Zelamir

Slave Boy Hunter

A Tribute Boy Story

BOOK ONE
Chapter 1

Stephanie, sitting in front of me in the passenger seat shifted her considerable bulk and belched loudly.

"Listen," I said urgently, "I'll go through it once more so there's no cock ups. We wait till the drop is completed. Then Wayne you block the car. I'll grab the brat and you Steph deal with the mother. Minimum force though if the stupid bitch starts yelling or kicking up just do what's necessary to calm her down."

There was no real need to say all this. We had done this job or ones very like it so often that we all knew what to do. As for the minimum force bit. Stephanie didn't do minimum force. I only put that bit in the off chance Wayne would remember me saying it and would provide me with a bit of cover when the time came that Stephanie thumped some woman so hard that she didn't ever get up afterwards. It hadn't happened yet but it would sometime.

"You forgot the bit about getting the car keys Warwick," Stephanie said and Wayne giggled.

The woman was a pig. I only brought her along because magistrates take a dim view of six foot six [1.98 cm] man weighing one hundred and fifty nine pounds [72 kg] forcibly restraining a woman. For some reason known only to them they seem to consider it more acceptable if the job was done by a dyke with the shoulders of a stevedore who obviously enjoys her work.

"Fuck you Steph," I replied bitterly and Wayne giggled again.

I could see the boy's mother's car parked a couple of hundred yards away from us across the parking lot. A match flared briefly in it. She had lit another cigarette. The waiting must be getting to her. I almost felt sorry for her.

Then a large black car swung into the car park. It stopped just inside the entrance. A passenger door opened and the slight slim figure of a boy emerged from it. The woman jumped out of her car turning to face the boy her arms spread wide to welcome him.

Even as the boy began to run towards the women. The black car swung round and accelerated away. The drop completed they were getting out of there before anything could go wrong and future operations compromised.

The boy had almost reached the woman and was about to launch himself into her arms.

"Go! Now go!" I shouted thumping Wayne on his shoulder.

The car surged forward. He flicked the headlights full on.

The boy and his mother, now clasped in each other arms were skewered in the light. I saw their faces, white and startled, turned towards us. Then the car skidded to a halt beside them.

Even before the car had stopped I was out of it. I wrenched the boy from his mother. Swinging him round to face me I slammed my fist into his stomach. I heard the woman scream and a thud as Stephanie took her out. The boy doubled up and I grabbed his wrists, twisting them behind his back and securing them with plastic ties. I threw him into the back of the car and jumped in after him.

The woman was down on the ground. She started to get up and Stephanie kicked her on the side of the head. Stephanie grabbed the keys from the woman's car and lobbed them underhand out into the darkness. She turned round, the woman one more kick as she lay on the ground and scrambled into the passenger seat.

The tyres squealed as Wayne accelerated away.

Looking back I could see in the dim light of the street lamps the woman stagger to her feet, blood streaming down her face. The last I saw of her she was trying to run after us her face her mouth contorted by her screams.

"Mummy," the boy howled and I backhanded him hard.

"Say man watch the upholstery," Wayne protested, "blood is shit to get off."

I hit the boy again. Hell it was my car and anyway with boys it's best to start as you mean to go on.

An hour later after I'd paid off Stephanie and Wayne, they are journeymen and are paid as such, I am an independent professional and take my profits as I can, I arrived back at my business premises which, as it has a bed and some books is my home as well. I had gagged the boy and dumped him in the boot of the car. I didn't want him causing me problems or attracting attention while I was driving.

An old gamekeepers cottage complete with yard and outbuildings set at the end of a long lane well away from other habitations would not I suppose at first sight appear to be the ideal base for a legitimate business and let there be no doubt my business is legitimate. I am after all a Property Recovery Agent a fully authorised by the New Order Property Recovery Unit and part of an organisation that plays an essential if not always popular part in maintaining the integrity of the New World Order.

Not all that long ago I could have carried on my profession like any other respectable businessman from premises in the commercial centre of the local town, in my case Cardiff in South Wales. But as the years have passed from the great oil shock and the Great Patriotic War that followed it the simple certainties of the New Order have been subjected to criticism and dilution. There have been well meaning but misguided attempts to ameliorate the lot of the servile population which in its turn has encouraged openly subversive agitators, abolitionists and the like, who on some occasions have dared to turn to direct action in support of their perverse ideals.

If it wasn't for the work of agents like myself enforcing the basic provisions of the New Order the whole system would have broken down long ago and we would have descended into anarchy.

With all that you'd expect a degree of gratitude or, if that is too much, at least that we should be allowed to go quietly about our business without interference. That however is far from being the case and after I had had my offices in town first picketed by abolitionists and then later fire bombed I had moved my operations to a more secluded site and acquired a couple of German Shepherd dogs.

I got out of the car to un-padlock the double gates topped with razor wire as the two dogs hurled themselves against the bars in a frenzy of aggression. I spoke to them and recognising my voice they fell silent and backed off, hunching down on their haunches, just within the pool of light thrown by the car headlights. With the rain beating down on me I slipped inside the gates and calling the dogs to me walked them across the yard to their pen.

Flicking on the outside light I returned to the car. It was only when I had the car safely inside the high walls of the yard and the gates firmly closed that I moved to release the brat from where I had stowed him in the boot of the car.

He gazed up at me from where he lay, huddled in a ball of boy misery, his eyes wide with fear. Some mumbled sounds came from behind the gag that filled his mouth and forced open his jaws.

Grabbing him by an arm I hauled him bodily from the car. I tried to stand him upright but his legs gave way under him. Half carrying him I dragged him with his arms bound behind his back across to the dog pen. The German Shepherds seeing him went wild with rage thrusting their heads through the bars snarling and growling. The boy fought against my grasp, trying to dig his heels into the ground but I was far stronger than him. I held him a few inches from the bars as the dogs, teeth bared and slavering, raged at him. Whimpering helplessly he gave up and went slack in my grasp.

"Take a close look at these dogs boy," I grated. "You try anything and they will have you. They don't like dirty little runaway slave brats and I don't like them either so watch yourself or you'll be dog meat."

Suddenly I was fed up with chasing fugitive slave boys, fed up with the Welsh, the weather, the constant rain, grubby little slave brats and everything else in this God awful world. In a rage I slammed the boy head first into the railings and let go of him. He collapsed in a heap on the wet paving stones at my feet.

Looking down at him I saw a dark patch form at the crotch of his jeans. I realised the filthy little brute had peed himself in fright.

I kicked him a couple of times but couldn't get him to his feet. I realised that I was tired and that I was getting very wet. I needed to get under cover, have a good strong whisky and a night's sleep. I dragged the boy across to the bank of small cages that lined one wall of the yard and locked him in one of them. The dogs released from their pen ran straight over to it and began to hurl themselves against its bars in an effort to get at the boy.

I left them to it and went into the house.

I woke late the next morning to find that the clouds had cleared and the sun shining brightly. There was no hurry. At some point in the day I would need to confirm the identity of the brat against his dna profile and report his capture to the Head Office of the Recovery Unit before putting in hand arrangements for shipping him back to his rightful master but none of that was either urgent or particularly time consuming while the longer the boy was kept hungry cold and frightened in the cage the easier he would be to handle.

I was just finishing my second cup of coffee with my brat Timmy hovering naked in the background in case I wanted a third when the inter-com sputtered into life.

"Mister Warwick OK if I come in?"

I checked the bank of screens beside the kitchen door. I knew the voice but you could not be too careful. Robert Jones stood outside the yard gate grinning up at the CCTV camera.

"OK Robert," I said and pushed the requisite buttons on the consul.

He was the son of the farm at the top of the lane leading to my cottage. A sturdy well grown fourteen year old he had introduced himself to me when I moved in and over time had helped with a number of odd jobs about the place.

The gates swung open and Robert pushed his bike into the yard. The two German Shepherds who had been dozing in the sun ambled over to him wagging their tails. Robert looked after them for me when I was away on business and they were great friends of his.

A moment later he was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"I got another lot of Improvac (1) from Dad," he said grinning, "How's it working on Timmy? Dad says it stops the boars he gives it to straight off. They stop developing and get less aggressive and put on weight."

"I think he's stopped growing down there," I replied, "Indeed the brat vet tried to weigh his balls last time he was here and he thought they might even have shrunk a bit. Not that they were very large to start with but he's coming on thirteen now so they were beginning to swell a bit. But have a look yourself."

"Come here Timmy let the young Master have a look at you and I'll give you another jab of the pig vaccine."

Timmy stepped forward grinning happily. He loved Robert with a deep dog like devotion and was always happy to be noticed and even more to be handled by him. He stood quietly in front of Robert as the older boy lent forward a frown of concentration on his face to examine his balls.

"I think they're just a bit smaller," Robert remarked judiciously while fingering the brat's hairless balls.

"But Mister Warwick he's only a year younger than me but he was much smaller than me even before you started him on the Improvac and he's got no hair at all down there and I've got quite a bit. Why's that?"

"Oh Tribute boys always develop slower than free boys," I said absently as I checked there were no air bubbles in the pre-loaded syringe. "It's because they are fed less well and worked hard."

"Now stand still slut while I get this in you."

I jabbed the needle of the syringe into the side of the brat's bare rump and depressed the plunger.

"Have you noticed any ill effects?" Robert asked as I withdrew the needle.

"None yet," I replied, "except maybe he began to put a bit of extra flesh on but I got round that by cutting down on his maize porridge. Otherwise nothing. Mister Wilson, the boy vet, has asked me if he can keep an eye on him because he's interested and he comes round regularly and gives him the once over but he hasn't spotted anything as yet."

"It'll be great if it really works. Timmy'll stay fun to fuck for years and you'll be saved lots of time schooling a new boy."

"You must be proud Timmy to be able to help your Master in so important an experiment."

