes on. Because he had grown in the meantime the clothes that had fitted quite well in September were now a bit tight, and the dress, which had been quite short to begin with, was now far too short, only ending about four inches [10 cm] below his buttocks.

Osterley didn't seem to have suffered from zits or greasy hair as he hit puberty: his skin was as clear and his hair as clean as they had been before. In fact, he was still the same nice-looking boy he had been six months ago: he'd made a passable girl in September, and now his hair was longer David thought he could easily be taken for a real girl, even at close range. Assuming he was given some better clothes, that is: this set was doing him no favours at all.

Once he was fully dressed David forced him to pose for two photos, one from the front (taken from low down, so that the tip of Osterley's foreskin could be seen below the hem of the dress) and one from the back with him bending over the chair, so that his buttocks, complete with the red marks from his caning, were visible.

Then David marched him to the cleaning cupboard and the toilet as before to collect and fill his bucket of water, and then took him to the first of the junior form rooms. He was lucky – or Osterley was unlucky – because it was drizzling with rain, and that meant that almost everyone would be in their form-rooms instead of running about the yard, so a large audience was guaranteed.

For some reason his appearance drew a slightly muted reaction, rather than the full-fledged howls of laughter that had greeted him in September: nobody attempted to interfere, and a good third of the class didn't seem to want to laugh at all. David wondered why this was until he saw Lithgow and Downing sitting with their heads in their hands looking thoroughly miserable, and presumably they had told some of their friends about being coerced into dropping an innocent boy in it, because quite a few others looked unimpressed as well.

But the next room was the one belonging to 1C, and here the reaction was everything David could have hoped for. One of the bolder spirits came forward while Osterley was washing the board and lifted the back of the dress to reveal the naked, red-lined buttocks. Osterley tried to pull the dress back down, but David told him pretty sharply to get on with his work and to ignore what then other boy was doing. The first-former took that as his cue to enjoy himself: he lifted the dress again, holding a hand against the buttocks and pulling it quickly away, miming extreme heat, and his classmates fell about. Next he lifted the front of the dress and looked at Osterley's genitals, turned to his friends and invited, "Come and have a look at this – he's got hairs!"

Several others rushed forward, while Osterley went bright red and tried to bite back tears of shame: he was particularly sensitive about the appearance of his genitals at the moment, as a lot of boys undergoing puberty often are, and the thought of hordes of noisy eleven-year-olds peering at him was almost too much for him. Somehow he managed to keep going, even when one of the first-years took hold of a couple of his pubes and tugged. In the end it was David who told the first-formers to move back and let him do his job, though he only did that because there were another four rooms to do, and he didn't want time to run out before Osterley had been humiliated in front of as many people as possible.

The third first-form room was almost a repeat performance, though there was a small knot of four or five boys who didn't join in: Sherwood, McMillan and a couple of their friends, who sat and glared at David instead, no doubt feeling sympathy for one of his victims, a role they had so recently played themselves. But the rest of the class got stuck in, and by the time the board was finished Osterley was crying openly.

"P… Please, V… Villiers-Gore… please don't make me do the second-form rooms as well…" he begged, tearfully.

"Sorry. Garrett's orders, remember? Come on, time's getting short, and you really don't want to have to come back and go through all this again tomorrow, do you?"

Stifling a sob Osterley picked up his bucket and followed David to 2A's form room, and here too he was greeted with ecstatic laughter, though at least nobody tried to interfere with him. But their comments made him blush all over, and he was again biting his lip as they went next door to 2B's room, where he was again subjected to hysterical laughter and lewd remarks that made him colour up again. Finally the two of them crossed to 2C's room. At last the end was in sight, but this turned out to be his worst experience yet: he had barely started when Pope, who was 2C's class clown, came out and started to grope at his bum, and when David made no attempt to stop him he went further and groped at his balls instead. Osterley squealed in outrage and dropped his sponge, but David told him to get on with his work, adding that time was now getting very short indeed.

Gritting his teeth he picked it up again and tried to get on with washing the board, but Pope had now taken hold of his limp penis and was tugging on it, and of course the inevitable happened.

"Have a look at this, you lot!" cried the second-year, spinning Osterley round and lifting his dress to reveal the erection. "She likes being touched up! Who else wants a go?"

Three or four others charged forward, and between them they lifted Osterley onto the teacher's desk, pinned him down, pushed the dress almost up to his armpits, and then took it in turns to molest him. Osterley's control had broken by now and he was struggling helplessly, sobbing and swearing at the same time, though the attention he was getting meant that his penis was unable to go soft. One of the boys started rubbing it properly, and his mates cheered him on, laughing at their victim's incoherent pleas to leave him alone. David just sat on the nearest desk, swinging his heels and drinking the scene in happily.

Osterley's struggles got more desperate, but there was nothing he could do, and with a final despairing cry he reached orgasm, and a spurt of almost colourless liquid erupted from his penis, followed by a couple more. The second-formers cheered, stepping out of the way so that the whole class could see what was happening. The boy holding it let go, and they all watched as it twitched and jerked as the last little spurt dribbled out of him.

"Okay, that's enough," said David. "Let him go now."

Reluctantly they released him, and Osterley stumbled to his feet, sobbing like a baby. David could see that there was no point in doing anything else to him at the moment, so he picked up the bucket and told Osterley to go back to Garrett's office. The boy stumbled off like a man in a nightmare.

David went and emptied the bucket and returned it to the cleaning cupboard, and he still caught up with Osterley just before he reached Garrett's room.

"All done?" asked Garrett.

"Not quite, Boss. He didn't quite manage to finish 2C's board."

That roused Osterley from his lethargy. "But… Christ, Villiers-Gore, that wasn't my fault!" he protested. "You saw what they did to me!"

"To be fair, that's true," David confirmed. "He did try, but he got sort of interfered with. The board still wasn't done, mind."

"Okay. Look, there isn't time to do anything about it now," said Garrett. "Get changed, Osterley – but you need to come back at the end of school so we can decide what to do next. Well, get on with it, unless you want to go to your next lesson dressed like that?"

He didn't, and changed in a hurry. Once he had gone David explained what had happened, and Garrett fell about.

"Now this time I'm sure he'll never bully anyone again," he said. "Of course, we haven't quite finished with him yet…"

Normally David would have gone straight home from school, but he wasn't going to miss the end of Osterley's day, so he nipped quickly out of the gates and told the taxi driver to wait for him (he wouldn't have bothered, except he knew that if he was too late turning up the driver would have a valid reason for not waiting, and then he'd get into trouble at home) and then ran back to Garrett's office. Osterley was already there, and obviously he'd been told to change back into the dress, as he was naked when David entered the room. His bottom still looked very sore.

"Right, then" said Garrett once Osterley was transformed into a girl once more, "now we'd better sort out what we're going to do with you – after all, you didn't finish your punishment at lunch time. On the other hand, it wasn't entirely your fault – even V-G had to admit that! – so I'm going to give you a choice. So: you can have another twelve strokes of the cane, or you can go back and clean 2C's blackboard, and the rest of their form room, dressed like you are now, every day next week."

"Oh, God, no, not that!" cried Osterley. "They'd tear me to pieces! And… please don't cane me again – I couldn't take any more of that…"

"Well, there is one more option," said Garrett. "If you don't want to do either of those, you could suck my cock instead."

Osterley stared at him, convinced he couldn't be serious, but he didn't see anything in his face to reassure him.

"Come on, then, which is it to be?" asked Garrett. "Decide, or you'll get all three."

"But… look, you simply can't make me do that – it's disgusting!"

"Okay, then choose something else – like I said, it's up to you. But be quick. I'll give you ten seconds to choose: ten, nine, eight…"

Osterley felt trapped: he knew he couldn't face another caning – the six at lunchtime had nearly killed him, and the idea of another twelve was totally unthinkable. Nor could he face another session being stripped and molested by the second-years, let alone another five such nightmares. But the thought of sucking another boy's cock was so disgusting it almost made him sick. Oh, shit, what can I do? he thought…

"…four, three, two…"

"I'll suck you!" cried Osterley: it was an awful thing to have to do, but it wouldn't hurt and it would be fairly quick – a lot quicker than a week of lunch-breaks with 2C, anyway.

"Right. Kneel down in front of me, then" said Garrett, undoing his belt.

Osterley reluctantly dropped to his knees, looking over his shoulder at a grinning David.

"Look, Garrett," said Osterley, "I'll do this – but does he have to be here?"

"Afraid so," said Garrett, lowering his trousers and pants and flourishing his large, hairy penis at Osterley, who flinched; it looked far too big, and it was getting bigger as he watched.

Somehow he forced himself to take the massive thing in his mouth and to start to lick at it, but almost at once Garrett thrust forward, and Osterley gagged as the penis hit the back of his throat. He pulled back, coughing.

"You're going to have to do a better job than that if you don't want to go visiting 2C next week," said Garrett. "Try again."

So Osterley tried again, desperately trying to prevent the huge thing from hitting the back of his throat again. Gradually he managed to fall into a rhythm, but he had barely settled into it when he was distracted by a flash of light. He pulled back and looked to his right, and there was David with his camera in his hand, grinning at him: he had managed to find an angle where he could get both Osterley's face and his girlie clothes into the picture.

"I didn't tell you to stop," Garrett pointed out. "Get on with it."

So Osterley forced himself to keep going, even though he felt appalling: he was disgusted with himself for agreeing to do something like this, and ashamed to think what he must look like, and the idea that Villiers-Gore was taking photos of him like this was just too much: silently he started to cry. Mechanically he kept working away, and before too long his efforts were rewarded with a powerful jet of spunk that hit the back of his throat and started him choking again. But Garrett had a hand clamped to the back of his head, forcing him to keep the penis in his mouth as it spurted out more and more thick, disgusting liquid, and Osterley was forced to swallow it to keep himself from choking.

Finally Garrett let go of his head, and Osterley was able to pull back, coughing and retching. David hoped he was going to lose control and throw up, since that would be guaranteed to annoy Garrett and so earn further punishment, but to his disappointment Osterley brought himself under control, though there were still tears running down his face and he still looked green.

"Okay, that's it," said Garrett, pulling his trousers back up. "Get changed, and then you can go. And if I ever hear about you bullying again you'll be straight round to Noddy's office and out the gate, understand?"

Osterley wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and threw the girlie clothing off, no longer caring that Villiers-Gore was looking at his genitals. He dressed as quickly as possible and ran out.

"Let's see the photo, then" said Garrett, and David handed it over.

"Not bad," Garrett commented. "Do you want to put it with the others?"

David had put the lunchtime photos in an envelope and stored it in the bottom drawer of Garrett's desk, since he was certain nobody would be able to pinch it from there.

"No, I think I'd like to hang on to this one for a bit," he said. "I'll bring it in later."

"Fine. Just don't lose it. Now, have you got anyone lined up to see me tomorrow?"

"Not yet. I'll see what I can find tomorrow morning."

"Okay. Goodnight, then."

David said goodnight and strolled out to where his taxi was waiting. This time the driver didn't mind – he was charging waiting time for the extra time he'd been kept hanging about: let the little bastard's mother ask why it cost more than usual, he thought. With any luck he'll get a clip round the ear for it.

David sat back in the taxi and reflected on a day well spent: that was Osterley well and truly sorted out. He hadn't had time to do much about the other business, but he did now know that Coffee Boy was in 2B – he'd been sitting there laughing at Osterley with everyone else – and by borrowing the form register from the teacher's desk while everyone was concentrating on the spectacle in front of them he had been able to find out his name. Only one name stood out as obviously not British, and he hadn't been entirely surprised to see that the name in question was Dhif – after all, how many bloody wogs could there be in Outermost Gloucestershire, he thought. This one was called Brahim and he was twelve and a half.

