Zelamir

Young Black Master

Chapters 7-14

The sun was high overhead and the bare earth surface of the yard outside Gagool's hut shimmered in its heat. The rains had ceased as abruptly as they had begun. The ground now was hard and sun baked. Simon knelt in the dust scraping away at the beaten earth with the broken metal blade that was the only tool allowed him. Now and again he would put the blade to one side and delve in the ground with his finger tips to root out one of the rare blades of grass that had managed to establish itself in its arid surface and place it in the battered metal bucket that rested on the ground beside him. It was a measure of the pointlessness of the task to which he had been set that although he had been working a good six hours the bucket was hardly a quarter full. Putting the knife down he reached behind himself and gripping the chain dragged forwards the roughly hewn wooden block attached to the iron ring clamped about his ankle before shuffling forwards on his knees to reach a fresh area of ground and resuming his work.

It was boring tedious work but it was better than being inside in the gloom of the hut. At least he was out in the sun and the fresh air and away from Gagool and the constant whimpering of the pale skinned Negro boy. Not that the boy did not have plenty to whimper about. Only the previous evening Gagool had had Otumba lop a couple of his fingers off to add to some potion she had brewing in the pot over the fire.

Simon tried not to think about that for if he did he could not help wondering if when they had more or less totally dismembered that boy they would start cutting bits off him.

In the distance he heard the throb of an engine which grew steadily louder as the motor approached nearer. Simon looked up to see a khaki coloured Range Rover sweep through the open gate way into the kraal and swing round in a half circle to stop in a cloud of dust immediately outside Gagool's hut.

A young black boy wearing a tight pair of brilliant white shorts and nothing else jumped out of the back of the vehicle's and ran round to open the driver's door. With a stab of panic Simon recognised the bulky figure that stepped down from the 4 x 4 as General Obutu who had whipped him so savagely after he had bought him from his mother at Simla lodge.

The General reached behind him and lifted a short cane out of the Land Rover. He stood looking around impatiently tapping the side of his shin with the tip of the cane.

A sturdy black youth appeared from the other side of the vehicle and came to stand beside the General. Simon realised that he knew him or at least had seen him before. Mark the son of General Obutu, he had seen him quite often at a distance in the fields about Simla Lodge. Mark had even tried to speak to him once or twice but he was a good three years older than Simon and quite apart from the age difference the contrast between Mark's affluence and his own obvious poverty made him embarrassed and envious. It was impossible for him to feel at ease with the older boy when Mark was dressed in designer gear and his only clothing was a pair of threadbare shorts that Mark would undoubtedly recognise as one of his own discards. Ashamed and resentful Simon had rejected Mark's attempts at friendship and had slunk off to sulk quietly by himself.

But now things were different. The chasm that divided him from Mark had grown so wide and unbridgeable that envy and resentment were no longer possible. Sold by his mother to General Obutu, the iron collar locked round his neck, the slave brand burnt into his bottom, his spirit broken by his sufferings in the great pit, kneeling naked in the dust of the yard he saw Mark not as an equal to be envied but as a superior to fear and respect.

The General spoke brusquely to the small black boy who moved off with obvious reluctance towards the doorway to Gagool's hut. The General raised his arm and slashed the boy hard across the back of his thighs. The crack of the cane and the boy's shrill squeal of pain shattered the quiet of the yard. The boy, his reluctance banished, disappeared into the hut and Mark and his father began to stroll towards where Simon knelt. Simon looked hastily down and resumed his work.

"Well," the General's voice came from directly above him, "there you are Mark. What do think."

Simon felt a hand on his collar pulling his head back. He went back on his heels and found himself looking up into Mark's eyes. Mark gripped him by the chin and tilted his head from side to side.

"He's pretty enough," Mark remarked, "but I wonder about his temper. I came across him a few times out in the fields, sulky little brute, sullen as all hell."

"Well," the General said with a laugh, "you'll have ample opportunity to correct any temper deficiencies the brat may have. But you don't have to take him. I'll send him back to the Pit if you don't want him."

"Or I could do with another boy," Gagool had appeared from out of the hut and was standing with Noah near by.

"I only just gave you the money to buy the albino boy," the General said impatiently

"And I took his balls the day I had him to make a spell to help Mister Tobulkuma get his wife with child, and two of his fingers just yesterday for a potion to cure Paul Lictumpopea of the shakes and now there is the bridge at Nicanga and for a bridge you need two boys."