"I'm a lucky boy to be Master Warwick's slut," Timmy replied looking ay me uncertainly and obviously hoping this was the correct reply.

"He doesn't understand you Robert," I said laughing indulgently. "You're expecting too much from the brat. He was the third boy in a big poor family. He wasn't going to be anything else than a Tribute brat from the day he was born. They didn't bother to send him to school. He can't read and he can't write and he doesn't know his numbers beyond ten. I took him when he was first tributed at seven and he's been with me ever since. He's not a bad little brute but like all tribute brats he's limited – nothing more than an animal that can talk after a fashion. They don't think or feel the same way you and I do."

"I see you got another run-away outside," Robert remarked changing the subject, "I saw the lights of your car when you came back last night and wondered if you'd had any luck."

"A second time runner too," I said with relish, "so it's double bounty as well."

"He looks pretty miserable," Robert said, "and he smells a bit. I reckon the filthy little brute has probably shit himself. Why do they do that Mister Warwick?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Slave boys," I said resignedly, "filthy little brutes. That's just the way they are. Help yourself to a coke. We'll clean him up when I've finished this coffee."

Taking a can from the fridge Robert tore off the tag and drank thirstily.

"He's a small one," he said wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "he should be easy to handle."

"Nine years old according to his wanted notice. Mind you there's never much fight left in a brat after a night in the cages. Cold and hunger are great tamer of boys."

I led the way out into the yard followed by Robert with Timmy tagging along behind in case he could be of use.

The boy lay huddled on the bare flagstones of his cage. He saw us coming and crawled further back into the corner furthest away from us, cringing there trying to make himself as small as possible. The side of his face was swollen and bruised from where I had hit him and there were no doubt other bruises on his body that would be visible once we had him stripped. His clothes were sodden from the overnight rain and he was shivering and blue with cold.

"Roust him out of there for me," I said.

Grinning broadly Robert picked up the short length of rubber hose pipe that always lay ready to hand on the stout wooden punishment bench in front of the boy cages. I unlocked the door of the cage in which the boy and stood ready while Robert walked round to its back.

I watched as he struck down between the iron bars the length of hosing thudding solidly across the cringing brat's shoulders. Through the gag that forced his jaws apart the boy's howl of pain came out as a muffled grunt.

The great advantage of the hose pipe as an aide to boy management was that it hurt without doing permanent damage.

The boy shifted slightly forward in the cage trying to get out of Robert's reach. Robert moved round the outside of the cage after him, striking again, this time catching the boy across the top of his head. Striking again and again Robert drove the boy towards where I stood by the open cage door.

It was pleasant watching a lad who was so obviously enjoying himself as young Robert was doing.

Eventually the boy was within easy reach and bending forward I grabbed him by an ankle and lugged him bodily clear of the cage.

"Get up… Get up you useless lump of boy shit," I yelled at him kicking him hard in the ribs.

With his wrists pinioned behind his back, weak with hunger and cold, the boy found it hard to get to his feet. However encouraged by Robert who landed a few heavy blows across his rump with the hose pipe as he was about it he eventually got there.

I yanked savagely at the waste band of the brat's jeans. Cloth ripped and buttons popped as I pulled his trousers and underpants down round his ankles.

"You're right," I said as Robert unrolled the hose pipe, "the little sod has shit himself."

"I'll hose him down shall I?"

"Hang on a moment while I get him completely stripped."

Once I had the boy naked Robert directed a jet of ice cold water at him. He tried to get away from the water as it streamed over his naked body. I grabbed him by the arm and threw him back towards Robert.

"You take the hose Mister Warwick and I'll hold the fucker for you," Robert shouted as the boy danced and capered under the jet.

He surrendered the hose to me.

"Don't want to get these wet," he said pulling off his own shorts and underpants.

He placed them carefully well away from the water. Making no attempt to hide his erection he turned back to the boy. While Robert held him firmly I hosed the brat down. A good deal of the water went on Robert as well as the boy.

"Grab his wrists and pull them back up so I can get at his bum," I ordered.

As Robert pushed the boy's arms up his back, forcing him to bend forward, I directed the jet of water between his legs and into his crack, sluicing away the worst of the filth.

Satisfied I had washed away the worst of the dirt I switched the hose off. Robert released his hold of the boy who collapsed to his hands and knees on the wet paving stones. He crouched there the beads of water on his bare flesh glittering silver in the sunlight.

I noticed that despite the brand mark on the side of his flank he had a band of paler flesh about his bottom, a sure sign that his master had allowed him clothes, something that would have been unthinkable for a tribute boy a mere ten or so years ago. I shook my head despairing at the way the original clear cut certainties and simple straightforward rules of the New World Order had been diluted and weakened.

It was not I reflected as I stepped forward to remove the gag from his mouth that anything had been gained from spoiling the brat. It wasn't as if the boy was happier or better off in the long term. Maybe the poor little slut had got some fleeting satisfaction at being allowed to mince about dressed so that he might ape a free boy but look at what it had led to, discontent, ingratitude and finally, the ultimate act of rebellion, flight. The prospects of a recaptured fugitive tribute boy was not pleasant even in these softer more liberal times. Wholesale skewering might be out of fashion but what had replaced it while not terminal was certainly effective and very painful.

FOOTNOTE

(1) Vaccination of boars with a GnRH vaccine (Improvac) eliminates boar taint and increases growth performance

F. R. Dunshea, C. Colantoni, K. Howard, I. McCauley, P. Jackson, K. A. Long, S. Lopaticki, E. A. Nugent, J. A. Simons, J. Walker and D. P. Hennessy Agriculture Victoria, Victorian Institute of Animal Science, Werribee, Australia.

Peri- and postpubertal boars accumulate substances (e.g., androstenone and skatole) in their fatty tissue that are responsible for boar taint in pork. The objective of this study was to assess the efficacy of a GnRH vaccine, Improvac, in eliminating boar taint. Three hundred male (200 intact boars, 100 barrows) crossbred (Large White x Landrace) pigs were used in a 2 x 3 factorially arranged experiment. The respective factors were sex group (barrows, boars treated with placebo, or boars treated with Improvac) and slaughter age (23 or 26 wk). Vaccines were administered 8 and 4 wk before slaughter. All Improvac-treated pigs exhibited anti-GnRH titers. Testes and bulbo-urethral gland weights in treated pigs were reduced by approximately 50% (P < 0.001) and serum testosterone levels were below 2 ng/mL in the majority of treated boars (94 and 92% across both age groups at 2 and 4 wk, respectively). Boar taint, as assessed by the concentration of androstenone and skatole in s.c. fat, was suppressed to low or undetectable levels in 100% of Improvac-treated boars. No Improvac-treated pigs had significant concentrations of either androstenone (> 1.0 microg/g) or skatole (> 0.20 microg/g). In contrast, 49.5% of placebo-treated controls had significant androstenone and 10.8% had significant skatole levels, resulting in 10% of the control boars with high concentrations of both compounds. The mean concentrations of taint compounds in the Improvac-treated pigs were not significantly different from those in barrows. Improvac-treated boars grew more rapidly (P = 0.051 and < 0.001 for pigs slaughtered at 23 and 26 wk of age, respectively) than control boars over the 4 wk after the secondary vaccination, possibly because of reduced sexual and aggressive activities. Compared with barrows, Improvac-treated boars were leaner and had superior feed conversion efficiency. The vaccine was well tolerated by the pigs, and no observable site reactions could be detected at the time of slaughter. Vaccination of boars with Improvac allows production of heavy boars with improved meat quality through prevention and control of boar taint.

J Anim Sci 79, 10 2524-2535.

Chapter 2

I got the buckle unfastened and eased the gag out of his mouth. Getting a firm hold of one thin arm I pulled him to his feet.

I almost laughed at the boy's appearance. The gag had been in his mouth, forcing his jaws apart, for the better part of 14 hours and he was standing there, gaping, unable to close his jaws, looking like a fish on the river bank gasping for air.

I knew what to do for I had been here before. I placed my left hand on the top of his head and jabbed sharply upwards with the butt of my right hand under his chin. There was a sharp crack and his jaws shut. I set about freeing the brat's wrists from the plastic ties.

Timmy came out of the backdoor of the house carrying two pails of steaming water. Robert set to work on the boy with a damp cloth and a cake of soap while I bundled together the ragged remains of his clothes and carried them across to the incinerator for later disposal. I saw that the t-shirt had come from Gap and shook my head in exasperation. It was asking for trouble allowing a tribute boy any clothing at all but indulging the slut with garments as expensive as this was sheer madness.

I had just dropped the clothes into the incinerator when Robert called me.

"Mr Warwick," his voice was urgent and puzzled, "come and have a look at this please."

He had clearly been busy cleaning up the boy's butt. The boy was standing bent forward with his legs apart. Water and soap suds were running down the cleft of his bottom.

"Have you ever seen a brat as old as this one with a hole like this?" he asked reaching out and pulling apart the boy's bottom so I could get a clearer look at it. "It's so small and tight and much sort of pinker than any I've seen before. Just think of your Timmy's it's much bigger and sort of looser than his."

I bent forward to look running a finger tip along the boy's anus seeing his bottom tense and the lips clench tight at my touch.

"The explanation is simple," I told Robert laughing, "the slut's a virgin, at least so far as his arse hole is concerned."

"He's not been fucked!" Robert exclaimed in amazement. "A tribute slut, nine years old you said and not been fucked in the bottom. Jesus what's wrong with the slut?"

"Maybe there's nothing wrong with him," I said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's his master that is a bit on the odd side."

"There's nothing wrong with my Master or Mistress either," the brat spoke for the first time, "They explained it to me. It's just that they couldn't adopt me cos adoptions not legal nowadays so they bought me from my Dad but they love me just like I was their son an Dad said he'd never do stuff like that to me and…"

We had both been so surprised by the brat daring to speak without permission that we had been slow to react. Now Robert silenced him by smashing his fist into his stomach.