He finished the ride contemplating what sort of misbehaviour Brahim Dhif would be likely to go in for – smoking, perhaps? Maybe not: smokers tended to be older, except perhaps for one or two of the lower-class council house rubbish… Sneaking out of school? No, Garrett tended to want to see those for himself… how about sneaking beer or cider into school? Now that might work… he'd only need to take a bottle in himself and claim to have found it in Dhif's coat pocket, or school bag, or something… Yes, that's one for tomorrow, he thought.

However, when he went to the kitchen cupboard next morning he found he was out of luck: the bottle of cider he had thought was there had disappeared. He would have to get hold of a new one, which wouldn't be that easy for someone who looked as if he was about ten – even the very lax shopkeeper at the corner off-licence would be unlikely to sell him a bottle. He'd just have to wait for his mother's next shopping order and then add it to the list before he handed it to Mrs Devlin, who was the one who actually went to the supermarket.

He was out on patrol at break when he was approached by one of the first-formers (he knew it was a first-former because everyone had to wear short trousers in their first year at school). Most people tended to keep clear of him; so having someone actually come up to speak to him was so unusual that he stopped his patrol to find out what the kid wanted.

"You're Villiers-Gore, aren't you?" said the boy, a cherubic looking child with curly light brown hair and the sort of round granny glasses worn by John Lennon. "I'm Fielding. It's about yesterday, when you made that bully come round to our classroom…"

David recognised the boy now – he had been one of the 1C boys who had crowded round Osterley and molested him while he was trying to clean the board.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Well… I thought it was brilliant," Fielding went on. "I mean, making a big boy come and stand there with his balls showing was a magic idea. I'd never had the chance to do anything like it before – pulling those little hairs and making him squeak was about the most fun I've ever had. So I wanted to say thanks. And…"

"And what?"

"Well… I was wondering if… if maybe you'd let me help you catch bullies, and let me join in when you punish them. I could sort of keep a look out for you, and every time I saw something I could come and find you and tell you what was happening. Then you could think of a good punishment and we could do it together. I'd really like to be able to make older boys undress and show me their things, and I'd absolutely love it if you'd let me beat them and make them cry. Please, Villiers-Gore, can I?"

David thought about it, and quickly decided that the idea of having an apprentice pleased him: he could train this kid up, teach him where to look for smokers and bullies, and then reap the reward himself in Garrett's eyes.

"Well…" he said, pretending reluctance, "I suppose I could give you a trial period… Okay, from now until the end of next week you can see what you can find. If you find me two or three rule-breakers by next Friday I'll agree to you helping me full-time, and you'll be able to join in with all the punishments, and maybe even think of some to do yourself. But if you can't, you'll be punished yourself for wasting my time, okay?"

"Sure, brilliant!" cried Fielding, his eyes lighting up. "I bet I can find loads – thanks, Villiers-Gore!" And he ran off.

Osterley, of course, was having a bad week: everywhere he went there was a first or second-former pointing at him, laughing at him or calling him names, and every now and again a junior boy would sneak up on him and squeeze his bum. He didn't dare lash out, because if he actually hit a junior he knew that nothing could save him from expulsion, so he just had to put up with it. As the week went by he started spending the breaks just hiding in his own form-room, where the juniors couldn't get at him, but of course he still had to go out to use the toilet, and it was as he was washing his hands after a toilet visit that he was cornered by a couple of first-years. When he saw which first-years it was he was so angry that he almost lost control and started punching them, but at the last moment he reigned himself in.

"Happy now?" he asked, bitterly.

"No," said Downing, "we're not. Look, Osterley, it wasn't our fault, and we're really, really sorry about what happened to you. See…" and he explained how they had been blackmailed by Villiers-Gore into making a false accusation against him.

"…so if we hadn't, it would have been us in the shit," he concluded. "But we wanted to tell you so you'd know what really happened."

Osterley was furious. That filthy little bastard, he thought. I'll fucking murder him… He thought about asking the two first-years to come with him to tell the headmaster what had happened, but decided against it: Garrett wouldn't get into trouble – he'd only acted on the first-formers' report – so he'd still be there to take revenge if his precious White Rat got expelled. No, he'd have to find some other way.

"Okay, thanks for telling me," he said. "Somehow I'll find a way to sort the Rat out for all of us. And… look, I'm sorry about pushing you two about back in September, okay?"

"Sure," said Lithgow. "But we don't think you should have been punished twice for it – so if there's anything we can do to help you sort out the Rat, just let us know, okay?"

"Thanks," said Osterley, and he walked away, thinking murderous thoughts.

The week rolled on by. David didn't manage to catch anyone up to anything – by now he was so well-known that at the first glimpse of his blond hair most miscreants simply stopped whatever they were doing and fled. But of course David was not the only lawman in the school and when he got to Garrett's office at the start of break on the Friday he found one of the prefects there delivering up a wrongdoer for judgement.

"He was round the back of the boiler room," the prefect was saying. "And I'm pretty sure he's been caught smoking before – haven't you, Pattison?"

The boy, a nice-looking brunette from David's own year, though not his actual form, nodded dully.

"More than once, I think," said Garrett, reaching for the punishment book and handing it to the prefect. "Thanks, Thompson – just fill it in and sign it for me, would you? Then I expect we'll have to go and talk to Noddy."

Pattison started trembling: in fact this was the third time he'd been caught smoking, and he'd only escaped expulsion last time after a desperate plea to Garrett, which had resulted in a severe caning and then being made to do something so totally disgusting that he still didn't like thinking about it. He knew he'd be in the deepest of trouble if he got expelled: the fact that he smoked as much as he did was entirely down to a very stressful home life. His father was a company director and ran the home like an extension of his business, constantly pressuring Pattison to do better at school and not being satisfied with anything other than top marks, something Pattison was not clever enough to achieve.

Thompson finished filling in the book and left, and Garrett stood up.

"Mind the shop for me, V-G," he said. "Pattison and I are going to see the head."

"Oh, please, Garrett," begged Pattison, starting to cry, "please don't take me to the head! My father would murder me… can't you just beat me instead?"

"I beat you last time, and it doesn't seem to have taught you anything, because here you are again," Garrett pointed out. "No, I'm afraid this time it'll have to be the head."

"Please, Garrett," begged Pattison, "I'd do anything… even what you made me do last time."

"Really? Well, I suppose I could do with a chambermaid – it's such a pity we don't have fagging any more, isn't it? Okay, then, Pattison, I'll give you a choice: either we can go and see Noddy, or you can be my chambermaid for the rest of term. That means you have to come here at every break, and after school unless I tell you otherwise, and keep this place clean and shiny – and there'll be one or two other duties, too, which you already know about. We'll find you some suitable clothes – in fact you can try on the ones in that cupboard in a minute. You'll be beaten every day, though how many you get and how hard they are will depend on how well you carry out your maid's duties. So – are you sure you wouldn't rather go and see Noddy and get it over with?"

"No, thanks," said Pattison, with barely a second's hesitation – he'd have been prepared to do absolutely anything to avoid expulsion and the resulting volcano at home.

"Good. Get undressed, then, and try on the clothes… thanks, V-G, yes, those."

David got the girls clothes out of the cupboard, checked to make sure the knickers weren't there and handed them to Pattison, grinning.

Pattison undressed, revealing a set of genitals not unlike Osterley's, but with a little more hair, and squeezed his way into the girls clothes.

"They're really too tight, aren't they?" commented Garrett. "We'll have to find you some others from somewhere."

"How about the drama stores?" suggested David. "We did The Happiest Days of Your Life last year, remember, so there should be plenty of girls uniforms there. I'll have a look at lunchtime if you like."

"Brilliant! Pattison, go with him and find a set that fits you – I wouldn't want my chambermaid to get uncomfortable."

There was a knock at the door, and when Garrett called, "Come in!" it opened enough for Fielding to put his curly head around the edge.

"I think I've found someone smoking," he told David. "Do you want to come and see?"

"Who's this?" asked Garrett.

"My apprentice," said David. "His name's Fielding. Shall we go and see what he's found?"

"Why not? Pattison, you can get changed and then go for now, but don't forget to meet Villiers-Gore at the drama store at the start of the lunch break, okay?"

They gave him long enough to throw off the girls clothes and pull on his trousers, and then they escorted him out into the hall to finish dressing, while Garrett locked his office door and followed the first-former down the stairs.

He led them to the bike sheds and pointed to a small bush at the far end, where there was a trace of smoke hanging in the air. They advanced on it and found a smoker squatting on the ground behind it trying to look invisible.

"Name?" demanded Garrett.

"Abbott," replied the boy, sullenly. "5B"

"Lunchtime at my office," said Garrett. "Don't be late."

"Well done, Fielding," said David, as they headed back towards Garrett's office. "Can he come and see what happens to smokers, Boss?"

"Don't see why not. Come round at lunchtime, then."

So at lunchtime David and Pattison went exploring the drama store, where they found plenty of female school uniforms in varying sizes, as well as several pairs of boys shorts, also in several sizes – which gave David another good idea. Pattison tried on a couple of uniforms until he found one that fitted, while David found a bag and put several pairs of shorts and socks into it. Pattison changed back into his normal uniform – he wasn't going outside dressed as a girl unless he had to – and then they both went back to Garrett's office, where they found Abbott getting undressed and Fielding sitting on a chair gazing at him happily.

"You'd better get changed, Patty," said Garrett, grinning at his chambermaid. "And you, Abbott, get a move on."

"Bloody hell, Garrett, half the school's in here! Can't you get rid of them?"

"Nope. If you'd prefer, we can go out and do it in the middle of the yard, though."

Abbott decided he didn't fancy that idea and finished getting undressed. Fielding stared enraptured at the fifth-former's large, hairy genitals.

"Bend over, then," demanded Garrett. "Oh, stand up, Fielding, you're sitting on his chair."

Fielding stood up in a hurry, and Abbott bent over the chair. Garrett flexed his cane a couple of times and then set to work, delivering four meaty blows that had the fifth-year writhing and barely suppressing his cries of pain.

"Over to you, V-G," said Garrett, handing the cane to David; who grabbed it with alacrity. "Two more, please."

David put plenty of effort into it, making the fifth-former cry out both times.

"Fancy a go, Fielding?" asked Garrett.

"God, yes – thanks!" cried Fielding, almost snatching the cane from David. He examined the marks on Abbott's bum, found the place where they were closest together and aimed for it, bringing the cane down as hard as he possibly could, and he was delighted when Abbott gave a shriek and jerked so hard that the chair fell over. He waited until the chair had been righted and Abbott was back in position and then brought the cane down with all his might in exactly the same place, and Abbott yelled again and snapped upright, clutching at his sore bottom and hopping about.

"Okay, that'll do for now," said Garrett. "Get dressed and get lost, Abbott – but if you ever get caught smoking again I'll take you to see Noddy, understand?"

Abbott gave a quick nod, not trusting his voice, and struggled to pull his clothes back on. Finally he managed it and stumbled away.

"Did you enjoy that, Fielding?" asked Garrett.

"Bloody hell, yes!"

"Good, then the two of you can do some more. Patty, come and assume the position. Take your skirt off, but you can keep the rest on."

Reluctantly Pattison removed his skirt – he wasn't wearing anything underneath it: in the play the boys playing the girls had simply retained their own underwear underneath the uniforms – and bent over the chair. David took the cane and dished out the first three and then handed the cane to Fielding, who gave him three more, once again trying to hit the same place every time – with a fair degree of success, judging from the yells and tears he elicited. The expression on Fielding's face at the end suggested that he'd just been transported into Paradise.