"Well Mark." The General asked, "do you want to give the boy a trial or shall we give him to Gagool."

"Or if you want the boy I'd give you fifty pounds for his balls. The Arabs in the North prize boys' scrotums as linings for horses' blinkers and a white boy's balls are specialy strong mutti. He'll be fine without his balls. Some gentlemen even prefer to have their slave boys gelded."

Mark did not reply to these suggestions and requests but silently urged Simon to his feet with his hand under the boy's chin.

"He's shivering Dad," Mark said laughing as releasing his hold of Simon he stepped back and looked him slowly and deliberately up and down.

"Probably remembering the flogging I gave him the last time he was with me," the General replied and then suddenly barked sharply at Simon.

"Get your hands behind your head you worthless lump of pig shit. Let the young gentleman have a proper look at you scum," and he cracked the boy hard across his rump with his cane.

Mark began to walk slowly round the naked boy his head cocked knowingly to one side as Simon stood trembling, his teeth chattering with fear.

"He really is very pretty to look at," Mark remarked moving close in to the boy. He bent down and squeezed Simon's thigh testing for depth and firmness of muscle.

Straightening he reached out towards the younger boy's crutch.

"Stand still boy," Mark snapped as the boy flinched away from him.

He took the boy's testicles between finger and thumb squeezing and then rolling them.

"I think fifty pounds would be a good price for these though, they're pretty near non-existent," and he laughed loudly.

"Let's see if he can make boy juice."

Mark transferred his attention to Simon's prick that was hanging flaccid and shrunken, apparently devoid of life. He began to gently toy with it with the fingers of his right hand. He reached round Simon's bottom with his left hand and drew the boy a couple of paces closer to him.

Crooking his index finger he pushed it into Simon's crack. The boy made a strange mewing sound, part protest, part an indication of excitement. Mark found the entry to the younger boy's hole and increased the pressure of his exploring finger.

"Stand still," he said again as Simon shifted uneasily.

He pushed harder forcing his finger tip between Simon's anus's lips.

"That's better," Mark said a hint of triumph in his voice as Simon's little twig likerick stirred and began to stiffen, "I thought maybe it was quite dead. Let's how much boy juice the whore can make."

"Here Noah," he said reaching out and grabbing the little black boy by his slave collar and forcing him to his knees in front of Simon, "let's see how long it takes you to get the brat to squirt."

Noah reached up and gripped Simon by his hips. From his head buried in Simon's crutch came wet sucking sounds as he enthusiastically set to work with his lips and tongue. Simon felt the blood quicken and pound in his loins as Noah's soft lips and agile tongue aroused his lust and his body was consumed with the most penetrating excitement. The hot sun on his bare body, the kraal with its single story circular crofts, the constant hum of insects in the still warm air, the witnesses to his humiliation, the General, Mark, the cruel witch Gagool, all were subsumed and forgotten in the ecstasy of the moment.

Simon's hands were resting clasped on the back of his head. Instinctively he made to move them to grip Noah's ears to hold the young black boy's head steady as he pumped his mouth with his pulsating prick.

The General, who had been standing seemingly completely relaxed, exploded into action. There was a sharp crack followed by a shrill squeal of pain as he slashed Simon hard across his naked rump raising an angry scarlet weal that cut across the smooth curve of his bare bottom.

"Keep your hands up whore," the General growled.

The sudden burst of sharp pain combined with the intense excitement generated by Noah's soft lips and questing tongue took Simon to the point of climax and beyond. He arched his back, the muscles in his bottom quivering as he shot cum into Noah's mouth

For a brief moment he was lost, oblivious to his surroundings as the orgasm racked his his hands clasped behind his head, feeling empty and exhausted. The sexual excitement drained away leaving him feeling utterly alone and vulnerable, friendless in an indifferent uncaring world. Surreptitiously he glanced around looking for help or at least sympathy but finding none. He searched the faces of the people standing round. The burly black man with the battered face and broken hands wearing uniform and a cap with gold braid round its peak, the big black youth in the smart casual clothes who handled him with the careless brutality of a farmer handling livestock, Otumba big, as always very black and very menacing, worst of all the shrivelled evil old hag Gagool; cold indifferent and cruelly amused.