"You insolent little turd," Robert shouted clouting the brat on the side of the head. "You speak when you are spoken to and not otherwise."

"Quite right Robert," I said approvingly, "but I'd just like to learn a bit more about this."

"Now boy maybe your Master and Mistress loved you like a son but it didn't stop them having you branded as Tribute Stock. Funny way to show their love wasn't it?"

"They explained…"

It was my turn to hit the boy.

"You will find it wise when speaking to your betters to start off with 'please Master' and finish with 'thank you Master,'" I observed mildly as I waited for the brat to get back on his feet.

"Please Master," the boy began again fighting back his sobs, "they explained that. They had to take me and register me with the Tribute Master's Office so they could have me and I had to be branded then and have a collar put on me then. They took the collar off soon as they got me home but they couldn't do nothing bout the brand."

He stopped and I lifted my hand to hit him again.

"Thank you Master," he added hurriedly and with a cold smile I lowered my hand. The boy was quite a quick learner I thought with satisfaction.

"Can I fuck the boy?" Robert asked suddenly.

I took a quick look at him. His young teenage cock stood out eager and erect from the sparse clump of pubic hair that had begun to form about his private parts. It had some way to go before it was a full man sized rod but it was still a good deal bigger than the small twig like objects that hairless boys sport. Looking at it, hard and demanding with a bead of precum glistening on its tip, and the lad's balls hanging loose and swollen I thought he was large enough for the slut to feel and remember him.

I don't see why not, though Timmy will be disappointed he was hoping you were going to fuck him," I said smiling.

"Timmy's just a slut. It doesn't matter about him. He'll just have to take his turn," Robert replied heartlessly.

I could see the disappointment on Timmy's face but the slut knew better than to say anything.

"All right then but you'll find it's not as easy as with Timmy. It's the first time for this one and he'll be very tight. You'll have to hammer it in and just ignore his squeals."

"You can't do this to me. I'll tell on you. I'll tell…"

Robert silenced him by smashing a fist into his face. The boy doubled up clapping his hands to his face blood oozing between his fingers.

"He's got a point though," Robert said raising his voice so that he could be heard over the boy's sobs, "what if he does tell – will it make trouble for you with his master?"

"Hell Robert," I'm afraid I showed myself a little impatient with the lad, "you know as well as I do that what a Tribute Boy says can't be accepted as evidence. We'll just say that he was raped by the abolitionists before we got him just like all the bruises on him will have been caused by his struggling to avoid arrest. Don't worry we can do what we like to the slut and there won't be any comebacks."

"Timmy," I continued, "go and fetch the jar of lubricant from by the bed… hurry boy … don't keep the young Master waiting."

"Robert help me with the brat… we'll tie him down across the punishment bench."

I dragged the boy across to the punishment bench. This was a sturdy wooden bench that stood firmly bolted to the yard floor five feet or so in front of the row of boy cages. It was placed there deliberately so that the sufferings of any brat called to account for his sins on it could be clearly seen and heard by the cages' inhabitants. A raised wooden bar ran across each end of the bench These were designed so that the ankles and wrists of a boy lain flat on the bench could be secured to them. Alternatively, as in the present instance, so that he could be bent over one of the bars, his legs spread and secured by the ankles to the base of the bench, his arms stretched out in front of him and tied down.

It was hard I thought looking down at the boy's raised bottom to imagine a more vulnerable or humiliating arrangement. Bending the brat over the raised bar in this way ensured easy access to his cock and balls. Slipping my hand between his legs I rolled his small hairless balls gently between my finger and thumb before turning my attention to his cock which I felt harden and swell under my touch. The boy moaned softly and raised his bottom.

Timmy came running out of the house carrying the jar of lubricant.

"Grease up the young Master's cock boy," I ordered.

Timmy dropped to his knees at Robert's feet and set to work his face just a few inches from the older youth's erect cock. With his grave face and parted lips he looked like a young acolyte worshiping at the shrine of some pagan God. Perhaps indeed that was exactly what the little slut was doing for the workings of a slut's mind often defies reason.

I let go of the boy's hard little cock and turned my attention to the sensitive area on the inside of one of his thighs running a finger nail very gently to and fro just below his anus. He whimpered and stirred. I moved my finger tip ever closer to his hole. His murmurs increased in volume. He began to throw his head about. His breath came in short harsh gasps. I let my finger touch the lips of his anus running it along them over and over again not trying to enter his body but deliberately teasing him, working him nearer and nearer to the point of orgasm.

I reached out my hand towards Timmy and the boy, experienced in such matters, knew to offer me the jar of lubricant. I pressed my finger into it.

I deliberately waited while the slut deprived of the stimulus of my touch strained against his bonds in a desperate attempt to lift his bottom to me.

After a few seconds, that no doubt felt an age to the now thoroughly aroused little whore, I relented. This time I pressed in just a little harder.

It was enough. The boy groaned and his body convulsed as dry orgasm after dry orgasm racked him. I kept him there slowly working my finger deeper into him bringing him back over and over again to that point of painful ecstasy.

Finally when my finger was buried to the knuckle in his virgin bottom I relented. I pulled it out. Wiping the filth from my finger on the back of the slut's bare thigh I caught Robert's eye and nodded. The lad, who had been standing close by watching the slut's long drawn out arousal, his distended and thoroughly greased penus glistening, precum oozing from its tip, required no further encouragement.

Bending his knees he took aim with his cock and drove forward. Despite the preliminary work I had done he met initial resistance. The muscles in his flanks flexed as he hammered away at the slut's hole. The boy's head went back as he squealed in pain. Robert apparently further aroused by the slut's shrill screams redoubled his efforts. Panting with effort he forced his cock deeper and deeper into the boy with powerful thrusts of his haunches. The brat's cries subsided into a low whimper as Robert remorselessly pounded his bottom. Then suddenly Robert was still his head thrown back, his body arched, the only movement being the muscles working in the side of his rump as he pumped his seed into the boy's guts.

Then he pulled back. His cock came clear of the slut with an audible plop. Timmy unbidden dropped to his knees and began to suck eagerly at his penis.

I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. There is a deep held believe among tribute brats that swallowing the seed of a freeman or boy makes them stronger or more attractive or possibly just brings good luck. The precise nature of the suspicion varies but it is universal and nothing can dislodge it. No doubt if Timmy saw half a chance he would be sucking any of Robert's cum he could get out of the brat's hole before the day was out. It is of course totally illogical but what can you do? It is just another thing illustrating the truth that the servile population are different from us.

While Timmy enthusiastically, if somewhat noisily, cleaned Robert's cock I bent down and checked the slut's hole for injuries. Its lips and wall were red and sore to the touch but the sphincter was not torn. I probed it with my finger as the boy whimpered quietly. There was some blood, inevitable in the circumstances in my experience but nothing to worry about. Straightening, I slapped him on his bottom.

"Put a clog on him and set him to work scrubbing out his cage. And use the hose pipe on him if he's slow. This isn't a rest camp. I've got to check a couple of things on the Net."

Back in the house I logged onto the Property Recovery Unit site and brought up the Fugitive Stock page. I scrolled down till I found the entry I was looking for. "Peter 9 years old dark haired, slim, 62 lbs [28 kg] 4 ft 4 inches [1.33 cm] property of Mr Walter Burgeon reported missing on 8th July 2056. Mr Walter Burgeon, a citizen of the USA, interviewed in his suite at the Barribault's Hotel stated that they had first missed the boy at midday on the 7th of July but had assumed he had simply got lost and had spent all the rest of that day searching for him. Mrs Burgeon who was present at the interview was clearly distressed said they both hoped the boy had not been harmed. Under questioning the Burgeons admitted this was the second time Peter had absconded. The first time he had been abducted by his natural mother who had earlier unsuccessfully tried to challenge the validity of his Tribute status and they suspected the same had happened again…" and so on ending in the message in bold type and block capitals that had attracted my attention in the first place "SECOND ABSCONSION DOUBLE BOUNTY".

There was a great deal more of it including a photograph of the boy but that was more than enough to start me thinking. First the failure to report his absence to the authorities earlier, the woman's concern for his well being, the attempt to cover up the fact that this was the second time the ungrateful little turd had taken a runner in conjunction with what Peter had told us about how stupidly indulgent the Burgeons were to him, the expensive clothes they gave him, totally inappropriate for his servile status, clearly showed they were soft on the brat. Second an American citizen staying in a suite at the Barribault's Hotel simply screamed money and lots of it. Not all American citizens are rich but those that stayed at the super luxury Barribault's most certainly were.

Double bounty would be five hundred pounds [€550/$750] but the question that presented itself to me was whether Mr. Burgeon would be prepared to pay considerably more than that for Peter's safe and discrete return.

I thought that he almost certainly would especially if he was reminded of what Peter would suffer if he was returned to them, as he should be, through the courts; the deep incision behind the boy's balls and the insertion of the chip without anaesthetic and the savage caning. Avoiding these penalties would surely command a considerable premium over five hundred pounds [€550/$750]. Then of course I would be stepping outside the law and if I was caught doing so I might well be deprived of my licence as an Authorised Property Recovery Agent. I should certainly be compensated for taking that risk.

Taking one thing with another, considering the risks involved and the extra effort, I felt it would not be unreasonable to suggest a fee of say five thousand pounds [€5,500/$7,500].

But I had to be careful. Before I approached Mr.Burgeon I had to be sure that the authorities were not going to trace Peter to me. The only way they could do so was if his mother came forward and reported his snatching to the police. If she did so and provided them with a description of the people and the car involved it wouldn't take them long to identify me. She shouldn't do it. She after all was breaking the law herself attempting to abduct a lawfully tributed boy but one thing I had learnt in my journey through this vale of tears – you can never be sure of how a woman is going to behave.