"Okay, Patty, you can start by dusting the office," said Garrett, as his maid struggled to do up his skirt again. "And you two can go and see if there's anyone else out there doing things he shouldn't be. And then there's something else Patty can do for me. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten how…"

As if sneaking and trying to get rule-breakers into trouble wasn't bad enough, our hero has now started arranging for the innocent to be punished as well. You can bet that there's going to come a time when he wishes he hadn't done that. In the next chapter he tries to get Dhif expelled and young Fielding continues to aid and abet him.

Chapter Three

In this chapter David puts his plan to get rid of Dhif into operation, while Fielding finds a couple more unfortunate victims.

On Friday morning David managed to intercept the shopping list before Mrs Devlin picked it up, and he carefully added 'two bottles Woodpecker cider' in something as close to his mother's handwriting as he could manage. That'll be a nice surprise for Sambo on Monday, he thought.

Sure enough the bottles were in the kitchen cupboard when he got home, so he quickly redeployed them to his bedroom, putting one in his games bag ready for Monday morning and the other in his hidey-hole under the floorboards in his bedroom cupboard.

On Monday morning he took the first bottle to school, still in his games bag. The problem was going to be getting it into Dhif's possession: he could hardly just march across the yard carrying it, and even walking about carrying his games bag would look a bit suspicious. But there was a path that led from the second-year form rooms to the bike sheds, and there was a point where one of the sheds backed up almost against the perimeter wall, leaving a space just about big enough for a bottle. If he left the bottle there, he would be able to get from there to the second-year rooms without being seen. The last bit might still be a problem, but he was sure he could find a way round it. So he stashed the bottle and headed off to registration.

By the start of break he had worked out what to do: he would wait until the second-years were at lunch and then sneak the bottle into their cloakroom. Then it would just be a question of finding Dhif's coat and parking the evidence in a pocket, ready to be 'found' as soon as the second-formers got back from lunch.

And at lunch time everything seemed to go smoothly. Once the second years had gone to lunch their block seemed quiet, and David was able to get the bottle into the cloakroom area unseen. It took him a while to find Dhif's coat – under school rules everyone had to wear a similar dark blue raincoat, so they all looked the same, but the good old label rule came to his rescue, and eventually he was able to park the bottle in the correct garment.

Once the second years got back from lunch David waited five minutes and then marched openly – and visibly empty-handedly – into their cloakroom area.

"I've been told someone's hiding fags in his coat pocket," he told the couple of boys in the cloakroom. "I'm sure nobody will mind me having a look, will they?"

Quite possibly they all minded, but nobody was going to say that to the Rat's face, so they just stood and watched him ferreting about in coat pockets, working his way up the row towards Dhif's coat. By the time he got there his audience had grown quite a bit, which suited him just fine.

"Hello, what have we here?" he asked, as he reached the garment in question. He drew the bottle out and held it up for them all to see. "Whose coat is this?"

He made a point of searching for the label, and then asked "Which of you is Dhif?" although he knew perfectly well that Dhif was not in the audience.

Someone stuck his head into 2B's room and yelled, "Brahim! You're in the shit!" and Dhif came out.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Is this your coat?" asked David.

"Well… yes, it looks like it. Why?"

"What's this doing in the pocket, then?" asked David, holding up the bottle.

"Don't ask me. I certainly didn't put it there."

"Of course you didn't. I expect it fell off a passing lorry and just happened to bounce into your pocket. OK, come with me – you can explain it to Garrett."

By the time he'd marched Dhif across the yard to Garrett's office Fielding, with a perfect nose for trouble, had spotted them and joined the procession. Two or three of Dhif's friends trailed along as well, and so did a couple of boys from the other second forms, keen to find out what was going on. David directed Dhif and Fielding into Garrett's office and closed the door in everyone else's face.

"I found this bottle of cider in this boy's coat pocket," reported David. "Bringing alcohol into school is a serious offence, isn't it?"

"Alcohol?" queried Dhif. "Well, that proves it isn't mine."

"Really?" said Garrett. "I'd have thought that the fact that it was in your pocket suggests otherwise, but by all means feel free to convince me otherwise."

"I'm a Muslim," said Dhif. "Muslims are forbidden alcohol – it's completely against our religion. I'd never even touch a bottle, far less bring one into school."

"That's true," agreed Garrett, who'd done a bit of religious study on his way up the school. "I seem to remember that Muslims don't touch booze."

"That just proves he's a bad Muslim, as well as breaking school rules," said David, determined not to let this bloody nig-nog sneak out of his proper punishment.

"Maybe," said Garrett. "Or maybe he brought it in for someone else."

"Someone put it there to get me into trouble," said Dhif. "I swear I've never seen that bottle before."

"Tell us who, and we'll happily look into it," said Garrett. "Otherwise I'm afraid I'm going to have to assume it's yours. Well?"

Dhif couldn't think of anyone – he got on well with pretty much everyone in his form

"There you go, then," said Garrett, when no answer was forthcoming.

"Alcohol's serious, isn't it?" said David. "I reckon you should take him to the head, Garrett."

"Well… normally I'd agree with you," said Garrett. "But he does make a good point about his religion, and it is possible that someone's set him up. I think it'd be a bit unfair to wheel him off to Noddy without a bit more proof. So… what's your name?"

"Dhif," said Dhif, spelling it for him.

"Okay, Dhif. I'll deal with this myself here and now, so it won't go any higher. And if you do find out that someone stitched you up, I'll be quite happy to turn a blind eye while you sort it out for yourself, understand?"

Garrett, for all his faults, was no racist, and had a certain respect for those who follow other religions. He thought maybe the boy was telling the truth, though he wasn't going to let it prevent him administering punishment.

"So," he went on, "we'll settle for a caning – and because I'm half inclined to believe you, you're only getting three. So if you'd just take your clothes off, we can get it over and done with."

Only three? David was outraged – he'd wanted the little coon expelled, not getting off this lightly. Mind you, Dhif wasn't too happy, either.

"Take my clothes off? Why?"

"So you can be beaten. You have to be naked, because it embarrasses the hell out of you and helps to make sure you don't ever want to come here again."

"But… I can't! It wouldn't be seemly!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked David.

"I can't reveal myself – it's against my religion."

"So is alcohol, but you're still being punished for that," Garrett pointed out. "I'm going to have to insist, Dhif, unless you'd prefer to go to the head?"

"No, but… look, I can't do it while she's in the room." And Dhif pointed at Pattison, who was dutifully cleaning Garrett's rugby boots in the corner of the study.

"Oh, is that it?" said Garrett, grinning. "Well, you've nothing to worry about there. She's a he. Show him, Patty."

Blushing, Pattison stood up and lifted his skirt. As usual he was wearing nothing beneath it, which left Dhif in no doubt that he was not going to have to expose himself in front of a member of the opposite sex.

"Why are you wearing those clothes?" he asked. "Men should not wear the clothes of a female."

"They should if the alternative is getting expelled," Garrett pointed out. "Our Patty is a persistent smoker; and volunteering to be my chambermaid is the only way out of a short visit to Noddy and a long walk home. Anyway, that's his problem. Yours is that if you're not undressed inside a minute you'll be taking the same long walk."

Reluctantly Dhif undressed, hesitating for a long time before removing his underpants, after which he kept his hands clasped over his groin. Garrett directed him to the chair and made him bend over it, at which point he had to move his hands to take hold of the chair in the approved way, thus allowing his audience an unrestricted view. Fielding stared excitedly at the older boy's groin, fascinated by the way in which the end of the penis was not covered by skin. There was no proper hair, though the first signs of a dark peach-down were visible at the base of his penis. David was unsurprised to see that the boy's penis and testicles were larger than his own.

"Would you do the honours, Jordan?" asked Garrett.

"Bloody hell, yes!" cried Fielding enthusiastically.

Jordan? thought David. It was the first time he'd heard Fielding's first name, and it suggested that Garrett was taking a shine to the apprentice. Just as long as he doesn't forget I was here first, he thought.

Fielding took up the cane and swished it a couple of times, and then landed the first proper blow on Dhif's buttocks. Dhif gasped and twitched, but managed to hold still. Fielding hit him again, and Dhif gave a louder gasp and a bigger twitch, and then Fielding took careful aim at the two marks he had already left and delivered the third one as hard as he could, and Dhif gave a yell of pain and jerked upright, clutching at his buttocks and hopping up and down, making his half-grown genitals bobble about comically. Fielding stared at them excitedly, still swishing the cane.

"Okay, that's it," said Garrett, once Dhif had stopped jumping about. "Get dressed. I'm not putting this in the book, either, so officially you've still got a clean record here. But I don't want to see you here again, or you will be in trouble, understand?"

Dhif nodded as he pulled his clothes back on. David was less than satisfied, but he felt sure he could get Dhif for something else before too long: there was no way he was going to let some little jungle-bunny get the better of him…

When Dhif got back to his form room he found a sympathetic welcome from most of his form-mates, none of whom could believe that he'd really been stupid enough to bring a bottle of cider into school, especially when it went against his religious beliefs. But as he emerged again to head for the first lesson after lunch he found Little Collins waiting for him.

Little Collins was in 2C, whose classroom was next to 2B's. He was called Little Collins both in honour of the famous series of pocket multilingual dictionaries produced by Collins the publishers, and because he had an older brother in the lower sixth (who was usually just called Collins, rather than Big Collins).

"There's something you should know," Little Collins told him. "See, I have packed lunches, and I prefer to eat them in our form room instead of going to the dining hall like most of the other packed lunch boys do… anyway, I was sitting in our room at the start of the lunch break, eating my sandwiches and trying to learn my French vocab, when I heard a noise outside. I stuck my head outside the door to see what it was, and I saw the White Rat with a bottle in his hand.

"I kept dead quiet and watched, and after a bit he seemed to find the coat he was looking for and stuck the bottle in a pocket. I ducked back into our room before he could see me, and when I looked out again he'd gone. But it means he was the one who set you up."

"But… why would he do that?" asked Dhif. "I've never even spoken to him. How can he even know who I am?"

Little Collins shrugged. "Beats me," he said. "But I heard a rumour that the kid he brought round to clean our blackboards dressed as a girl hadn't done anything wrong, either, except to annoy the Rat somehow. I've been feeling a bit bad about that – I helped Pope to… well, do some bad stuff to him."

"But I can't have upset the Rat – like I said, I've never even spoken to him."

"Well, he's obviously got it in for you," said Little Collins, shrugging again. "Anyway, I just thought you ought to know."

"'Kay, thanks," said Dhif, bewilderment starting to give way to anger. Why should he have been made a target? There was absolutely no reason for it that he could see – he never for a moment considered that his colour had anything to do with it: after all, it didn't seem to be an issue for anyone in the school. But he was determined to do something about it – and Garrett had more or less said he was free to sort it out for himself, even if he hadn't known who the perpetrator had been. He didn't yet know how, but somehow he was going to get his revenge…

The following morning Osterley was ambushed before he even managed to reach his form room. The mockery from the lower school was starting to die down a little, but he still preferred to spend the breaks out of the public eye if he could. He almost flinched when he saw who it was that had accosted him, even though the boy in question was smaller than he was.

"Can I talk to you, please?" asked Little Collins, who had gone home the previous evening thinking about what had happened to Dhif.

"What do you want?"

"Well… mainly I want to say sorry. We all got a bit carried away, and… I really shouldn't have done that to you. I'm sorry…"

"Oh," said Osterley, who hadn't been expecting an apology. "Well, okay – but I don't think an apology really helps much."

"I know, but I still wanted to say it. It's just… I couldn't stop myself: your thing looked really good, sticking up like it was, and I just wanted to see what it would feel like – and then once I got hold of it I just had to give it a rub, and once I started I couldn't stop. But I've been thinking about it, and it must have been horrible having everyone looking at you. I mean, I like the feeling it gives you when you rub it, but I'd hate to have people looking at me while I was doing it."