Knowing he must not remove his hands from the back of his neck he bowed his head trying to hide the tears that flowed down his cheeks.

Apparently unaware of his victim's distress Mark stepped forward and taking hold of Noah by the back of his slave collar pulled his head away from Simon's crutch. Mark grabbed the little Negro boy under his chin and twisting his head round dug his fingers into either side of his jaws forcing his mouth open.

"Well he can certainly produce boy juice," he remarked as he bent and peered into Noah's mouth, "and in good quantity too'" he continued wiping the back of his hand across the tip of Simon's cock from which cum was still freely oozing with occasional more substantial spurts of juice.

Mark sniffed at the back of his hand before touching it with the tip of his tongue, smelling and tasting the boy juice while the General watched him with a half-smile on his face. It amused and pleased him to see his son attempting to assess his new possession's potential as breeding stock following the long established practice of the slave owning aristocracy of the Kikyana.

"Nice clear sweet smelling and tasting juice," Mark said approvingly before wiping the back of his hand across the front of Simon's chest.

Simon fighting back the tears was unable to restrain himself any longer and emitted a muffled sob.

"What's this?" Mark crowed laughing, "the little darling is upset."

"Look," he continued putting his hand under Simon's chin and lifting it so that has face wet with tears was exposed to the gaze of the grinning onlookers, "he's crying, poor sensitive baby boy. Has the nasty man been unkind to you my little darling."

Mark, while maintaining his mockery of the now openly sobbing boy, subjected his head and face to a detailed examination, forcing his mouth open and pulling back his lips to check his teeth and gums, pulling his eyelids back and peering into the pupils of his eyes searching not only for indications of incipient blindness but also for signs of resentment or defiance.

Seeing only misery and fear Mark turned the boy with a hand on his shoulder and began an examination of his back.

"You have done a good job on his shoulders old woman ('old woman' a common and respectful way of addressing the elderly among the Kikyana who (rightly) reverence old age and experience)," he said running his fingertips across the smooth skin. "There's hardly a mark on them and I can't feel any ridges or indentations."

"Tell me," he continued his voice trembling with hardly suppressed laughter, as he ran his hand down Simon's back, gripping him by the waste and digging his thumbs and finger tips into his flesh, "you say you need 'two boys for a bridge', why is that old women?"

"Why young master," Gagool replied using the traditional formula for addressing a Chief's son, "do you not know that for any big building be it a chief's hall or a barn or anything else a boy buried in the foundations gives it strength and permanence and ensures that the chief increases in wealth and power or the barn is always full of corn or hay and so on."

"But why two boys for a bridge," Mark asked casually.

"Legs apart and bend forward slut," he ordered placing his right hand flat between Simon's shoulder blades and pushing down forcing him to bend forward. He dug his thumbs into the boy's crack prizing his buttocks apart.

"One on either side of the stream. Then when we bury them their souls will rise out of their bodies and join hands over the stream giving the bridge extra strength and durability. The Tsunki Gorge is wide and steep, the bridge will arch high over it rising from great buttresses set in the banks of the river a boy will be buried in the foundations of each buttress."

"If the souls of the boys have to fly up and join hands over the river they must be alive when they are buried."

Simon stirred and moaned causing Mark to curse roughly and tell him to be still.

"Yes of course, we will put them in the foundation holes on either side of the river facing to the light and then we will pour concrete over them so that they die at the same moment so there is no danger of one of their souls getting bored, they are after all just boys and boys are notoriously impatient and flighty, waiting for the other and flying off before they can meet and join hands."

"So that's what's going to happen to the brat if I decide I don't want him," Mark remarked lightly.

"Anyway he's got a nice tight hole. It hasn't been stretched more than you'd to expect it to be as a consequence of being plugged."

"I'm surprised by that," he continued speaking to his father, "I would have thought, a white boy in the Great Pit, the guards would have raped his bottom many times over."

"We left the plug in him," the General explained. "All the brats there guts turn to water in a day or two so they don't need to have the plug taken out to shit."

"Now are you going to keep the slut or shall I turn him over to Gagool for her to use?"