However of one thing I could be reasonably certain. If there was a reported sighting of the boy by his mother or by anybody else it would be quickly included in an up date to his missing notice on the Agency's web site. If there was no mention of such a sighting within say the next three days I could be confident that Peter's mother had decided to behave sensibly and not to report the matter to the police.

That would of course mean keeping the boy more or less undercover for three days. The police would not be a problem. In my line of work I inevitably had a fare turn over of brats as I retrieved them and passed them back up the line for correction and returning to their proper owners. Unless they had some specific reason to think something was wrong they would leave me alone. More dangerous would be my trade rivals. They do tend to keep an eye on what I am up to and I am afraid not all of them are as honest as they might be and if they saw the chance of either edging me out of a deal or getting me into trouble with the police they would not hesitate to take it. And there was that photograph of Peter on his missing notice.

I sat at my desk chewing on a pencil thinking. Then the solution came to me. Spitting the fragments of wood out of my mouth I drew a pair of clippers and a boy sized metal collar from one of the drawers of the desk.. Shouting at Timmy who was back in the house busy in the kitchen to fetch a pail of water I went outside to the yard.

Peter was on his hands and knees in the cage with the door open vigorously scrubbing away at its floor. A large wooden baulk, weighing perhaps a little less than the boy's 62 lb [28 kg], was attached to his right ankle by a length of stout chain. Robert sat lounging at his ease on the punishment bench idly swinging a piece of rubber hosing. I had a good view of the brat's bum and it seemed from the look of it that Robert had already given him a fair working over with the hose.

"Get the slut over here Robert," I shouted.

"Move… You heard," Robert delivered a stinging blow across the boy's rump with the length of hose pipe. "Come on… Move."

Another blow thudded home.

Peter urged on by the vigorous application of the length of rubber hosing started off towards me only to be brought up short by the as the iron chain securing the block of wood to his ankle tightened.

"Pick the thing up you stupid little git," Robert shouted. This time the blow cracked down across the boy's narrow shoulders.

Peter bent forward straining to lift the heavy plank and presenting an inviting target that Robert did not ignore.

Eventually Peter was standing in front of me panting holding the block of wood, Robert standing just behind him grinning wickedly.

"Put it down boy," I ordered impatiently.

"Do as the man says… Come on…" This time Robert clouted the boy on the back of the head with his free hand.

Peter whimpered and stooping placed the baulk on the ground. He straightened automatically using his hands to cover his nakedness. I knocked them roughly apart.

"Down by your side boy," I snapped, don't go playing at being modest with me."

"Christ he's stupid," Robert remarked to me as I stepped back a pace to get a general look at the boy.

"Well," I said absently, "what do you expect… he's only a tribute boy after all."

Not at all bad, I thought looking at the boy, not at all bad, well put together, nicely proportioned, good strong legs, firm thighs, tight little rump, pretty face, soft generous lips. It was the first time I had looked at the brat as tribute stock rather than simply as potential money in the bank. Perhaps not class A but certainly very near. Of course there were faults. Perhaps he was just a little on the plump side. I pinched the skin covering his ribcage and prodded the side of his bum. Yes certainly he was carrying a little more flesh than he should ideally do as a tribute boy. No doubt a result of his being spoilt by his master – fed too much and not worked hard enough – and there was that pale band of flesh around his bottom. Still both of those faults could be corrected easily enough.

"Kneel," I ordered kicking at his ankles to hurry him up.

"Bring the bucket of water here Timmy." I pushed Peter's head forward so that it was bent over the pail.

"How many brats does your Dad have on the farm now," I asked Robert as I ran the clippers over the crown of the kneeling boy's head sending large clumps of dark hair into the water.

"Bout a dozen at the moment," Robert replied carelessly, "diesel's got so expensive now that Dad uses them rather than the tractor now when ever he can. He says it's amazing how much work you can get out of them if you drive them hard enough."

"So one more wouldn't stand out?" I asked.

"No. Fact he'd be glad of an extra one or two right now. We're lifting the main potato crop. Dad's already borrowed half a dozen from neighbouring farms."

"Why I ask," I explained as having finished shearing Peter I locked the metal collar round his neck, "is that I think I can get more money from this brat if I didn't follow the more usual procedures but to do that I need to put him somewhere where he won't be noticed for a few days and I though he would be most inconspicuous in with a whole crowd of other sluts. So I thought if your father would…"

A delighted grin split Robert's face.

"I can see you are pleased," I said dryly.

"Well the slut's such a good fuck Mr. Warwick," the lad said defensively. "Much better than Timmy. It was more difficult getting in him but once I was there he sort of gripped me like he was pulling me in."

"It was the first time for him while Timmy is used goods. It won't be long before he loosens up too."

"Well I mean to make the most of it before he does."

Chapter 3

"And there's another thing." I added becoming serious, "security. Your Dad will look after him won't he. I don't want him taking off again. It'd spoil everything if he did."

"That'll be all right Mr. Warwick. I'll get Dad to put him in with the other boys he's borrowed. He always specially careful with those cos he says it's really bad to use other peoples property and not be careful with it. They're chained at night and going to and from the fields and they're driven real hard all day long."

"OK" I said satisfied, "I'll get the clog off him and you can run him up to the farm. I'll fetch him in three days time."

"All right," I said a few minutes later when Peter was firmly attached to the back of Robert's bike with a leash from his collar, "let's see how fast you can make the slut run."

I landed a hard open handed slap on the boy's bare rump as Robert took off on the bike.

Three days passed without any mention of a sighting of Peter on the Web and certain that things were set right for my scheme I went to collect the brat from the farm.

I was met by the unmistakable sounds of a boy being flogged. The sharp crack of leather against bare flesh. The shrill screams of pain and desperate pleas for mercy and promises of reformation left no doubt as to the matter in hand. I tracked the noise down to its source to find Robert's father Charles busy thrashing a skinny boy of I should have thought about fourteen. He had strung the brat up his wrists from a beam in one of the barns and was laying into his naked body with a thick strap. Judging from the state of the boy's shoulders and bottom which were heavily bruised and oozing blood he had been at it for some time.

"Ah Richard" he said courteously pausing in his work to acknowledge me, "come to collect that brat of yours I suppose. If you wouldn't mind waiting just a few minutes while I finish with this thieving little turd,"

Reversing the strap and he brought the buckle end ripping down across the boy's already bloodied shoulders. The metal clasp splitting the brat's skin tore a livid gash across his back. Another blow laid a similar bloody stripe across the boy's rump.

A few seconds later the boy freed from his bonds was crouching whimpering on the ground. Charles sent on his way with a curse and a hefty boot up his bottom his sobs fading in the distance.

"Thieving from the swill bins again," Charles remarked grimly before adding. "You may laugh but every scrap of food filched by that scum means less for the pigs and less profit for me and nothing I do seems to stop them. The only thing that worked was sowing their lips up but that's been stopped by the bloody do gooders in the government. Not one of them knows what it's like to run a business."

"That's true enough Charles," I replied sympathetically, "if you ask me it all started to go down hill when they abolished skewering. Nothing like a good skewering or two every year to keep the brats in order. Of course it was cruel and it hurt, that's why it worked, it's the only thing they understand or respect. What we need is a government of practical businessmen which will restore the old ways of doing things and the old values."

"Well there we are," Charles said resignedly, "we'll just have to do the best we can and get on with things. Now if you like I'll run you out in the Land Rover to collect your brat. I've got them lifting potatoes in the top field."

We jolted and bumped our way up the farm track from the yard to the top field. It stretched out in front of us a large flat field set on the top of the hill behind the farm It seemed that the greater part of the brats on the place was working there. A team of four hefty youths, harnessed in pairs one behind the other, lent forward into their traces, sweat glistening on their naked limbs, straining every muscle to draw a broad many tongued rake whose tangs bit deep into the bare earth. A man trudged slowly after them shouting encouragement a heavy whip in his right hand ready to give added force to his words. Behind on their hands and knees wicker panniers strapped to their backs, crawled a dozen or so smaller mud stained boys grovelling in the broken soil with their bare hands, gathering potatoes. Every now and again one of these boys would scramble to his feet and staggering slightly under the weight of his full pannier, run and empty it into a cart that stood near the field gate before returning to his place on the line. All youths and boys were stark naked. Robert and another youth, whom I recognized as being the son of a neighbouring farm, armed with short leather straps strolled slowly to and fro behind the line of labouring boys holding them to their task.

Robert saw me and waived. Charles drove the 4x4 over to where he stood.

"We've come to collect Mister Warwick's brat," he told his son.

"Let me see," Robert said running his eyes over the line of deeply tanned bottoms that the labouring boys presented to us. "This is the one."

He pounced on a boy and grabbing hold of him by the ear, pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to us. Three days working in the fields had changed Peter. It had fined him down, there was not an ounce of surplus fat on him, the outline of his ribcage clearly visible. In addition, so far as I could see under the mud and general grime, which were extensive, the band of pale flesh about his middle had disappeared and he was tanned an even deep brown all over. There was also some more intangible change in the way the boy carried himself and in his general attitude but before I could try to analyse it I was distracted by an outbreak of shouting followed by the sharp crack of the whip and a squeal of pain.

The team of four youths drawing the rake were frantically lunging forward against the traces, bent almost double with effort, bare feet and hands scrabbling to get a purchase, as their driver cursed and lashed at their straining bodies with the whip. Despite all their efforts the rake would not move forward.

"Hang on," Charles shouted, "Ease them off. They'll break one of the tangs if they pull like that."

He hurried over to see what was wrong and I went with him. The rake had run up against a large boulder set in the earth and it took some time to clear it out of the way.

When I turned back to Peter I saw he had remained where we had left him but had hunkered down on the ground and was kneeling with his knees wide apart his left hand busy in his crutch while he explored the scrubby clumps of grass in front of him with his right hand. Even as I watched he found a large black slug which he popped into his mouth and swallowed.