"It was horrible – it's the worst I've ever felt in my life."

Little Collins looked at his shoes. "I really am sorry," was all he could say.

"Well, okay – if you're really sorry, how about getting the rest of your year off of my back?"

"I don't know if I can do that. I mean, I'll try, but most of them just thought it was funny. I think it'll take time before they leave it alone."

"That's what I reckon, too. I'll just have to keep hanging about in my form room every break, I suppose. Trouble is, even some of my own lot have found out about it, so I'm getting jokes made there, too."

"Then why don't you use one of the music practice rooms? Nobody will bother you there, and they never get used at break, and hardly ever during the lunch breaks, either."

"I suppose that's not a bad idea, provided nobody finds out about it. But it's going to be really boring just hiding out on my own every break."

"Well… I wouldn't mind coming and keeping you company sometimes. At least that way you won't be stuck on your own."

"Really? Do that, and I'll believe you really are sorry."

"Okay. I'll meet you in the music block at break, then."

Little Collins meeting Osterley in the music practice rooms was not, as it turned out, the only thing that happened at break. David was on one of his usual patrols around the most likely haunts of smokers and other sinners when Fielding came running up to him.

"You'd better come with me," he said. "I think I've found something you ought to see. This way."

He trotted off, and David caught up with him and ran alongside.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Well, I was looking for smokers, like you told me, and I thought the old toilet block beside School House might be a good place. Almost everyone uses the main block toilets, or the ones in the sixth form wing, because they're closer to the yard."

"That's true, and you're right, not many people use the old ones. I've caught smokers there once or twice before."

"Yes, but this time… I was looking under the cubicle doors to see if any were occupied, when… shh! come and see."

They had reached the old toilet block, and Fielding went in at an exaggerated tiptoe. David followed him, already thinking that Garrett would be well pleased with another smoker in the net: smokers would agree to pretty much anything to escape a visit to the head, who liked smokers almost as little as he liked bullies.

Fielding dropped to his knees and bent down so that he could see under the partitions: there was a gap of about six inches [15 cm] between the bottom of the walls and doors and the floor. David knelt down beside him and looked for himself, and saw that the fifth cubicle along was occupied… by two pairs of shoes. Cheapskates, he thought: they can't even afford to buy a packet of fags each. But there was something not quite right about the way the shoes were placed, and when he looked again he saw that they were facing each other, and that one pair had a pair of trousers puddled over them. OK, one smoker might pull his trousers down to make it look to the casual inspector as if the cubicle was being used for its legitimate purpose, but with two people in there…

He crept quietly into the fourth cubicle along, and Fielding followed him in. They climbed up onto the bowl and peered cautiously over the partition – Fielding could only just see over it, and even David was having to stretch – and they saw two boys, but no cigarettes. David recognised the boy with his trousers round his ankles straight away: his name was Larkin, and he was in his own form. The other boy he didn't know, but he didn't really need to at this point. All he needed to know was what they were doing, and he could see that easily enough: the other boy was holding Larkin's penis and stroking it slowly.

"You perverts!" exclaimed David in disgust, making them both jump about a foot into the air and then leap apart guiltily. Larkin tried to pull his trousers up, but they got caught up because he was inadvertently standing on his belt, and he stumbled against the other boy, who fell back against the partition.

"Cover yourself, you filthy queer," ordered David, "and then get yourself over to Garrett's study. You – what's your name?"

"Baker," said the other boy, who looked absolutely terrified. "I'm in 3A"

"OK, you, too. You'd both better start thinking what you're going to tell your parents, because I doubt if either of you will be at this school by tomorrow."

He had good reason to think that: this was the third mortal sin as far as Noddy was concerned: smoking, bullying and what he called 'moral degeneracy', which in translation meant homosexuality.

"Look, come on, Villiers-Gore," pleaded Larkin, as he finally managed to get his trousers back up, "you don't have to tell Garrett, do you? I mean, we're in the same form…"

"Not for much longer, you filth," said David, with feeling.

"Well, alright – but you don't have to drag Baker into it," persisted Larkin. "I mean, I'm older than he is, so it's down to me. Let him go."

"No chance. I want all you poofs out of this school. Now move."

He escorted them to Garrett's office. He could tell that Larkin was thinking of disobeying him and simply running for it, and maybe if Fielding hadn't been there he'd have risked denying the whole thing and calling David a liar. But with a witness there he knew he couldn't do that, and after a moment's hesitation his shoulders slumped and he headed for Garrett's office without further protest.

"Wait out here," David told them when they reached the hall outside Garrett's study. "We'll call you in when we're ready."

He and Fielding went inside. Garrett was working on something, and when David got close enough he was that it was an essay on one of the English set books. Pattison was cleaning the window, dressed in his usual feminine attire.

"We've got you a present," David told Garrett. "Couple of perverts – they were touching each other up in the old toilet block. Actually, it was Jordan who caught them." If Fielding hadn't actually been standing next to him David would have taken the credit himself, but he knew that Fielding would certainly comment if he tried doing that now.

"Oh, dear, Noddy's least favourite people," said Garrett, grinning. "Let's have them in, then."

Fielding went to the door and called the two boys in, enjoying being able to give orders to older boys. Larkin and Baker trudged into the room.

"Okay, then, let's hear it," invited Garrett. "Tell me all about it – and don't tell lies. How long have you been queering each other off?"

"This was the first time," said Larkin, provoking a chorus of disbelief from his audience – including Pattison, who was glad not to be the centre of attention for once.

"It's true!" declared Baker. "Look, it's my fault – I've been on at him to let me see for ages. He's always said no before."

"Bet he wishes he had this time, too," commented Garrett. "So what were you doing, then? Fucking each other, or were you just blowing each other?"

The two boys looked totally lost – it was obvious that they hadn't a clue what Garrett was talking about.

"I just wanted to see, and then maybe to find out what it felt like," said Baker. "See, we catch the same bus home, and one day I noticed that his trousers were sort of bulging. The same thing happens to me sometimes, only I didn't know why, so – as there was nobody else close – I asked him about it. He explained about erections, and I asked him if I could see what his looks like. He said no, but I've asked a few times since – I just want to know more about it. And this morning on the bus he said he'd let me look at it, if it would shut me up…"

"That's a beautiful story," said Garrett. "I wonder if Noddy will believe it? Actually, I don't think it'll matter either way: once you admit touching another boy like that you'll be expelled whatever sob-story you come up with. And you…"

"Larkin," supplied David. "He's in 4A. The other one's Baker, 3A."

"Larkin, then – you've got no chance. Corrupting a younger boy, that's what the head will call it. You'll be lucky to find a Secondary Modern that'll take you after that."

Larkin hung his head, and Baker started to cry softly.

"On the other hand…" said Garrett, and their heads came up.

"Maybe I could be persuaded not to go to Noddy. But you might prefer it if I did, because if we deal with it instead, you'll hate every second – won't they, V-G?"

"Oh, God, yes!"

"So – Noddy, or us?"

"You!" they both cried, without hesitation. Larkin knew Garrett was right about what such a reason for expulsion would mean for his future, and Baker was desperate not to shame his parents.

"OK – but no changing your mind," warned Garrett. "OK, what are we going to do with them – Jordan?"

"Let me cane them – please, Garrett?"

"OK. V-G, got any nice ideas?"

"Plenty. How about a tug of war to start with? Loser gets double the canings."

"Yes, okay. And I'm sure Jordan would welcome a chance to hand out a double caning… right, you two, get undressed."

There was the usual hesitation at this point, but Larkin quickly realised that there wasn't much of a choice here, and so he began to get undressed, and once he started it didn't take long for Baker to decide to follow his example.

Again, once they were naked they followed the usual pattern of standing hunched up with their hands over their groins, but David wasn't allowing that. He made them put their hands behind their backs and tied each boy's wrists together using their ties. Then he made them stand facing each other in the middle of the room.

Fielding stared happily at the exposed boys: Larkin was of average development for a fourteen-year-old, with quite large balls, a medium-sized penis and curls of brown hair around the base of it; Baker was smaller, and his hair had barely started, just a few wisps at the bottom of his pale penis.

"Now we get to the entertaining bit," said David, pulling from his blazer pocket a piece of string that was about two feet long and had a slip knot at each end. Before Larkin realised what he was doing he had slipped the loop at one end over Larkin's penis and pulled hard, tightening the knot so that it dug into the flesh. Then he attached the other end to Baker in the same way.

"Now, when I say 'go' you pull," he instructed them. "The one whose shoulders touch the wall behind him wins, and will only get four strokes. The loser gets eight. Oh, and if I don't think you're both really trying to win, you'll get twelve each – that's just in case one of you gets all noble and decides to let the other one win. OK, ready? One…"

"This isn't fair," protested Baker. "He's older and bigger than me, so he's bound to win."

"No, he isn't. This isn't really about strength: this is about who can stand pain better, especially pain in sensitive places. Maybe having a bigger one will make it easier for his to hurt. Anyway, we're going to find out. One, two… three!"

They pulled, and immediately realised how much this hurt: both let out cries of pain as their penises were stretched, and as the slip knots dug in yet tighter. The audience laughed appreciatively: Pattison thanked God that he'd got off as lightly as he had, just being caned, humiliated and made to suck Garrett's cock on demand – at least he hadn't had his knob tortured as well. Fielding's face was shining with excitement, and the tent in his shorts told its own story. And Garrett leaned back in his chair with his feet on the desk and a huge grin on his face.

It was obvious that they were both trying their hardest, staggering forwards and back as each tug was returned: and steadily Baker was getting closer to his wall – apparently he could handle the pain better. Larkin struggled, gasping and sweating and uttering cries of pain at each new tug on his sore cock, and Baker, although obviously also suffering agonies, dragged him slowly closer and closer to the wall.

Finally, with a last desperate lunge that made both cry out in pain, Baker managed to touch the study wall.

"Right, we have a winner," declared David. "Stand still and I'll get the string off, Baker."

It took a few seconds: the knot had slipped really tight and didn't want to come loose, but eventually David managed to slide the string off Baker's penis, which now sported a painful-looking red line around it. Larkin thrust his groin forward, and David pushed him away.

'Wait your turn," he said, instead untying Baker's wrists. The third-former reached for his sore cock, but David swatted his hands away.

"Stop being a pervert and trying to touch yourself up," he said. "If you touch it before you've been beaten you'll get an extra ten. Go and lean over the chair."

Fielding, who was quite the expert by now, showed Baker how to position himself and then picked up the cane, swishing it eagerly through the air. David noticed that Fielding's shorts were still tented out: obviously he was still having a really good time.

The cane hissed down, and Baker squealed and clutched at himself. David opened his mouth, but Fielding beat him to it.

"Keep hold of the chair," he ordered. "If you don't, that hit won't count."

Trembling, Baker took hold of the chair once more, steeling himself as Fielding beat him again. Again he was unable to suppress a cry, but he did manage to keep his grip on the chair. Fielding gave him two more, and somehow he clung on.

"OK, that's it," said David. "If you want to fiddle with yourself now, you can. But you can't get dressed until we've finished with your pervy friend. Just wait over there. Larkin, come and bend over."

"Please can you take this string off me?" begged Larkin. "It really hurts."

"Not yet," said David, enjoying himself. "Maybe after you've been beaten. Maybe. Bend over, and I'll untie your hands."

He untied Larkin's wrists and then handed over to Fielding, who put Larkin in the required position, took aim and brought the cane down as hard as he could. The result was everything he could have wished for: Larkin, who had never received so much as a mild swat in his life, gave a shriek of agony and leapt upright, clutching at his bum and hopping about.

"Bend down!" commanded Fielding, sternly. "This is your last warning: next time you move I'll start adding extra ones."