Simon waited trembling for the decision that would decide whether he should live or die and if die to do so in a slow terrifying manner. He imagined being taken late at night to the site of the bridge, bound and naked in the back of a truck, being lain on his back in a pit, lying there staring up into the dark sky, then the sound of footsteps above him, the scrape of a shovel, the sound of falling gravel as they begin to fill the trench in which he lay, the feel of the cold wet concrete building up around his body, rising slowly higher and higher, over his chest, straining to keep his head above the rising level of the semi viscous filling, now up to his chin, reaching his mouth. How long would it take before it clogged his nose and brought the terror and the agony to an end?

He knew his very existence depended on the decision of the Negro youth standing looking at him so calmly, so confidently, a half smile on his lips, with cold eyes devoid of pity or any other emotion, deciding whether he should be allowed to live or die with the same cold unemotional calculation as a farmer sorting out livestock for the slaughter house.

He wanted to cry out, to pray aloud, to get down on his knees and wrap his arms about Mark's legs, begging to be allowed to live, promising to be a good devoted boy if only he would grant him his life. But he did not dare to move. He had been ordered to stand naked, his hands clasped behind his neck, while he was examined and his fate decided. To move might be to condemn himself to death. He could only stand there as ordered, shivering with fear, his cheeks wet with tears and wait fearfully for Mark's decision.

Mark deliberately let the time drag out quietly amused by the boy's obvious rising terror. At last he cleared his throat and spoke.

"I'd just like to see how he moves Dad before I make my mind up," he said just an edge of laughter in his voice, an edge that his father detected and understood but that Simon was too panic stricken to notice.

"Very sensible," the General said approvingly, "you don't want him if he's knock kneed or something."

"Right," Mark said speaking in calm almost kindly tones, "Hands down by your side, natural pace, don't run Simon walk over to the 4 x 4 and back again."

Obediently Simon set off. Walking alone, feeling the eyes of the onlookers watching him, studying his naked body, the walk across the sun-drenched yard and back seemed never ending. Knowing he was being observed and judged and that his very existence was in the balance was terrifying and at the same time strangely exciting. To his embarrassment Simon felt his prick stir and harden. He moved his hands to cover himself.

"Hands down by your sides Simon," Mark ordered sharply.

Simon walked on keeping his hands away from his crutch acutely aware of his stiff little cock jutting out ahead of him its swollen pink head bobbing up and down as he walked.

"Look at that Dad, randy little whore isn't he?" Mark remarked.

Something in the tone of his voice gave Simon hope.

Simon completed his journey across the yard and back. Not knowing quite what to do he came to a halt in front of the General and Mark and stood head bowed waiting being careful to keep his hands down by his sides.

"Right now let's see how fast you can run Simon," Mark said quietly, "to the Land Rover and back – fast as you can – go."

Simon turned and sprinted off as fast as he could manage. He felt a stinging blow across his rump.

"Run boy run," the General shouted as he cut at him with his cane.

He reached the 4 x 4 and turned to run back to where Mark and the General were standing. As he returned to them he saw Mark stoop and pick a stone up from the ground.

"Fetch it boy," Mark shouted as he threw it hard across the yard.

Simon turned and raced after it. The stone landed raising a small puff of dust as it skidded a couple of feet along the ground. It had hardly come to rest before Simon was onto it and without checking his pace stooped, snatched it up and turned in a further flurry of dust to race back towards the Negro youth.

Mark seeing a blond naked boy running and bending and gathering an object from the ground was reminded of another time when under a less fierce sun another boy naked and blond had run through the sea to gather a frisbee he had thrown. He was struck at how alike the two boys were and how different, one his friend the other his slave. He could do with Simon all the things he had dreamt of doing with Bobby, things that you could do with and to a slave boy but not a free boy.

Simon ran back to where Mark was standing. Instinctively he threw himself to his knees at Mark's feet holding out the stone he had fetched for him, offering the stone and himself to the youth.

"Well Mark," the General asked, "what is your decision? Are you going to keep him or shall we hand him over to Gagool."

Mark, although he had made his decision sometime ago paused and seemed to think before replying while Simon knelt at his feet staring pleadingly up into his face his lips trembling with anxiety.

At last Mark spoke.

"I think," he said and then paused again, "that we may as well give the slut a try."

Simon threw his arms about Mark's legs and hugged his body to him before shuffling backwards on his knees and bending forward pressed his lips to the ground at his feet sobbing with relief and gratitude.