I gave a short laugh.

"Disgusting little brutes aren't they?" Charles said, "you can try to stop them but it won't work. It's just the way they are."

He misinterpreted my laugh I was not shocked by the boy's behaviour just a little surprised that he had changed so much in a mere three days.

"Up," I said prodding the boy in the bottom with my toe.

The brat scrambled to his feet and stood head bowed in front of me. I noticed with approval that this time he made no effort to cover himself with his hands.

"Though he's not a bad looking little animal," Charles remarked. "We had some problems with Robert trying to sneak him into the house at night. You know how my wife feels about having brats from the fields in the house and quite right too, Filthy little beasts, God knows what diseases they'd bring with them and of course they thieve too."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Oh I told Robert to take the slut up to the granary and fuck him there. That's what I used to do when I was his age."

I grabbed Peter by the chin and tipped his head back. I could see nothing in his eyes, no anger, no resentment, nothing except fear and acceptance. I spat into his face. The gobbet of saliva landed on his forehead. I released my grip on his chin and he bowed his head again. He made no attempt to wipe away the spittle that dribbled down his face.

"I'll give you a lift back down to the farm," Charles offered, "you can put the slut in the back of the Land Rover with the dogs."

Peter was so docile and quiet that I did not bother to put him on the leash but simply walked him back to my cottage with him padding quietly along barefooted behind me.

The first thing I did when I got him back to the cottage was to set to work with a bar of soap and a bucket of hot water cleaning the boy up. He really wasn't in at all a bad condition. If you looked closely you could see of course that there were plenty of bruises on him especially across his shoulders and on his bum. However his deeply tanned skin did much to disguise their presence. There were a few scars from old cuts but nothing too bad or noticeable or likely to result in permanent marking. Robert had clearly enjoyed his bottom a few times and his anus was a little looser but there was no sign of tearing,

I took him into my study seating myself near my desk and taking the cattle prod from its drawer made him kneel in front of me, knees wide apart, arms down by his side, bum pressed down so that it and his balls were as near as possible touching the floor, back straight and head bowed,. When I was satisfied with his posture I leaned forward and rapped him hard on the top of his head with my knuckles.

"Listen boy," I said and hit him again.

I am a great believer in the old adage that when you are telling a brat something you hit him twice once to get his attention, the second time to keep it.

"Maybe you are going to be a very lucky boy. If Mister and Missis Burgeon are willing to pay me a great deal of money I will return you to them and you can go back to being a thoroughly spoilt little brat."

"But on the other hand you will be a very unlucky boy if they are not willing to pay me. That would seriously piss me off and after I had finished hurting you and that would not be for some time I would hand you over to the police to be punished as a runaway slave boy and they will hurt you even worse."

"So you see it's very much in your interest as well as mine that Mister and Missis Burgeon do buy you from me."

"You do see that don't you boy?"

The brat nodded and I slapped him.

"Answer me boy. You have a tongue in your head. You do see that don't you boy?"

"Master please Master yes Master."

For some reason the brat seemed to be on the verge of tears but I persevered patiently.

"Now I am going to telephone Mister Burgeon and discuss this deal with him and quite possibly when I do so he will want to speak to you to make certain that you are really here and when you speak to him you will tell him that you are well and enjoying yourself and being kindly treated and if you don't do that," I hit him again to give added force to my words, "I will hurt you very, very badly. Do you understand?"

"Yes Master."

"And just to give you a taste of what you would get… do you know what this is?"

I picked up the cattle prod.

"No Master."

I slapped him across the side of his face.

"Don't ever use that word to a free citizen you ghastly little shit," I snarled at him.

"And get back in position… Back straight, hands behind your head."

"So you don't know what this is. You have led a sheltered life haven't you? Well I'll show you."

I lent forward and pushed the tip of the prod under his little hairless balls.

"Look up. Look at me boy."

I smiled down into his face. He gave a little sob and I pushed the button in the handle of the prod.

As the charge jolted him his body arched and he went down on his side. A pool of amber liquid formed where he lay.

"You peed yourself you dirty little beast," I said half laughing at his discomfiture. "just as well there's no carpet. That's a taste of what you will get if you disappoint me. Now back on your knees."

I reached for the telephone and asked directory enquiries for the number of the Barribault's Hotel.

The mention of Mr Burgeon's, name produced a further access of deference from an already excessively deferential telephonist and a promise to put me through to the 'Faberge Suite.'

"Hello Walter Burgeon. speaking," a man's voice with just a hint of an American accent came on the line.

"Ah Mister Burgeon," I began, "My name is Richard Warwick."

I had decided there was no point in hiding my identity. What I was proposing was against the strict letter of the law. If Burgeon went along with it he was in it with me. If he didn't go along with it there would be no witnesses to my suggestion and I would deny ever having made it. Either way nothing would be gained by keeping my identity secret and providing it would give Burgeon an opportunity to check my credentials if he so wished.

"I am an agent with the Property Recovery Unit," I continued, "and I am glad to be able to inform you that I have found your boy, Peter."

"Why that's excellent news Mister Warwick. Just wait a moment while I tell my wife."

"Betty, Betty they've found Pete."

Cries of female delight filtered down the telephone.

"Is he all right Mister Warwick. He's not been injured in anyway has he?"

"He's fine, in excellent health thoroughly enjoying a little holiday in the country."

"Good my wife Betty will be pleased and I am pleased as well of course. We're both very fond of the boy. How soon can we have him back?"

"He is indeed a delightful boy Mister Burgeon we are all very fond of him here but as for having him back there is a slight problem."

"What's that?" The man's voice was suddenly wary.

"Well you see Mister Burgeon charming boy though your Peter is he hasn't behaved very well in the past. Running away twice… That puts him in rather serious a position. The courts over here take a very strict line in such cases … A very strict line indeed."

"I know that but I thought the authorities might be persuaded to take a more lenient line in this instance. The boy's mother, who has never accepted his tributing was behind it. It made it very difficult for the boy. And perhaps together with a word from the Ambassador whom I know slightly… ."

"I'm afraid involving the Ambassador might well be counter productive," I cut in. "It could be seen by the Courts as political interference and that could well make them even tougher than they usually are. And it is the courts, specifically in Peter's case the Central Westminster Tribunal which I am afraid is about the most severe in the country, that will decide the matter."

"But if the boy was just brought straight to us and we immediately took him back to the States then the courts will not be involved at all."

"That would be one solution Mister Burgeon but unfortunately the boy is now in my custody and as an agent of the Property Recovery Unit I am bound under oath to surrender all defaulters I apprehend and Peter I am afraid falls in that category, to a properly authorised officer of the appropriate court. Failure to do so would compromise my integrity, and in addition make me liable both to a large fine and dismissal from my office."

"I would imagine you put a fairly high value on your integrity Mister Warwick?"

There was an undertone of sarcasm in the man's voice that I resented. I resolved to up my price. After all for a man who was staying in the Faberge Suite at Barribault's and who counted the American Ambassador among his personal friends a thousand pounds or so one way or another would hardly be a material sum.

"Do you know what they do to a two time runaway when they catch him Mister Burgeon? In the not too distant past they would skewer the brat but now we have gone all humane. First they tag him and they do that by cutting deep into him behind the balls and inserting the chip and then cauterising the incision with a hot iron. And they do that without any anaesthetic at all. Then they thrash him thirty six strokes are quite common, but again we are a humane and caring people, the maximum number of strokes at any one time is six and there is a minimum gap of a week between floggings. Have you seen one of our judicial canes – about 4 feet [1.20 m] long as thick as my thumb – it cuts into a boy's flesh like a knife into butter."

"All right Mister Warwick… How much is that integrity of yours worth?"

"Seven Thousand Five Hundred [€8,500/$11,500]."

Chapter 4

"You can have a word with the boy now. I have him here right beside me."

I held the phone out to the brat with one hand and showed him the cattle prod with the other.

"Dad," the slut said.

My mouth dropped in surprise. That a Tribute Brat should address a free citizen, let alone his owner, as anything other than 'Master' was unprecedented. But then I told myself I should have known to expect it, or something very like it. The whole relationship between the Burgeons and Peter was so unnatural and subversive that I shouldn't have been surprised.

"I'm all right Dad."

Then with a quick glance at me, "I'm being treated very well Dad…"

"Dad please give the man the money so I can come home."

I reached out and took the phone from him.

"Well Mister Burgeon are you satisfied?"

"Yes but seven thousand five hundred is rather on the high side."

The man was pissing me off trying to bargain with me when all I was trying to do was to help him and make just a little for myself while I did so.

I thrust the tip of the prod into Peter's crutch. I saw the boy's eyes widen with fear. This time he did not pee himself, probably because he had only just emptied his bladder, but he did scream loudly.

"All right. All right seven thousand five hundred it is."

Typical, I thought, no moral fibre, cracking straight away, not putting up any sort of fight. I was truth to tell a little disappointed I had rather enjoyed using the prod on the boy.

"Right get the money in fifty pounds notes and be with at the Reading West Bound Services on the M4 by 4.30 pm tomorrow afternoon with your mobile switched on and I'll give you further instructions then. Don't try to be clever because if you do I will hurt Peter very badly. Now give me your mobile number."

Now I had only to make arrangements for the exchange of the boy for cash. I didn't think that would be much of a problem. I was sure I was big enough and tough enough to deal with anything the Burgeons might try and they would not involve anyone else because they were themselves proposing to circumvent the law. I simply booked over the Internet a room at the Reading Services Travel Lodge because I thought the job should be done somewhere quiet and without witnesses.

This done I told Peter to fetch a bucket of water and scrub the floor boards where he had peed himself. I lent back in my chair watching the boy as he scrubbed the floor. Amazing I thought looking at the kneeling brat – seven thousand five hundred pounds for that. He was a good enough looking slut but the world was full of such animals. You could get something as good or indeed quite a bit better for a hundred quid or a little bit less at any half decent boy auction.