Stifling a sob, Larkin bent over again, and Fielding grinned at the audience and swung lustily once more. Somehow Larkin managed not to move, but he yelled in pain, a cry that was repeated on each of the next two blows. By now Fielding had a good target of red lines to aim at, and the fifth, which exactly covered one of the earlier ones, was too much for Larkin, who shrieked and jerked upright once more.

"Oops! That one doesn't count," said Fielding, merrily. He paused to adjust his shorts, which indicated an extremely stiff penis trapped inside them, and then delivered another highly accurate blow.

Larkin shrieked again and began to sob and beg for it to stop, but he might as well have asked for the moon: Fielding was in his element, and wouldn't have stopped for anything. He delivered the last three, and was mildly disappointed when Larkin survived them without moving his hands from the chair, but the tears and the sobbing were compensation enough.

"Stand still, you baby," demanded David, as Larkin jumped about, clutching at his aching bum. "Or would you rather keep that string on for the rest of the day?"

That got through to Larkin: the end of his knob was aching, even though the pain in his buttocks had temporarily overwhelmed it, and the interruption to the blood flow had left it a darker colour than the rest of the shaft. He held still while David tugged at the knot, uttering little cries of pain when David's first efforts were unsuccessful. Finally the knot gave up the struggle and David was able to pull the string away. Larkin cupped it in his hand, and David slapped his hand away, telling him to stop acting like a pervert.

"Please can we go now?" asked Baker, who had by now brought himself back under control.

"What, you think that's it?" asked David. "Think again, queerboy: we've barely started teaching you and your poofy friend a lesson. There isn't time now – come back here at the start of the lunch break and we'll explain how the rest of term is going to go.. OK, get dressed and get lost."

They dressed hurriedly and left.

"What else have you got in mind, then?" asked Garrett.

"I want the whole school to see what happens to queers," said David. "And I expect you'd like to give Patty a break from his, er, oral duties now and again – well, I'm sure those two would love a chance to take over from him."

"What are you talking about?" asked Fielding.

"Oh, that's right, you haven't seen what else our Patty is good for, have you?" asked Garrett. "Well, the bell's about to go, so there isn't time now, but I expect we can find time to show you at lunchtime."

So at the start of the lunch break they all reconvened in Garrett's study. Larkin and Baker were made to strip once more, and to display their bums, which carried an impressive collection of horizontal marks.

"Still sore?" asked David, though without any trace of sympathy; and when they both nodded, he went on, "Good. Now, if we want to, we can do that again every day for the rest of term – and that's what I'd like to do, really: I hate perverts. On the other hand, if you accept the rest of your punishment, you won't have to be beaten so much."

He produced two short lengths of pink ribbon, and started to tie the first one in a bow around Larkin's penis.

"These stay on until the end of term," he said, moving on to Baker. "You wear them from leaving home in the morning until you get back at night. I'd say you have to wear them at home, too, but we'd have no way of checking. But at school we can check: any time any one of us tells you we want to check, you have to show us that it's still on. If you refuse, or if we find it's not there, you'll get twelve with the cane. You'll wear it while you get changed for games, and you'll wear it in the shower, so everyone can see what you are."

He picked up each boy's socks and trousers, checked the waist sizes and then emptied the pockets onto Garrett's desk. Then he went to the cupboard and pulled out two pairs of shorts with equivalent waist sizes and two pairs of long socks.

"You'll both wear shorts for the rest of term," he said. "Queers aren't proper boys, so you don't deserve to dress like normal boys of your age. If people ask why you're wearing shorts, you can tell them it's because you don't deserve to be treated like normal boys. You'll walk through the school gates every day in shorts, and you'll wear them until you've left school premises at the end of the day – so you'll have to find somewhere to change in town, or do it on the bus, or something.

"Next, you'll do whatever we tell you for the rest of term, whatever that is. But I've got a pretty good idea of one thing that Garrett would like you to do… over to you, chief."

"Yes… well, as he says, maybe I should give Patty a day off now and again – but I can't let this place turn into a pigsty, so I'll need a replacement. You can both have a turn – I'm sure V-G's wardrobe has some girls clothes that will fit. And there's one other duty that the chambermaid has to perform – as you're both bent, you'll probably love it. Patty, demonstration, if you'd be so good."

He stood up and undid his trousers, and Pattison, his heart sinking at the thought of having to do this disgusting thing in front of an even bigger audience, dropped to his knees in front of Garrett's chair.

David, of course, had seen this before, but the other three hadn't, and they stared at what was happening with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

"Eurrrghhh, how can you do that?" asked Larkin.

"Because it's better than being expelled," said Pattison, pausing long enough to answer the question.

David could almost see the thoughts raging their way through Larkin's mind: was this really better than getting expelled, or not? David knew that if he was in this position, he wouldn't hesitate; he'd be off to Noddy's office and expulsion as fast as he could run. But then these two were queers, so maybe they wouldn't mind doing this, although the expression on Larkin's face suggested otherwise.

"Yes, but what's the point?" asked Fielding. "Why make him put it in his mouth – so you can pee down his throat?"

"No – though that idea does have its attractions," said Garrett. "No, it's because it feels really good. I can't really describe it – you'd have top find out for yourself. Which, by the way, you certainly can if you like – after all, we've got enough girlies here now for us to have one each."

"Well… does it really feel good?" asked Fielding.

"It's brilliant. Look, try it, and you'll see. Patty, go and do it for young Fielding. You can always finish me off later on."

Fielding looked doubtful, but then he shrugged. Why not try it, he thought. I can always tell him to stop if I don't like it…

He undid his belt and pulled his shorts and pants down, revealing a still eagerly stiff penis. It was hairless and quite thin, but very long for a first-year, at least double the length of David's. David experienced a moment of overwhelming jealousy, and just for a second he hated Fielding almost as intensely as he hated the two queers. But then reason returned, and he realised that it was hardly fair to blame Fielding for something that was completely outside his control.

Fielding sat on the punishment chair, and Pattison dropped to his knees in front of him and set to work. At first Fielding found this strange, but as Pattison got into a rhythm he changed his mind and decided it felt really good.

"What do you think?" asked Garrett.

"I see what you mean – but I think he'd better keep going for a bit: I don't want to make up my mind too quickly."

So Pattison kept going, and Fielding kept putting off the moment when he would finally make up his mind, until slowly an amazing feeling started to grow inside him… it went on and on growing until he felt he was going to explode, and then it swept over and through him, and he was overwhelmed by his first orgasm.

Pattison knew the signs, and slowed to a stop, finally letting Fielding's still hard penis slip from his mouth.

"Okay, I've decided," said Fielding, when he got his breath back. "You're right, Garrett: that feels truly amazing. We'll definitely have to teach these two how to do that."

"Help yourself," said Garrett, magnanimously. "Got that, you two? Any time Fielding wants you to do that for him, you do it, okay? Otherwise it'll be a serious caning. Same goes for V-G, if he changes his mind. Okay, you two, get your clothes on – and that means the shorts – and then go and show your friends how pretty your legs look."

So, reluctantly, Larkin and Baker dressed in the humiliating junior boys clothing and went out, vainly trying to think of a decent way to explain their appearance to their friends.

"We might as well go and see if we can find anyone else deserving a change of costume," said David. "That way you and Patty can have a bit of privacy…" And he ushered Fielding outside and closed the door after them.

Fielding looked around: there was nobody in sight, so he turned to David and said, "That was the most amazing thing I've ever felt. Look… thanks for letting me help you, Villiers-Gore – I really mean it. I've never had so much fun as I've had since you said I could help. It's brilliant being able to strip older kids and beat them, and now I'm going to make that Larkin kid strip and suck on my thing loads of times… you've been brilliant to me, and I won't ever forget it…

"Okay, I'll go and see what's happening in the old toilet block, shall I?"

David nodded, and Fielding trotted off happily.

Well, David's not happy that he failed to get rid of Dhif, and in fact he's just made a bad enemy. But Fielding's having a lot of fun, anyway, and in the next chapter he'll be having even more, trying stuff out on Larkin and stumbling into another situation he can exploit to the full.

Chapter Four

In this chapter Fielding takes centre stage, amusing himself with a couple of victims. As for David, he has his first meeting with a trio of kids he's going to see a lot more of in the future, and since he begins his relationship with them in his usual charming way it's no surprise if they decide from the first moment that he's not a nice guy. This chapter also contains an episode of entirely consensual sex… sorry about that!

It was fun watching Larkin flounder about when the rest of the form wanted to know why he was wearing shorts. David gave him enough rope to hang himself with, keeping quiet while Larkin tried to tell everyone it was a mistake, that he hadn't really done anything wrong, and only then explaining to the other boys in their class that Larkin had been caught red-handed playing sex games with a younger boy.

"Is that true?" asked one of their classmates.

"Well… er… not exactly… I mean, okay, he was touching me, but…"

The rest of his excuse was drowned in a chorus of noises of disgust, though David was alert to the fact that two or three boys seemed less disgusted than the others. He made a mental note of their names and decided he should watch them closely, in case they should turn out to be perverts as well.

They didn't manage to catch any more miscreants that week, though that was at least in part because Fielding was frequently otherwise engaged: on Wednesday at lunchtime he grabbed Larkin, marched him off to the drama store cupboards and then ordered him to strip. Larkin was too scared of the consequences to refuse, and once he was naked – and once Fielding had checked that the pink ribbon was still in place – the next order came as no surprise.

"Please don't make me do that," begged Larkin, as Fielding lowered his shorts and pants. "It's disgusting – I'm sure I'll puke up…"

"You'd better not, unless you want me to beat you as well," said the first year. "Garrett said you had to do it, remember? So do it."

"But… look, I can't!"

"Really?" Fielding took the belt from Larkin's trousers, doubled it over and suddenly lashed viciously at the older boy's thigh. Larkin gave a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, and Fielding swung the belt again and drove him back against the door. A third blow, and Larkin's attempt to back yet further forced the door open, and he stumbled out onto the landing. He looked around in panic and tried to get back into the room, but Fielding, pausing only long enough to pull his shorts back up, gave him another cut with the belt which hit him on the chest, and Larkin was forced to give ground again, this time to the top of the stairs.

Fielding was enjoying himself now, and delivered another blow. This time Larkin got his arm in the way, but it still hurt, and he stumbled down a couple of stairs.

"Last chance," said Fielding, swishing the belt. "Either you can do what you're told, or I'll drive you right down the stairs and out into the yard. I bet the kids out there haven't seen too many fourth-year boys running about wearing nothing but a pink ribbon round their willies…"

Larkin glanced over his shoulder: so far the staircase was deserted, but he knew if he went down one flight he'd be likely to meet someone, and two flights would see him out in the yard. He couldn't decide which would be worse, until Fielding hit him again, and at that point he decided that being chased round the yard naked by a first-year would be too much, no matter how horrible the alternative.

"Okay!" he cried. "Okay, I'll do it!"

"I thought you might," said Fielding, grinning. "Come on, then."

He led the way back into the storeroom, closing the door behind them, and then he lowered his shorts and pants once more, though he kept hold of the belt.

"Now get on with it," he ordered. "And if you ever disobey me again I'll get Garrett to let me cane you naked in the middle of the yard."

With a stifled sob Larkin dropped to his knees once more, closed his eyes and slid the hard penis into his mouth. Fielding had to tell him what to do, reinforcing his orders with a couple of swats with the belt, but soon he had the older boy performing as required. He leaned back against a pile of scenery and closed his eyes, enjoying every second: not just the physical sensation, but the feeling of absolute dominance over a boy three years older than him.

"Stop!" he ordered, after a couple of minutes. "Bend over – I want to beat you for refusing to obey me."