Mark stood looking down at the fair haired boy huddled naked at his feet with an expression which blended contempt and mildly affectionate amusement.

"Pretty little slut," his father remarked appreciatively.

"Yes," Mark agreed, "but he needs training. I'd like to have him at least part schooled to show off to Bobby and he arrives from England tomorrow."

"Give you two boys something to do together," the General replied cheerfully. "Tell you what Mark you move into the guest bungalow by the river. You'll be out of the way down there and the brat's screams won't disturb the rest of the household. Now bring him up to the Land Rover. I brought a boy's training harness with me and Gagool can get a ring in that little prick of his. Small though it is I'm not leaving it wobbling about like that it looks untidy and a bit unhygienic as well."

"O.K. Dad," Mark said cheerfully.

He bent down and takinghold of Simon by one arm just above the elbow marched him across the yard to the 4 x 4.

The General lowered the tailgate of the open backed Land Rover and reaching in dragged a small sackcloth bag towards himself. He undid the draw string holding it closed and tipped its contents, an assortment of lengths of chains, metal bars and hinged rings of various sizes and weights, out onto the floor of the vehicle. They lay there glittering in the sunlight clinking as he prodded them with his forefinger.

"There you are Gagool," he said holding up a length of thin metal chain attached at one end to a small ring of the same shimmering silver coloured material.

"It's all very fine," the old hag grumbled not taking the proffered ring, "the young Master gets a pretty little slave boy to fuck and that's how it should be but what do I do about a second boy for the bridge."

"Come on Gagool, I'll sort out a boy for you from among the ones we have at Simla Lodge when I get back and have him sent up to you." The General promised impatience sounding in his voice but half laughing at the old woman's persistence. "Now do get a move on I've got plenty to do apart from hang around while you ring a randy little slut."

The old woman snatched the ring from him with an evil cackle.

"Make sure the brat is young and healthy and nice to look at, the Gods are choosy."

"Otumba" she ordered the excitement clear in her shrill tones, "go into the hut, place a thin skewer to heat in the charcoal brazier and bring me another one out here and a quill. You know what I need for this job."

Grinning broadly and chuckling to himself the big Negro disappeared into the hut. Both he and his diminutive mistress seemed to be delighted and excited by the prospect of the job in hand.

"And you young Master," Gagool said turning her attention to Mark, "you are a fine strong young man well able to hold your slut for me while I pierce his prick for the ring. You strip off and get ready."

"Strip?" Mark said surprised.

The old woman cackled with laughter.

"Yes strip young man. Are you shy? Do you want to risk the brat soiling your clothes in his agony? "

She laughed again.

"Anyway the brat will remember the pain till the day he dies. He will remember you and respect you the more if you have a part in it."

Meanwhile Simon stood shivering while the General fastened broad steel bands about his ankles and wrists each band having small eyelets attached to which to fasten restraining bars or chains. Unlocking the chain that encircled Simon's neck he replaced it with a broad steel ring similar to those about the boy's ankles and wrists.

Otumba came out of the hut carrying a tray which he placed on the lowered tailgate to the Land Rover.

Gagool went over to check it.

"Let me see. You have the sharpened skewer and the stripped duck quill. And the steel skewer with the wooden handle is heating in the brazier? Good be ready to bring it to me when I call for it I want the metal to be red hot when I apply it to the brat so as to seal the wound."

"Now Mark get behind the boy and grip him tight. What I am going to do to him will hurt him more than the branding iron did when it marked his pretty little bottom."

She picked up a short thin colourless tube from the tray.

"The quill from a duck's wing feather," she said, "it goes into little Simon's piss slit. Hold the boy tight Mark this is going to hurt him a lot. And grab his wrists. Keep his hands away from his crutch."

Mark jammed his right forearm under Simon's chin pulling it tight across the front of the smaller boy's throat. Reaching forward over Simon's shoulder he got a firm hold of both of the boy's wrists in his own left hand. He squeezed them tightly, the small bones shifting under the pressure of his grip. He felt the fragility of the boy and his cock stirred and hardened, excited by the powerlessness of the child in the face of his own superior strength.

"Now to force it in," Gagool said.

Simon screamed and his body convulsed as the pain hit him.