Still he was nice to look at and then I became aware of that nebulous change in him that I had noticed but had not been able to identify when I had collected him from the farm. It was that he had become acutely aware of his own body not in the self conscious sort of way that you sometimes found in free boys but simply in a physical way as something with the potential to feel and to give pleasure.

And then I realized he knew I had my eye on him. As he worked he would every now and again steal a glance at me. I had not noticed at first because he did not look up into my face but at my crutch. And there was a subtle but noticeable change in the way he held and moved his body. His body had an animal vibrancy that it had earlier lacked. He moved it more and whether instinctively or on purpose, he moved it provocatively.

He shuffled backwards on his knees and in doing so managed to give a pert little wriggle to his bottom.

"Leave it slut," I said standing up, "it's time you felt what it was like to have a man sized cock inside you."

Placing a hand on his shoulder I guided him upstairs and into my bedroom.

He needed no instructions. No doubt he had learnt a great deal of what was required of a slut from Robert over the previous three days. Turning to face me he dropped to his knees his fingers fumbling with the clasp of my belt. In a moment he had my trousers and underpants down round my knees. I saw his eyes widen in momentary surprise and alarm as my cock freed from the clothes that encumbered it jutted upright swollen and demanding, a few inches from his face. I was not particularly well endowed but no doubt, compared to Robert's youthful prick and balls with his sparse crop of pubic hair, my own gnarled and vein ribbed member rising from a thick forest of coarse dark hair that covered my crutch and belly and heavy well filled scrotum appeared formidable enough.

His hesitation however was only minimal. Leaning forward he ran his tongue along the full length of my cock from its root in the dark pubic forest at is base to the swollen slit at its top. He licked the beads of pre-cum that were welling from my urethra. He hunkered back on his heels for a moment swallowing. Then he took the tip of my cock between his lips. Grabbing him by the ears I pulled him towards me at the same time thrusting forward with my hips, driving my cock down into his throat. I felt his gullet convulse around my member, fighting against its intrusion. I held it there until I felt his body begin to go slack. I withdrew my cock, not fully out of his mouth but enough to let him breath, before thrusting forward again. I fucked the boy's mouth and throat as he choked and spluttered in his efforts to accommodate my pounding rod. It was clear he was suffering but that as always served only to increase my excitement.

I knew I was about to climax. I pulled my cock from his mouth and grabbing him under the arms threw him on his back onto the bed.

I knew I should perhaps spend time greasing my cock and greasing and loosening up his hole but I was aroused and saw no reason to postpone my pleasure. My cock was wet with the slut's saliva and that was all the lubrication it was going to get.

I grabbed the boy's ankles and forced them back so that he was lying on his back, his bottom raised, his knees either side of his head. This is one of my favourite ways to take boys, especially young inexperienced ones, as you can see the fear and pain in their faces as you penetrate them.

I looked down into the slut's face as I prepared to enter him enjoying seeing the delicious mixture of trepidation and lust in his eyes. I smiled and prizing the lips of his anus apart with my thumbs inserted the tip of my cock. Transferring my grip to his ankles I lunged forward with my hips. The boy gasped as the pain hit him. The sluts cries only served to further arouse me. I hammered away at his bottom slowly, inch by inch, driving my prick deeper into his guts as the boy whimpered and moaned. His eyes glazed over, his cries became less of pain than of lust. I felt his guts clamped tight around my member seeming to try to draw it deeper into himself. At last I was fully sheathed in the brat. I thrust forward one last time and held it there as I came shooting my cum again and again into his guts.

For a moment I lay on the boy panting for breath. Then I stood up freeing my cock. I could see his hole oozing cum and other liquids. I grabbed him by the ankles holding them back over his head and shouted for Timmy. I didn't want the duvet to be stained.

There was the sound of bare feet padding up the stairs. Timmy entered the room and I nodded at Peter's upturned and soiled bottom. Timmy needed no further encouragement. He dropped to his knees and began sucking and licking noisily at the other slut's hole.

When I was satisfied the worst of the filth had been removed I released Peter's ankles and sat down on the bed. Timmy seeing his chance transferred his attentions to my prick. I batted him away and pulled Peter's head into my crutch. I felt that as it was his hole I had fucked he might as well complete the job. Timmy making the best of a bad job so far as he was concerned picked himself up off the floor and buried his head once again in the other slut's bottom. No doubt he thought there was a chance that some of my cum was still lodged inside Peter.

The next morning I kicked the two brats out of my bed and lay there feeling pleasantly drowsy. There was no particular hurry . If I set off by half past ten in the morning I would make Reading at about three in the afternoon allowing for a stop for lunch. In fact we got away a trifle earlier. This time I didn't put Peter in the cage in the boot. I didn't think it was necessary. After all he knew he was being taken back to Mr and Mrs Burgeon who spoiled him abominably. He had no reason to run away. Even if that had not been so I doubt if I would have bothered, he seemed to have accepted so completely his servile status. I therefore allowed him to travel kneeling beside me on the floor of the car with the passenger seat pushed right back. It would of course have been unthinkable to allow him, as a tribute boy, to sit on the passenger seat. I had to admit looking down at him kneeling naked beside me that, with his close cropped hair, lithe young body and deeply tanned skin, he looked the picture of a well schooled tribute brat.

Passing the farm I saw Robert. I stopped the car and rolled the passenger window to talk to him. He rested his hand on the door and bent down to speak to me.

"Hello Mister taking the slut back are you?"

Peter looked up and smiled shyly at the free boy.

"Yes," I replied, "I'll be handing him over at five pm. or thereabouts."

"I'm sorry he's going. He's about the best slut for fucking I've ever had."

Peter's smile widened at this complement and bending his head he brushed the back of Robert's hand with his lips.

"Well I'm going to make quite a bit of cash out of the deal. Maybe enough to make a decent contribution to the cost of that mountain bike you were on about."

"That'd be great," he said brightening but then added after a moment's thought, "still I'll miss the little whore."

Gently disengaging his hand he fondly tweaked the brat's ear and I put the car into gear and drove off.

I stopped for lunch at Liegh Delamere services. The service areas on our motorways are vastly improved on what by all the descriptions I have read where grubby overpriced places designed solely to extract from those unfortunate enough to have to use them the maximum amount of money for the minimum amount of effort. The great oil crisis more than halved the number of people on the road. Faced with a sudden catastrophic fall in demand the service operators had to both improve quality and find new ways to attract customers.

Thus the first thing you see on entering the service building is no longer a grotty Smith's selling cheap paper backs and grubby magazines staffed by East European girls with minimal English but a brightly illuminated Brathel, a branch of a chain of similar establishments now trading through out the length and breadth of the United Kingdom pounding out loud music with its proud boast in flashing neon light that it was impossible to miss "ALL STOCK GUARANTEED CLEAN AND DECEASE FREE."

A stage ran along its front with four pairs of high quality naked brats gyrating lasciviously round poles, the ever changing coloured lights thrown by the spots glistening richly on their oiled and burnished skins. I was particularly struck by a Negro girl. Maybe fourteen years old with a round firm bottom and hard young breasts whose jet black body seemed to pulse with energy and lust. It was clear I was not alone in admiring her for an assistant came out onto the stage and led her away no doubt to give pleasure to a paying customer. Immediately she left the stage another girl of much the same age, this time however a golden blonde, took her place at the pole.

I moved on to the restaurant. This was still self service but it was spacious clean and well furnished instead of the soggy chips and burgers or chicken tikka that from all accounts had formed the basic diet of motorists in the past it served a variety of simple but well cooked dishes. I chose steak and kidney pie with all the trimmings and a pint of beer (the prohibition on serving alcoholic drinks at service stations had long gone) and leaving Peter at the counter to bring it to me when it was ready I seated myself at a table

I watched Peter thread his way through the tables towards me carrying with infinite care a large tray, a frown of intense concentration on his young face. It was striking how naturally and well he was learning the skills of a serving boy. I thought too how very good he looked. I was not the only person to do so for I saw a few heads turn as he passed. Indeed it is strange how a pretty naked boy can still attract attention. The Tribute system has now been in operation for more than fifty years so you might have thought people would by now have become accustomed to the sight. His little prick standing erect its tip, wobbling slightly as he walked, indicated that the boy was aware of and was excited by the interest he was attracting.

He placed the tray on the table. I was pleased to see he had not spilt any of my beer. I was tired from driving and didn't want to have to get out of my chair to chastise him for his clumsiness.

"You've got most of the men here imagining their cocks up your arse," I told the boy fondling his balls as he lifted the contents of the tray onto the table.

He blushed and smiled.

I pointed to the floor indicating that he was to kneel.

"Knees wide apart, back straight, shoulders back, hands clasped behind your head," I instructed him.

It would be tiring for him to maintain the stance for any length of time, especially with his hand behind his head but it showed him off well and I took a modest pride in having, if only for a short time, the services of a good looking and apparently well trained tribute brat. There was also a chance I would be able to make a few quid out of the brat before I turned him over to the Burgeons.

"Arch your back," I ordered, "you've got a nice tight little bum show it off."

I settled down to enjoy my lunch. There was plenty of time to reach the Reading services by say 3pm and I did not hurry myself. Some people feed their brats scraps of food from their plate but I think this is a slovenly practice and deplore it. Of course the brat was hungry. Like all brats he was naturally greedy and would have wanted more food however much you gave him. But he had started the day with a bowl of maize porridge and I had no intention of spoiling him. Anyway eating my meal under the brat's hungry and envious gaze rather increased my enjoyment of the food.