Larkin began to protest, but gave up when he saw the look on Fielding's face. He dropped to his hands and knees, and Fielding stepped out of his shorts and pants, which were getting in the way, and swung the belt enthusiastically against the older boy's bum. It wasn't as bad as the cane had been, but Larkin's bottom was still sore from his caning, and the belt still hurt and made him cry out.

Fielding gave him six and then ordered him to start sucking again, and Larkin, now too sore and too scared of the consequences to even think of disobeying any more, got on with it.

Eventually Fielding reached his climax, gasping as it rolled over him, and then he pushed Larkin away.

"Not bad," he said, retrieving his pants and shorts and pulling them back on. "If you practise you'll probably be as good as Patty before too long. Now lie on your back."

Larkin did as he was told, and Fielding came and stood over him, opening his flies.

"I need a pee, and I can't be bothered to go down to the toilet block," he said. "Ready?"

Larkin thought he was joking, but he wasn't: Fielding urinated on him, splattering his chest and stomach.

"Now go and find something to mop up with," ordered the younger boy, doing his zip up once more, so Larkin crawled, dripping, into the depths of the storeroom, eventually returning with a shirt that had obviously been used on stage: there was makeup on the collar and cuffs. He used this to wipe the floor, and himself, and then stuffed it down behind the pile of scenery.

"Now you can get dressed," said Fielding. "But I want to see you here again on Friday at the start of the lunch break, okay?"

On the Friday Fielding amused himself by tying Larkin's hands behind his back with his tie and then forcing the naked boy to stand with his back to the pile of scenery while Fielding molested him, squeezing the older boy's balls agonisingly hard, slapping the penis about and tugging on the curls of brown hair at the base of it. Larkin yelped and gasped, but there was nothing he could do about it, and when Fielding forced his foreskin all the way back and started pinching the uncovered tip his cries got louder and more desperate. And of course the attention had the inevitable effect, and Larkin got an erection.

"That proves it," said Fielding, getting his ruler out of his blazer pocket and flicking it painfully against the tip of Larkin's swollen member. "You love having boys touch you – look how stiff it makes it. You really are a queer, Larkin – I think that means another beating."

So he gave him six more meaty blows across the buttocks with the belt, and followed those up with a couple against Larkin's erection, hitting the tip and making Larkin shriek in pain.

"Now suck me," ordered Fielding, dropping his shorts. "And if it isn't good I'll whip your balls."

With his hands tied behind his back it was harder for Larkin to keep his balance, but he was desperate to avoid having his testicles beaten, and so he did his absolute best to make it feel as nice as he could. Fielding leaned back and enjoyed it, and when he climaxed it was even better than it had been on Wednesday.

"You're learning," he said, afterwards. "Maybe I won't have to beat your balls after all. Except… I really need to pee again, and I'm not sure that the old shirt will be big enough to mop it up this time. So I'm going to do it in your mouth. And you'd better swallow it, because if any of it lands on the floor I'm going to thrash your balls until they fall to pieces. Open wide…"

Larkin thought anything would be better than having his balls beaten, and so he opened his mouth, but he changed his mind when the first jet of warm, acrid water hit the back of his throat. He spluttered and choked, inadvertently closing his mouth and getting the rest of Fielding's urine in his face. Fielding could barely aim for laughing.

He finished peeing, pulled his pants and shorts back on and untied Larkin's hands.

"You tried," he said, "so I'm not going to beat your balls this time. But next time you'll know what to expect, so you'd better do it right. Now get the shirt and mop it up."

Still spluttering, Larkin retrieved the old shirt and mopped up as best he could, and then Fielding told him he could get dressed.

"We'll have to find an evening next week when we're both free after school," he said. "It'd be nice if we had more time, instead of having to worry about when the bell's going to go – don't you agree?"

Larkin didn't answer that. Instead he just finished getting dressed and ran away.

Now that there were a couple of new Rat victims about the school, one of whom was in his own year, the pressure on Osterley eased a little more: the junior school now had two middle schoolboys in shorts to torment. But the comments hadn't died away completely, and so he had continued to make use of the music practice rooms to hide in, at least during the longer lunch breaks, though on both Thursday and Friday he took a chance and stayed out in the yard during the shorter morning breaks, just to gauge reaction. The second years in particular didn't seem to want to let the matter rest, and Osterley thought it might be as well to keep a low profile until the end of term.

Little Collins had faithfully accompanied him to the sanctuary of the music block every time, and by the end of the week Osterley had forgiven the younger boy for making a public exhibition of him. The first couple of breaks they had spent together had started a little awkwardly, but on the Thursday Osterley had taken his pocket chess set to the music block, only to discover than Little Collins couldn't play chess. He spent that lunch break starting to teach him, but it takes time to learn to play chess, and they decided that, while it might be fun to carry on the lessons part of the time they were together, it might be better to find something else to do as well. So on the Friday Little Collins took his playing cards to the music block.

The whole school – or almost the whole school – played cards. The games progressed as you went up the school: the first years played variants on snap and slapjack, progressing to pontoon, three card brag and poker by the time they reached the middle school; after that came Beat Your Neighbour (or, as it was always called in this school, Shit your Neighbour; the more complicated version, where almost every card turned up provoked some special action or another, was universally called 'Diarrhoea'); various forms of whist were in evidence by the time the fourth form was reached, with Solo emerging in the fifth year and full-blown Bridge in the sixth form.

"Let's play Pontoon," suggested Little Collins. "And… if you beat me, I'll give you a chance to laugh at me, like we all laughed at you: if you win ten hands before I do, I'll strip."

"And what if I lose?"

"This game, nothing. I'll give you one free chance to get me back. But if we play again, we start equal, and whoever loses the second game has to strip."

"Then maybe we should only play one game?" suggested Osterley, grinning.

"That's up to you. I can't help it if you're chicken."

"Okay, you're on. Cut for deal."

It was quite an even game, but Little Collins lost.

"Go on, then," said Osterley, "or are you all mouth?"

Little Collins pulled a table in front of the door to stop it opening and then got undressed, and when he pulled his pants off he had an erection. It wasn't very big, but it was in perfect proportion to the tight little balls underneath it. There was no trace of hair.

"Oh, that's why they call you 'Little Collins'," said Osterley, smirking at him.

"No, it isn't. It's just because I've got a big brother," replied Little Collins, making no attempt to conceal his stiff member.

"Yeah, right. So how big is it, then?"

"Two point four inches [6.1 cm]," replied Little Collins, immediately.

"You measure it!" cried Osterley in delight. "Go on, then, prove it!" And he handed his six inch [15 cm] ruler across.

Little Collins held it alongside his stiff little tool, and Osterley came and stood right next to him so that he could see the ruler. Sure enough, the result was 2.4 inches [6.1 cm].

"You dirty boy! Fancy measuring yourself! I bet you play with yourself, too, don't you?"

"Well… sometimes. Anyway, I bet you measure yours, too."

"I do not! Anyway, let's see you, then."

"Huh?"

"Go on, then – let's see how you play with yourself."

"Well… okay, then." And Little Collins took hold of it between two fingers and thumb and started to rub it.

"Eurgghhh, you pervert!" cried Osterley in delight, staring at what the second-former was doing. Little Collins just got on with it for half a minute or so.

"OK?" he said, stopping.

"Not really. If I'm really going to get you back for what happened to me, I should do it to you."

"Oh. Well… okay, then – but I can't get any of that stuff out of mine yet. My balls are too small."

"You can say that again. Still, let's see what happens. Lie on the table, like you made me do."

So Little Collins took up his position on the table and Osterley rubbed his little penis. Little Collins, who had never been touched like that before, absolutely loved it, and he writhed and wriggled and gasped and groaned, thrusting up against Osterley's hand and begging for more every time Osterley paused.

"You are such a pervert!" said Osterley, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, totally controlling his naked friend's body like this. "Admit it, or I'll stop."

"I admit it! I'm a total pervert!" cried Little Collins, desperate for the wonderful feelings to start again.

Osterley took pity on him and started again, and this time he kept going until Little Collins experienced a noisy but totally dry orgasm.

"Oh, wow!" he said, once Osterley had let go. "That was amazing – far better than doing it myself… I owe you one, Ian: next time I'll do it to you, if you want."

"How do you know what my name is?" asked Osterley.

"I guessed. I mean, what else could it be? Ivan is Russian, Ivor's an Engine – and you're not Welsh, anyway – and I'd have thought you'd have to be Jewish to be called Isaac. So you've got to be called Ian."

"I could be called Ivanhoe."

"You could be called Idiot, too, but you're not," said Little Collins, getting dressed. "Admit it, you're name's Ian."

"OK, my name's Ian. What's yours?"

"You'll laugh."

"No, I won't. What, don't tell me you were actually christened 'Little'?"

"Of course nor, Idiot. It starts with a B. Have a guess."

"Billy?"

"Then it would start with a W, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so. OK, Ben."

"Nope."

"Barry?"

"Try again."

"Basil? Oh, God, your name's never Basil!"

"No, but it's almost as bad. It's Bertram."

Osterley snickered. "I can't call you Bert," he said. "Dustmen are called Bert."

"I can put up with Bertie," said Little Collins, doing up his tie. "My real friends call me BC, though. So now you know why I don't mind being called Little Collins – it's better than being called Bert."

"Maybe I should call you Bert, then, just to get you used to it. After all, nobody's going to call you Little Collins when you're eighteen, are they?"

"I suppose not. OK, you can call me Bert – but only in private."

There was about five minutes before the bell was due to go, and they tidied the room, put the table back where it belonged and went outside. Little Collins realised he had left his cards behind and went back for them, and so when Osterley was intercepted by the Rat he was on his own. Little Collins saw them meet and walked as unobtrusively as he could, without actually whistling, to the nearest doorway, which he then ducked into: he was now out of sight but not out of earshot.

"I've been looking for you," he heard the Rat say.

"Why? I haven't done anything," said Osterley, sounding extremely nervous.

"As I recall, you hadn't actually done anything last time, either, except being insolent to me. And that's a stupid mistake to make, Osterley: you should treat me with more respect. And I wouldn't like you to start thinking you can do it again, just because the juniors are laughing at Baker and his pervert friend instead of you, so I've got a little reminder for you."

Little Collins couldn't see what it was that Villiers-Gore handed to Osterley, but he could hear Osterley's reaction.

"No!" he cried. "No, come on, Villiers-Gore, you can't make me wear these!"

"If you'd prefer to go and play with Pope and his friends in your girly clothes, I expect I could arrange it," said the Rat. "If not, you wear these until the end of term, starting on Monday morning. Oh, and no underpants, either. The first time I find you not wearing them, you'll be off to visit 2C, okay?"

The Rat moved away, and Little Collins emerged from his doorway and found his friend clutching a pair of short trousers and some long socks and trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Little Collins drew him into the doorway he had just vacated, so that he would be out of the public gaze.

"The juniors will murder me if I come to school in shorts," sobbed Osterley. "I won't even be able to come and hide out with you, because they'll follow me. You've only got to see what Baker's been going through this week, and that fourth year boy… Christ, Lit… BC, I can't face it… I just can't!"

He started crying again, and Little Collins, after a quick look round to make sure there was nobody watching, put his arms round him and hugged him.

"I won't laugh, anyway," he promised. "And if you want me to, I'll come to school in shorts next week, too. At least then you won't be the only one."

"You'd do that? Thanks… but I won't let you do it. Just try to keep your lot from going overboard again."

Little Collins blushed, well aware that he had gone further overboard than anyone else last time.

"I'll try," he said. "But… I really don't think I'll be able to…"

Ordering Osterley back into shorts lifted the day for David, who had otherwise had an unsatisfactory two or three days, what with no new victims and still no plan to get rid of Dhif. That was particularly galling: he hated the thought of the little wog swanning about it what should be a decent white school, but he couldn't think of a way to get rid of him. He knew that his next effort would have to be absolutely watertight: Garrett would be quite happy to hand out the appropriate punishment, but only if his own arse was completely covered, so that in the event of an enquiry he could tell the headmaster that he had followed the correct procedures. If David didn't get his next plan absolutely right, he was almost certain that Garrett wouldn't play, particularly after the cider fiasco.

He got in the taxi to go home, determined to try really hard to devise a plan over the weekend. There were only two weeks until the end of term, and he wanted to get rid of Dhif before Easter if he could, to give the school at least one nigger-free term this year.

He'd tried asking Fielding for ideas: the kid was only a first-year, but he was pretty bright, and he's said he'd think about it. But David was fairly sure he was more interested in thinking about nasty things to do to Larkin – he'd happily told David about their sessions together, his eyes shining and his shorts tented with the memory, and David didn't begrudge him his fun in the least: it had been brilliant watching Larkin slink back to class after lunch and knowing that he'd been forced to suck an eleven-year-old boy's cock during the break.

The taxi dropped him outside his front door as usual and he went upstairs to his room, where he put his briefcase away and changed out of his school uniform, and then he went downstairs to the living room, still trying to think of ways to get rid of the nigger. He walked into the room, deep in thought, and nearly fell over a girl of about ten years of age who was sitting on the floor playing with a doll.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Hello," she replied. "I'm Molly. Who are you?"

"What the bloody hell do you mean, who am I?" he replied, almost shouting. "I live here. What are you doing here?"

"Mummy said we could play here."

"'Mummy said…' Who the hell is Mummy?"

"My mummy," said the girl, who was looking a lot less happy now. "She's in the kitchen."

"What, Devlin? Is that your name?"

"That's right."

"Well, you can't play here – this is our part of the house. Get back to the servants' quarters where you belong."

"Don't be rude to my sister," said a new voice, and a belligerent-looking boy with a very short haircut popped up from behind the sofa with a toy tank in his hand. He looked a year or so younger than the girl. "It's not nice."

"'Not nice'… how dare you speak to me like that?" demanded David. "Do you know who I am?"

"Nope. Don't care, either," said the boy. "Be nice to my sister, or I'll bash you in."

"You little animal, how dare you address me like that? I'll see you thrown…"

"Is there a problem?" said another new voice, and David turned to see a boy a couple of years younger than him – but who was nonetheless three or four inches [8-10 cm] taller – standing in the doorway. This was a good-looking boy with dark brown hair, considerably longer than the younger boy's, and hazel eyes.

"Yes, there's a problem," said David. "These oiks are in my living room, instead of in the servants' part of the house where they belong."

"Well, you only have to ask politely and they'll go. You don't have to get your knickers in a twist and started foaming at the mouth about it."

"Foaming at the mouth?!" cried David, almost foaming at the mouth. "Get out of here, you bloody peasants, before I get Mother to call the police!"

"So we're bloody peasants, are we? I'll remember that," said the boy, looking at David in a way that was quite scary. "Come on, Molly – you too, Joe – let's leave Lord Muck to his aristocratic manor."

"How dare you?" cried David once more, but they had already gone. And when he went to his mother's office to make his feelings known she was not interested.

"Don't make a fuss, darling," she said. "I'm sure they weren't doing any harm. I don't want Mrs Devlin upset at the moment – she's going to have quite a bit of extra work while I'm away."

"Away? Where are you going?"

"Just up to London. Those men from Central Office were quite impressed, and they want to interview me for another job. The interview's in London, so I'll be gone for a couple of days. I'm sure you can cope without me – after all, you keep telling me how grown up you are now."

That left David with no argument: if he tried saying he couldn't manage it would undermine all his arguments about being treated like a fourteen-year-old, not a four-year-old. So he said nothing and went up to his bedroom to sulk.

If David's weekend got off to a bad start, Fielding's would be one of the best he had ever experienced. And he didn't even go looking for anything to happen: he just went out for a walk in the countryside after breakfast – he lived four or five miles [7-8 km] out to the west of the school in a house on the edge of a small village, and he often went for walks at weekends. This Saturday he went a way he hadn't been for a long time, to the south of the village, and again he had no particular reason for going that way: he just fancied a change.

He followed a footpath, took a couple of random turns and found himself following a trail into a wood. A little way in the path branched and he took the less well used one – in fact it was so little used it was barely a path at all. He was strolling along it, thinking of things he could do to Larkin the following week, when he heard a noise up ahead.

He stood still, listening: it sounded like heavy breathing, interspersed with little gasps. He grinned to himself as he realised it sounded rather like the sounds he made himself when his willy was in Larkin's mouth. Perhaps there was a couple having sex up ahead…

He started moving again, checking the path ahead for twigs and trying not to breathe above a whisper, and as he rounded a bend he got his first glimpse of naked flesh, a bare leg stretched out beside the path. He tiptoed closer, grateful that he was approaching from behind the person's head – he could see now that there was only one person there – which meant that if he was careful he'd be able to get really close without being seen.

Soon he was only a couple of yards away. He couldn't see the boy's head because it was close to a tree, and Fielding had been deliberately keeping the tree in the way so that he couldn't be seen if the boy moved his head, but he could see that it was a boy a bit older than himself, to judge by the bush of black pubic hair at the base of the penis. The boy was completely naked and was masturbating slowly. His clothes were scattered beside him, and there was also a magazine lying open and face down by the boy's side. He could read the title, which was 'Tiger', and see the photo on the front, which was of a couple of boys in their early teens. He grinned even wider.

He leaned carefully to his right, so that he could see the boy's face, and the grin now threatened to make the top of his head fall off: he knew this boy. He didn't know his name, but they caught the same bus home: the boy was a fourth or fifth-former from his school.

He thought for a moment about how to play this, and when he had worked out what to do he stepped forward and swooped. The other boy was lost in himself and his fantasy and so was far too slow to react: by the time he had sat up with a hand held protectively over his groin Fielding had grabbed the boy's shoes and underpants in one hand and the magazine in the other and had stepped away from the path and into a swathe of bramble bushes.

"Give those back!" the boy demanded, struggling to get up with one hand trying to protect his modesty.

"Or what?" asked Fielding, grinning and twirling the underpants round on his finger.

"Or I'll fucking kill you, that's what!"

"Come on, then. Come and get me."

Of course, that was impossible: the boy had bare feet, and Fielding was surrounded by brambles. The boy looked for a way around the brambles and saw none. His shoulders slumped.

"Come on, please give them back," he begged.

"I don't think so. You're in deep trouble here…" He paused and checked the ubiquitous label in the boy's underwear. "… Stephens," he continued. "I think I ought to go and report this to Garrett on Monday morning. I'm sure he'll be interested in this." He opened the magazine and looked at the pictures on the first couple of pages, which were of boys between the ages of about twelve and fifteen: some were still hairless, and some had quite thick bushes, but most seemed to be just undergoing puberty, with only quite sparse pubic hair. "What is it Mr Weston calls this stuff – 'moral degeneracy', isn't it?"

"You're going to report this to Garrett? What makes you think he'll take any notice of… oh, shit, you're the one they call the Mouse, aren't you?"

"Do they?" asked Fielding, who hadn't heard this before.

"Yes – you're a sort of mini-White Rat, so they call you the Mouse, or sometimes the Blind Mouse, because of your glasses. So I suppose Garrett would listen to you… look, give them back, please! I've got my exams next term – I can't afford to get into trouble…"

"Looks to me like you're already in trouble. Sill, perhaps we could find a way out for you… provided you do exactly what I tell you to, of course. Otherwise I'll be off to see Garrett on Monday."

"Okay," agreed Stephens at once – he was ready to do anything to stay out of trouble with the O levels looming.

"Right. Well, I'd like to believe you, but I reckon if I step out of this bush you'll just beat me up and take your stuff back, so we'd better make sure you can't. Stand with your back to the tree and put your arms round behind it."

Fielding removed one of the laces from Stephens' shoes and then stepped out on the far side of the brambles, broke off a nice flexible switch from a young tree, left the shoes, underwear and magazine where they were and stepped back onto the path, swishing his stick in a threatening way: if Stephens tried anything, he'd get at least one very painful blow in first. But Stephens had decided to co-operate and allowed Fielding to tie his wrists together behind the tree, thus immobilising him.

"Okay," said Fielding. "Now, whether or not I take you to Garrett is going to depend on your telling me the absolute truth: one lie and you'll be in deep shit on Monday. And I might just decide to take all your clothes with me when I go and leave you like that, too. And I promise I'll be able to tell if you're lying – I always can, so don't try it. So… what's your name and where do you live?"

"Nigel Stephens," replied the prisoner, adding an address a mile or so beyond Fielding's own house.

"And what class are you in?"

"5A."

"Really? You're not very big for a fifth-year, are you?" said Fielding, looking at the boy's genitals. And now that the erection had subsided, the penis did look small, though the balls were quite large and there was a lot of black hair. There were also small tufts of hair under each arm, though the boy's face was pale and soft-looking, and there was almost no hair on his arms and legs.

"I can't help it," said Stephens, blushing.

"Well, let's see if we can make you a bit bigger," said Fielding, taking hold of the small penis and starting to handle it fairly roughly. It took a while, but in the end it started to go up, and Stephens' shame was doubled.

"How long is it?" asked Fielding. "And don't lie: I know you measure it."

"About four inches [10 cm]," said Stephens, blushing again.

"That's pretty pathetic for a fifteen-year-old. OK, I know what you were doing when I found you – what were you thinking about? And remember that I've seen the magazine."

"You swear you won't tell Garrett?"

"I don't swear anything. Tell me the truth and I might not tell Garrett; lie to me and I certainly will."

Stephens swallowed. "On page seven, at the top," he mumbled. "Him."

Fielding went back into the brambles and retrieved the magazine and the shoes and pants, carrying them back to the path and putting them down with the rest of Stephens's clothes. Then he opened the magazine and looked at the photo on page seven.

It was a nice-looking blue-eyed blond boy of about thirteen, with an erection that was probably slightly larger than Stephens's own, though the boy in the picture only had a few wisps of fair hair at the base of it.

"And what exactly were you imagining?" asked Fielding.

"Oh, please don't," begged Stephens. "I've admitted I like boys – can't you let me go now?"

"Certainly not. Answer the question."

Stephens looked at the ground in shame. "I was imagining we'd met on holiday, and he'd taken me into the woods and undressed me, and he was… you know, playing with it for me…"

"You dirty boy!" said Fielding, grinning. "I bet you play with yourself a lot, too, don't you?"

"No! No, I hardly ever…"

"Liar!" interrupted Fielding, starting to pick up Stephens's clothes. "I told you what would happen if you lied to me. Bye bye."

"No!" cried Stephens, wrenching vainly at the laces round his wrists. "Come back, please! I swear I won't tell you any more lies!"

"Well… okay, but this is your last chance. So how often do you play with it?"

"Lots," admitted Stephens, shamefacedly. "Two or three times a day, usually. I do it in the toilets at school at break, and I do it at home, or at weekends when the weather's good I do it outdoors, like today. It's sort of more exciting doing it outdoors."

"Not if you get caught," Fielding pointed out. "You're a really dirty boy, aren't you? I think we're going to have to find a way to stop you fiddling with yourself… still, right now I want to watch you do it. Wait a moment."

He deposited all Stephens's clothes, and the magazine, in the middle of the brambles, and then untied his wrists.

"Try anything and I'll whip you," he warned, holding his switch threateningly. "Now, lie down where you were before and do it to yourself – you can pretend I'm the boy on page seven admiring you, if you like. OK, off you go."