"You're a natural boy tart," I told him between mouthfuls, "You've got no sense of shame… Look at you with your cock all stiff for everyone to see. .. You like having men looking at you and fucking your boy cunt in their minds… You'd like it even more if they were really inside you… Remember last night whore moaning and sobbing for it and you're aching for cock now…"

I wanted him hot and I wanted him so that anyone looking at him could see he was hot and taking into account his parted lips, his glazed eyes and his hard quivering little prick I think I did succeed in this.

I was about half way through my meal when I was interrupted by a middle aged rather plump man approaching me. I had noticed him earlier. He was part of a group of four men, business men by the look of them, lunching together at a neighbouring table who had shown a considerable interest in Peter; looking at the brat and then talking to each other and laughing.

"Excuse me Sir," he said, "I have been telling my friends over there," and he gestured at the table from which he had come and his three now widely grinning companions, "how much I fancy that little slut of yours and they said why don't I ask you if you'd let me have a loan of him? My name by the way is Paul Soames."

"Richard Warwick," I said rising from the table and extending my hand, "Ten pounds'll get you a blow job but you'll have to make it snappy because I have to get on."

"It wasn't so much a blow job as fucking the little whore's bottom I was thinking of Richard."

"The problem there is that I am handing the slut over to someone else later on this afternoon and I can't risk delivering him with a fractured sphincter."

"Well that's a pity Sir. It's my birthday and each of my friends said they put ten pounds [€11/$15] into a kitty to pay for this little treat for me and I'd be prepared to add twenty to that of my own money."

I hesitated. It was true I could hardly risk having the brat badly torn but fifty pounds [€55/$75] was fifty pounds and I didn't want to pass it up. It would have been different of course if I hadn't arranged to hand him over to the Burgeons that afternoon and in particular if seven thousand five hundred pounds had not been riding on that deal. It was that seven thousand five hundred that made me pause. If that hadn't been at stake I would have let the fellow have the boy and worried about repairing any damage afterwards.

"It isn't," Paul said sensing my uncertainty, "as though I'm specially large or anything. Just average. Why the little tart will hardly notice I'm in him."

"No offence," I replied, "but it's easy for ou to say that. For all I know you may be hung like an elephant."

"Tell you what," the man countered, "You and the slut come with me and I'll hire a cubicle in the brathel and you come in it with us and have a look and if things are as I say I'll give you the fifty quid and I'll have the boy's bottom and if they're not I'll pay you ten pounds and just fuck his mouth."

It meant interrupting my lunch but I was prepared to do that for fifty pounds,

"That sounds a very reasonable proposition," I said standing up.

"Come on slut," I prodded Peter in the bottom with the toe of my shoe, "you've got work to do."

Peter who had been kneeling, a silent witness to the negotiations over his services, scrambled hastily to his feet.

"If you don't mind we'll stop by my table for a minute so we can collect their contributions from my friends."

I guided the naked boy over to the table with a hand on his bare shoulder. He stood silent with bowed head as the man collected his money. There was a fair amount of raucous humour when they learnt that the deal was dependent on their friend not being over large. This in turn generated some broad jokes about splitting the brat's arse which amused them but made Peter tremble – which only of course increased our merriment.

At the Brathel Paul paid five pounds [€5.50/$7.50] which was the charge for the use of a cubicle for half an hour. Designed to accommodate an adult and one or two brats it was pretty crowded with both Paul and myself not to mention Peter inside it but we some how managed to squash in and pull the curtain across the doorway. The cubicles on either side were occupied and even the music blaring in the background did not completely drown the sound of creaking bed springs, frenzied moans and hoarse panting coming from them.

Paul unzipped his trousers and lifted up his shirt. Peter whimpered and tried to back away from the man. I looked at the man's genitals. They did not strike me as all that formidable though admittedly larger than mine. Of course I reminded myself it was the boy's bottom not thank heavens mine in which that swollen and cruelly curved rod was to be sheathed so naturally he regarded it from a somewhat different standpoint. The mere fact that the brat was going to suffer some passing discomfort was no good reason to my mind for my passing up an opportunity to make fifty quid. On the other hand I didn't want to prejudice the much larger sum of seven thousand five hundred pounds I was due to receive when I handed him over to the Burgeons.

"It looks all right to me," I said to Paul but just to be on the safe side I'd like to get a view of it when it is fully erect."

Paul moved his hands to stroke it into life.

"No, no," I said laughing, "let the brat get his lips round it. That'll be quicker and more fun."

Putting my hand on the back of Peter's head I pushed him down onto his knees so that his face was a few inches from the man's crutch.

"Take it in your mouth boy and suck it," I ordered impatiently. "You know what to do."

Peter took one agonized glance over his shoulder at me. I glared at him and raised my hand menacingly and he bent his head to the task..

"Grab him by the ears and pull him right down on it if you want," I suggested to Paul. "He'll manage it perfectly well if he has to."

Peter gagged and moaned as the man drove his rod down into his throat.

I waited until I saw the boy's shoulders slump.

"Better pull it back now and let him breath or he'll loose consciousness and it's not half as much fun then."

I tried and just failed to put encircle the man's cock with my finger and thumb attempting gauge its size and its possible effect on the boy. It was, I had to admit, a good deal thicker and longer than mine but I reminded myself that young flesh and muscles are remarkably elastic.

"OK," I said, "I'll take the fifty quid now."

Peter began to cry and I clipped him on the side of the head to shut him up. Of course it was going to hurt him but what was the point of his crying. I had said the man could fuck his bottom and that was the end of it. If he thought his crying would change my mind he was peculiarly stupid even for a tribute brat.

"Bring him back to the restaurant when you've finished with him. Now I'm off to finish my meal."

As I left the Brathel a series of shrill squeals came from the curtained cubicle. Paul I thought was clearly enjoying himself. I hoped he felt he was getting value for money.

Ten minutes later I was just clearing my plate when Paul returned pushing the brat in front of him. Paul was smiling contentedly and looked relaxed. The boy's eyes were red and his face tearstained and he was walking with a slight waddle. Seeing them Paul's three friends whooped and hammered on their table. Paul gave them a thumbs up and came across to me pushing Peter in front of him.

"Everything go al right?" I asked.

"Fine thank you fine. He yelled a bit but I had a look after I finished with him and there was hardly any blood."

"Don't worry," I said, "typical slut makes a fuss about anything. I'm just glad you had a good time."

He smiled and thanked me again before returning to his friends.

"Go and get me an apple charlotte with cream not custard and a filter coffee and try to walk like a boy not a bloody duck," I snapped at Peter.

When Peter returned I had him bend over so that I could check his bottom. As I had expected there was no sign of any lasting damage. Of course it was a bit sore and red but that only was to be expected.

Chapter 5

On the way back to the car we passed a small raucous crowd, mainly made up of free boys but with a few adults among them, watching the fun at the 'swill bin' enclosure just outside the entry to the services building. This was a fairly recent innovation that I had read about in the news papers but had not previously seen in operation. It was the brain child of some bright young executive who put together the existence of wasted food from the restaurant and the need of travellers to feed their sluts and came up with a profitable solution. The idea was that for five pence [5€c/8 cents] a slut should be allowed to eat as much as it could in five minutes of the restaurant slops.

There was a row of cattle troughs filled with the waste from the restaurant, vegetables, meat, gravy, fragments of pudding, scrapings from saucepans all mixed up in an indiscriminate steaming mess. It looked pretty unappetizing to me but the brats seemed to be very keen on it. To avoid serious fights they had had their hands secured behind their backs with plastic ties. All you could see of them were their bare bottoms stuck up in the air wriggling vigorously as they jostled for food, their heads buried in the troughs.

Two one side of the troughs stood a couple of free youths holding, that very useful disciplinary aid when dealing with the young, short lengths of rubber hosing, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings Every now and again a dispute would flare up among the brats over some particularly succulent scrap. There would be squeals and snarling with bared teeth and biting. Then the supervisors would wade in with their lengths of hosing, breaking up the fight, raining heavy blows on the sluts' naked bodies. Occasionally two or even three brats would fasten their teeth in a single fragment of meat and they would tug and twist at it. their knees scrabbling on the ground, their bottoms forced back as they strained against each other with all their strength.

Peter, who had followed me out of the restaurant crept close up to me pressing his body against me. I glanced down at him and saw his eyes gazing up at me pleadingly.

Normally such behaviour would have got him a clout on the side of the head and a good cussing. I've been around too long to be over much impressed by half starved brats making eyes at me. Nor did I approve of the 'swill bin' concept. It seemed pretty steep to me that having paid for my own meal at the restaurant I should be expected to pay all over again for my brat to eat my scraps. I don't think the efforts and sacrifices of those of us who choose to take responsibility for a brat are always sufficiently appreciated. Quite apart from the not inconsiderable expense of feeding the greedy little brutes and getting the vet to them when they are ill or injured we have the bother of training and the constant struggle to discipline and motivate them. If we didn't undertake these duties civilisation as we know it would be swamped by the vermin. And all we get in return for our efforts is the service we can exact from the idle little beasts. I have as I have already said been about too long to expect gratitude from anyone but I do think I might have been spared being obliged to pay twice to feed the little turd.

However on this occasion, although I do not underestimate the usefulness of hunger as a means of keeping the servile population docile, I could see it would make a bad impression if Peter collapsed at the very moment I was handing him over to the Burgeons And while I resented having to pay at all for the brat's food the 'swill bin' did represent the cheapest available option. After all I told myself as I felt in my pocket for a five pence coin you had to deal with the world as it is not as it should be.

"Oh Master Thank You Master," Peter cried as I pressed the tiny coin into his hand.

He bent and brushed my fingers with his lips before darting eagerly over to the entry to the 'swill bin' enclosure. The man there took the money from the boy. He secured his wrists behind his back with a plastic tie and then led him over to the cattle troughs. He stood there holding the boy by the collar with one hand looking at the large clock above them.