Stephens lay on his back and took hold of himself. It took a while to get back in the mood, but eventually it went properly hard and he was able to start rubbing it. Fielding watched in excitement, resisting the temptation to make fun of his victim because he wanted to watch him get excited and he didn't want to put him off. Before too long he was suffering from a painfully stiff penis himself, though because he was wearing a pair of thick jeans today it was much less obvious than it would have been in his school shorts.

Soon Stephens was starting to move his body rhythmically: he was doing it a lot faster than he had been when Fielding had first arrived, presumably because he wanted to get it over and done with. He seemed to be getting really close when Fielding told him abruptly to stop.

"But I'm almost there," he protested, stopping all the same.

"I know. I just want a proper look at you."

Fielding peered closely at the organ in question, feeling how hard it was and checking its size, both length and thickness: he was starting to get an idea.

"Okay," he said, when he had seen what he needed to, "you can carry on – and I won't stop you again."

Stephens got straight back to work: the delay hadn't been long enough to ruin his mood, and soon he was gasping and his muscles were starting to tense up. By now Fielding knew what this felt like, but he still wasn't ready for the sudden spurt of white liquid that erupted from Stephens's tip and landed on his stomach: this was something he hadn't seen before. He stared in fascination as a second spurt came out, followed by a sort of dribble than ran over Stephens's fingers.

"Wow!" he couldn't help saying. "What's that?"

"That's my spunk. Of course, I don't suppose you've got any yet. Is it the first time you've seen any?"

Fielding nodded.

"Well, it starts when you start getting hairs, usually," said Stephens. "You'll learn all about it biology in the third year."

"I won't," replied Fielding. "I'll learn all about it from you, unless you want me to get annoyed. You can start teaching me tomorrow – meet me here at three o'clock, okay? If you don't turn up you'll be in big trouble. I'm going to keep a couple of souvenirs, just to make sure you don't forget to come… let's see, I'll take the magazine, your pants – and I think maybe that, as well," and he pointed to Stephens's watch, which was the only thing he was still wearing. "If you don't turn up the watch will get lost, and your pants and the magazine will go to Garrett. If you do turn up you can have the watch and your pants back, and maybe even the mag, if you behave. Now, when I get here at three tomorrow I want to find you completely naked and lying on the ground like you are now. Oh, and try not to play with yourself between now and then – I'll probably want another demonstration tomorrow, and I don't want you wearing yourself out in the meantime. OK?"

It wasn't, of course, but there was nothing Stephens could do about it, lying naked on the ground with his spunk drying on his stomach, so he handed the watch over obediently and watched Fielding moving everything except Stephens's shoes out of the bramble bush. The shoes he put on top of the bush, where Stephens could get at them using a stick, but of course that would take time, which would allow Fielding to get well away before Stephens was in any condition to give chase.

Fielding tucked the magazine and Stephens's watch and pants into his pocket and strolled away, though he broke into a jog as soon as he was out of sight, just in case Stephens tried to chase him. In fact Stephens, who was sure it would be pointless, didn't even try: he just cleaned himself up and got dressed, heading for home and hoping Fielding would be satisfied with a brief sex education class, after which he would leave him alone. Clearly he didn't know Fielding at all well if he thought that was going to happen…

Fielding went home, and straight after lunch he went and caught the bus into town: he had his season ticket, of course, so it didn't cost anything, which was important as he had other plans for the money in his pocket. He went to a hardware shop and explained to the shopkeeper that he wanted a chain and a small but strong padlock: he had a normal bike lock, he said, but he wanted a second line of defence. The shopkeeper found a good padlock that was only a little over an inch [2½ cm] long, but which he said had a really strong steel shackle, and then Fielding selected a length of chain with loops that were perhaps three-eighths of an inch [1 cm] long. He was delighted to see that the shopkeeper had to cut off the length he wanted using a pair of large bolt-cutters, which suggested that the chain should be strong enough for the purpose he had in mind.

He had trouble eating his Sunday lunch the following day because he was so excited, but he managed it, and after waiting the half hour or so his mother insisted on "to let it go down", he was finally allowed to go out. He checked that he had everything he needed and then set out, making good time as far as the wood but slowing down considerably when he reached it: he wanted to be sure that Stephens had not arranged an ambush for him.

He had a nasty moment when he missed a fork in the path: briefly he was afraid he wouldn't be able to find the place again. But he retraced his steps and found the right path again, creeping forward with extreme vigilance.

He needn't have worried: Stephens had decided not to risk being exposed to Garrett, and had turned up at the requested time, and when Fielding came round the corner he found Stephens lying naked on the path in the same position as he had been in the previous morning.

"I'm glad you've decided to be sensible," he said. "It looks as if Garrett won't have to find out about you after all."

"Thanks. So, can I have my stuff back?"

"Not yet. Get up against the tree, same as yesterday. I'm a lot smaller than you, and I'd sooner have you safely tied up."

Stephens obediently took up position against the tree, and Fielding tied him in place, this time using some rather stronger nylon string he had brought along specially.

"Okay," he said. "Now, obviously your problem is that you play with yourself far too much – have you done it since Saturday morning, by the way?"

"No, I… Yes, okay, I'm not going to lie any more. I did it last night before I went to bed."

"I told you not to. Normally I'd have to punish you for that, but as you've been honest I won't this time. But it proves what I was saying, doesn't it: you just can't leave it alone. So I'm going to help you learn to stop fiddling with it. I've bought you a present."

As Fielding had hoped, Stephens was uncomfortable and nervous, far too nervous to have an erection. His penis hung down small and thin. So Fielding got the chain out of his pocket, made a loop in it by feeding one end through the last link at the other, and slid it over Stephens's genitals, so that the loop enclosed penis and testicles. Then he pulled the loop closed, until it was starting to dig in tightly at the base of the penis and behind the testicles.

Stephens gave a cry of discomfort as part of his scrotum was pinched, so Fielding found the problem and released the trapped skin, pulling the loop even tighter. Once he was satisfied he fed the shackle of his padlock through the link nearest to the loop, though without closing the padlock.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"A bit. It's sort of digging in."

"It has to, I'm afraid, or it won't be tight enough. Now I want to see if you can pee. Try."

Stephens felt both embarrassed and uncomfortable, and he didn't even consider disobedience. He started to pee, and his water emerged in the usual way, though it felt a bit uncomfortable.

"Excellent!" said Fielding, and he closed the padlock. "And now let's see if it really does the job it's meant to do."

He pulled the boy magazine from his pocket and opened it to page seven, holding the picture up so that Stephens could see it easily.

"Just close your eyes and imagine I'm him," he said. "He really likes you – he wants to touch you…"

Fielding started to play gently with Stephens's genitals, and almost at once the penis started to harden – and of course as the blood flowed into it, it got not just longer, but thicker, too. And this meant that there was more flesh trying to occupy the extremely small amount of space inside the ring of chain. The chain bit into the swelling penis, and Stephens gave a cry of pain.

"Take it off!" he cried. "It's crushing me – please, take the chain off!"

"I don't think so," said Fielding, delighted to see that his plan worked in practice. "And now let's try for the top prize…"

He took hold of Stephens's penis and started to wank it, and at once Stephens screamed for him to stop: the chain was now biting in deeply, and rubbing his penis pulled the skin cruelly against the unyielding steel.

"Brilliant!" said Fielding. "That should stop you playing with it."

He picked up all Stephens's clothes and carried them to the far side of the bramble patch, and then he undid the string and beat a hasty retreat. But Stephens was more interested in cradling his genitals than anything else.

"Okay," said Fielding, "from now on that stays on. If you're good and obedient, I'll take it off now and again so that you can play with yourself, but it won't be very often. And if you want it taken off you have to do exactly what I tell you, understand? Now, I'll give you a chance to get out of this: if you can get that chain off inside the next five minutes you're free: I'll give you everything back, including the magazine, and I won't bother you again. If you can't, I'll keep the magazine as evidence, along with your pants, so if you do decide to go home and risk taking a hacksaw or a blowtorch to the chain I'll still have something to show Garrett.

"Now, obviously you won't be able to get it off with your willy all hard, so we'd better take your mind off it." He pulled a bottle full of cold water from his bag and threw it all over Stephens, who squealed, and then he hit him with his switch – he'd cut himself another one as soon as he entered the wood. Stephens howled and backed away, dripping. Fielding followed him, threatening to hit him again, and very soon the erection had completely disappeared.

"Off you go," said Fielding, looking at his watch. "Your five minutes start… now."

Stephens tugged at the chain, then tried forcing it over his balls, and finally tried to force his penis through the loop, but the chain was too tight and his balls were too big: everything he tried failed.

"Time's up," said Fielding. "Right, from now on you leave the chain alone: I'll check it every time we see each other, and if I see anything to suggest you've tried to get it off, I'll do two things: first, I'll report you to Garrett, with your pants and the magazine as evidence; and second, I'll throw both the keys to the padlock in the river.

"We'll see each other on the bus every day, so we can easily arrange to get together after school and at weekends, and if you're good and do whatever I tell you I'll take the chain off for a few minutes every weekend. Then you'll be able to fiddle with yourself if you want. Of, course, I'll be watching, but I'm sure you'll get used to that – and if you don't want to play with yourself, you don't have to. I reckon you'll want to most of the time, though.

"Now, I expect you're thinking you'll be able to deal with me once I've taken the chain off. You won't: before I take the chain off I'll chain you to the tree, or something similar, with a different chain, and if you refuse to have the ball chain back on again afterwards I'll leave you chained to the tree and go home – oh, and I'll take your pants and dirty mag to Garrett as well. So you'd better get used to the idea of keeping the chain on.

"I'll make you a promise, though: if you do what I tell you and don't try to escape, I won't tell anyone else about it – and that includes Garrett and Villiers-Gore. It'll be our secret. Of course, you'll have to find a way to stop people noticing when you get changed for games, but you've only got two more games afternoons to get through – you could probably get a sick note for at least one of them, and even if you can't the chain will be hard to spot through all that hair you've got. You'll probably get away with it. Right, any questions?"

"Not really… but please don't do this to me. It hurts even when I'm not stiff. I'll never be able to get to sleep with it on."

"You will if you get tired enough, and after a couple of sleepless nights you'll be tired enough, I'm sure. But it's up to you: either you keep the chain, or you can come and see Garrett with me in the morning and try explaining what you were doing with the mag. He'll believe me anyway, but once he sees that I managed to grab your pants it'll prove I'm telling the truth. So – Garrett, or the chain?"

"The chain," said Stephens, miserably.

"Good. I hoped you'd say that. So now you can tell me all about that stuff that came out of your willy yesterday."

So Stephens explained what he knew, and Fielding listened entranced.

"Wow! I wonder if I'll have any of that stuff soon?" he mused.

"Not for a year or so, I shouldn't think. I was fourteen, but I developed quite late. I think the normal age is about thirteen."

"Right. Well, I suppose we should go – I was going to do something else with you, but it's a bit risky, so I'm going to wait until I've got the second chain. So instead I think I ought to beat you: that's what normally happens to bad boys, isn't it? So get down on your hands and knees and keep still."

Stephens knew that he had no choice and did as he was told, and Fielding drew back his switch and whipped him. He had intended only giving him three, but the noises the older boy was making were so entertaining that he went on and gave him the full six.

"Stand up," he ordered when he had finished, and he drank in the sight of the fifteen-year-old hopping about naked, clutching his bum, his eyes watering, with the steel chain glinting in his pubes and the lead part of it hanging down beneath his balls. Fielding went into the brambles and threw Stephens his clothes and then walked away while the older boy was struggling to get dressed. Life, he thought, just couldn't possibly get better than this…

Yup, young Fielding is a happy boy, though no doubt Stephens is wishing he'd stayed indoors for his fantasy sessions. In the next chapter Fielding learns some more stuff to try on his victims, and David does his best to increase Osterley's misery, with some help from Pope and his fellow second-years.

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