As the minute hand came round he released his hold on the boy landing a sharp open handed slap on his bare bottom with his free hand. Peter dropped to his knees and bored in among the other brats around the trough. All I could see of him was his naked rump stuck up in the air and his bare shoulders and head pushed down into the trough.

"That slut has been fucked really hard," one of the free boys standing near me remarked.

Indeed Peter's hole looked inflamed and rather sore.

Once his five minutes was up one of the free youths grabbed Peter by the collar and hauled him away from the trough. Peter stood, busy trying to clear the food from around his mouth with his tongue, as his wrists were untied.

There was a bucket of cold water and a sponge by the entry to the 'swill bin' and I cleaned the last fragments of swill off his face and chest before leading him back to the car.

We arrived at Reading services shortly after half past three. I took the bottle of whisky from the glove compartment where I keep it for emergencies. It was likely that I would have some time to wait and I could do with a drink.

I signed us into the Travel Lodge.

I smiled as I saw Peter's prick begin to stiffen at the sight of the double bed. The little whore was just about permanently in heat.

I checked my watch. He was no doubt still sore from his time with Paul but that was of no consequence. We had time and the thought of restoring the slut to the doting Burgeons with his guts stuffed with my cum appealed to me.

"Go on boy," I said pushing him towards the bed, "get down on that with your bum in the air."

I dropped my trousers and spitting into the palm of my hand smeared my already swollen cock with saliva. No doubt there would be a tube of lubricant somewhere about but I did nt waste time searching for it. I wanted the slut to remember this fuck for a very long time.

I drove hard down into the boy who squealed with pain.. His sphincter briefly resisted my assault but excited by the slut's cries I hammered my way past it, forcing my rigid member deeper and deeper into his guts. The boy's shrill howls diminished in volume to a low lust filled moaning interrupted by occasional broken pleas to go deeper and harder.

Then there was a roaring in my head, the blood surged in my loins and shot my seed deep inside the boy.

I would have liked to take my time with the boy and judging from the murmur of protest he made when I pulled my penis from him he too was ready for more of the same but as always business had to come before pleasure.

After I had allowed him to lick the semen, blood and filth from my cock I sent him into the bathroom to clean himself up and stay there until I called him. I didn't want to present him to the Burgeons leaking cum from his hole.

I sat down in the desk chair poured myself a generous whisky and pulled out my cell phone. The moment when I was going to be seven thousand five hundred pounds better off was becoming tantalizingly close.

I called Walter Burgeon and gave him my room number. Soon afterwards both he and his wife appeared. I looked them over as I let them into the room. He was a small wiry man who looked like a college professor at some inferior provincial university. She was large and motherly. Neither looked as though they were capable of presenting me with a problem. The most interesting thing about the pare of them was so far as I was concerned the small leather brief case that the man carried.

"You've got the money?" I asked once I had them seated side by side on the settee.

"Yes but where is Peter?" the man replied visibly tightening his grip on the case that he cradled on his knees.

"I have Peter. He is well and I will produce him once I have seen and checked the cash."

Burgeon hesitated and looked questioningly at his wife. She nodded and wordlessly he held the brief case out to me. I took it from him and flipped it open. It was filled with rows of neatly packed fifty pound notes. I riffled through them not so much counting them as checking there was no padding out with newspaper or anything similar.

It looked all right to me.

"Peter," I shouted.

The bath room door opened and the boy sidled out.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Peter you poor dear boy…," Missis Burgeon gasped.

Walter Burgeon said nothing but glared angrily at me.

I looked at the boy. I was frankly puzzled. I could see nothing in his appearance to warrant such strong reactions. He was naked of course and he had a few bruises on him but you would find very few brats who were totally unmarked. In fact I thought he looked rather good and I was glad to see he instinctively kept his hands down by his sides and made no attempt to cover himself. That was one lesson at least he had learnt.

Anyway what the Burgeons thought and why they thought it was a matter of total indifference to me. I had the money and might as well be on my way. Holding the brief case I pushed Peter to one side and opened the door out onto the corridor.

And was faced by a woman pointing a small automatic at my stomach.

"Mum," Peter exclaimed behind me.

"Yes Peter," Mister Burgeon said from his place on the settee, "your mother. As soon as you were grabbed from her she came to us. She like us loves you and like us she wants above all what is best for you. She thought we would do better working together rather than against each other."

"That's right darling," the woman said, "and I thought that whoever had grabbed you would sooner or later approach the Burgeons I might get news of you from them and even help to get you back."

The two women were as sweet and as cloying as two marshmallows soaked in syrup.

"I'm sorry we couldn't help you sooner dearest," Mrs B chipped in, "but until this ghastly little man produced you we had no idea where you were."

"And now we have you there is no reason at all why he should be allowed to make any money out of his dirty little trade," Peter's Mum said nastily.

"Put the brief case down on the floor and go away," she continued speaking to me.

I rather resented these references to 'ghastly little' men and 'dirty little' trades. I had after all gone to some considerable trouble and incurred not a little expense in acquiring and looking after the slut for them. I felt they could at least show a modicum of gratitude for my efforts. However, though it was a small revolver, its muzzle looked quite large and was just a couple of feet from my stomach so I did not protest.

Then it struck me how ridiculous the whole situation was. People simply do not shoot each other in the Travel Lodge at Reading Services, not in broad daylight or indeed any other time of the day or night. It was too public a place for so essentially a private transaction.

I had the brief case with the money. The Burgeons were sitting the length of the room away from me on the settee. They were effectively out of things. The only person between me and the door was Peter's mother.

"I'm going," I said and putting out my hand pushed her hand holding the revolver away.

Something crashed down on the back of my head. There was a moment of intense pain and I knew no more.

Apart from a blinding headache the first thing I was aware of was the strong stink of whisky. That puzzled me. I couldn't immediately remember much but I was pretty certain I had not been hitting the bottle that hard.

Gingerly I opened one eye. I was lying on the bedroom floor whisky soaking into the carpet under me. I sat up. The broken whisky bottle was lying on the ground beside me. There was no sign of the Burgeonss or of Peter or of his mother or indeed of the brief case packed with money.

I became aware that it was not only my head that was hurting. My ribs were sore and my face felt swollen and battered. I dragged myself to my feet and staggered across to the mirror. Dried blood caked my face. I had a black eye and a split lip. Somebody had put the boot into me after I had been knocked to the floor. Not Peter though, he had been barefooted. He had simply confined himself to breaking the whisky bottle over the back of my head. If ever I got my hands on the little turd I'd make him pay.

I did my best to clean myself up in the bathroom and then staggered outside to where I had parked the car. There was nothing to keep me. I might as well drive home and nurse my bruises there. Someone, and if it wasn't Peter he must have identified the car so that the job could be done, had slashed the tyres. I reached inside my coat for my wallet and found that it had gone.

It was all too much for me to cope with. I made my way unsteadily back to the hotel room and lay down on the bed. The room was mine till noon the next day. I might as well take advantage of that.

A week had passed. I was back at the cottage sitting at my desk sipping a glass of whisky. My black eye had faded and my ribs ceased to ache but I was far from happy. I was seriously out of pocket but what I resented most of all was the way Peter had betrayed me. All his moans when I was fucking him, all his pleas to go deeper and harder were so much pretence, utterly false. The first chance he saw to stab me in the back or more accurately to hit me over the back of the head with a bottle he took. If ever, I told myself, I managed to lay my hands on the lying little toad I'd make him suffer for his treachery. Although I knew the chances of the opportunity coming my way were pretty well near non-existent. By now no doubt he would be back in the USA enjoying the saccharine sweet adoration of his mother and the Burgeons.

Somewhere in te house I could hear my cell phone ringing. I really couldn't be bothered to get up to find it. It was probably only a recorded message from some apparently eager woman telling me I had won a prize in a competition I had never entered or offering to reschedule my credit card debts or trying to sell me double glazing.

The ringing tone persisted. It stopped, no doubt as the answer service kicked in and then, after a short pause began again. Wearily I pulled myself to my feet and set off to find its source. Eventually I ran it to ground in the pocket of my outdoor coat hanging from a hook in the hall.

"Hello whose there?" I asked grumpily.

There was a pause. I could hear the sound of laboured breathing. I was just about to ring off then a young voice spoke.

"Master Mister Warwick Master please take me back."

The voice was hardly more than a frightened breathless whisper.

"Whose that," I demanded again.

"It's Peter Master. Please take me back."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the bottom of the lane Master by Master Jones's farm. I didn't think I should come any closer without asking Master."

"You want to come back?" I asked stupidly.

There was another pause and I realised the boy was trying to grapple with the concept of 'wanting' in this context.

"All right," I said impatiently, the brat would never work it out for himself, "you can't choose what you are. You know you owe me boy big time and I'll make sure you pay in full."

"I know Master," the boy I could tell was near tears. "I've got to come back Master… please."

I wondered how many hours and days of struggle between lust on the one hand and fear and pride on the other that had led to this self knowledge and declaration. How long it took for the boy to revolt against the sweetly cloying affection lavished on him by his mother and the Burgeons, to realise he needed something darker, more astringent to satisfy his compulsion to submit and to serve. An instinct no doubt latent in the child from birth but fanned into a flame that destroyed his love for his mother and his own self respect by his experiences since his path had crossed mine.

"How did you get my cell phone number boy?" I asked suddenly suspicious.

"It was on my Dad's mobile and I pinched it. He must have stored it when you rang him Master."

"By your Dad I suppose you mean Master Burgeon?"

"Yes Master."

"Then call him Master Burgeon you insolent little shit. A slave boy calling a Master 'Dad'. You need and will get a lesson on respect for your betters."

A thought occurred to me.

"What are you wearing boy?"

"Just jeans and a tee-shirt and things Master."

"Get them off now. You'll not wear a scrap of clothing again. And come here at the double."

"Master Thank You Master."

I rang off. I lifted the whip from its hook by the door. I stood running the plated leather lash through my fingers waiting for the boy.

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