"Just half an inch more," Gagool murmured. Simon screamed a second time. and once again Mark felt his body leap against his restraining hold.

"What a fuss," Gagool grumbled, "and that's only the easy part. Otumba pass me the skewer. Now go and fetch the one from the charcoal brazier. Quick now it must be red hot to sear the sides of the hole and stop it healing over."

Mark got his right forearm tight up against Simon's chin forcing the boy's head back and round so that he could look down into his face. He saw Simon's face suddenly contort in agony, his mouth opening wide to scream. Bending his head he clamped his own lips on the boy's open mouth enjoying Simon's pain racked body.

He heard the soft pad of Otumba's bare feet as the man returned from the inside of Gagool's hut.

"Hurry give it to me," he heard the woman say and seconds later his nostrils were assailed by the sweet smell of burning boy flesh and Simon's naked body again writhed against his.

"Let go off the slut's wrists," Mark heard his father call urgently.

He hesitated but then did so. His father presumably knew what he was doing and so it proved. Simon twisted his body round from the waste reaching up to clasp his arms tight round Mark's neck welcoming Mark's darting tongue into his mouth and down into his gullet.

The boy hung there, arms tight about Mark's neck, passionately returning Mark's embrace, sobs racking his body. The General moved close and firmly gripping Simon's wrists pulled his arms away from Mark. He locked Simon's wrists behind his back and then looped and secured fine chain hanging from the ring at the end of the boy's cock round his waste.

"We must be off now Mark," he said, "I have got a few things to see to before I go north."

"O.K. I'll just get dressed – and can Simon ride in the front with us Dad? He could go down on the floor by my feet."

Minutes later Mark now fully clothed again scrambled into the passenger seat of the Land Rover and settled himself next to his father. Grabbing hold of Simon he manhandled the boy into the cab and with a series of pushes and slaps settled, him crouched on the floor at his feet.

Noah ran round to the back of 4 x 4 and began to scramble aboard over the tailgate.

"Dad," Mark said as his father slipped the car into gear, "I've been thinking, why don't you let Gagool have Noah for the bridge. It'll safe you a bit of time sorting out a boy for her when you get back to Simla Lodge and he's up here already so you won't have to arrange his transport up here."

"Good idea Mark. Otumba grab the slut and get his shorts off him and chuck them in the back. He won't be needing them again and no doubt there'll be a boy about the place they will fit."

"Thanks Mark," the General continued as he let out the clutch and driving off leaving Noah standing staring forlornly after the departing vehicle, "very thoughtful of you. That'll safe me quite a bit but I'm afraid you won't be seeing that brat again."

Oh that doesn't matter Dad," Mark said cheerfully, "I was getting a bit bored with the slut and anyway I've got Simon to play with now."

Mark, in the passenger seat, with Simon huddled on the floor of the Land Rover at his feet found himself to be a bit a bit cramped. A few sharp kicks and some rough cursing soon put this right and he was able to stretch his legs out and relax.

Simon suffered the kicks and the cursing without protest. Naked with his wrists pinioned behind his back he had no choice in the matter. Indeed isolated in a world of intense pain that was centred on the broken flesh of his mangled cock but seemed to fill his whole body he was conscious of little beyond his own suffering. He was aware of the noise of the Land Rover as it bumped along the unsurfaced track and the murmur of voices above his head as the General exchanged occasional words with his son but only as an indistinct back ground to his own hurt which increased with each jolt and there were many of them, of the vehicle.

"Sorry about this Dad," Mark said raising his voice to be heard above the din, the combined sound of the roar of the engine, the rattle and bangs of the vehicle as it jolted along the unsurfaced road and Simon's pain fueled sobbing.

"I'll try and shut the little turd up," and he lashed out with his heels driving them hard into the boy's huddled body.

"Shut that fucking noise whore," he snarled savagely but to little effect for Simon continued to snivel miserably.

"Don't worry Mark," his father replied cheerfully, "it doesn't bother me. Back when I was young I used to dream of the day when I would hear a white boy cry. Though mind you now I have the opportunity it doesn't sound any different from the noises a black one makes in similar circumstances."

"Well I'll let him get on with it then," Mark said settling himself back in the passenger seat.

"Gagool gave me a jar of ointment to put on the wound on his prick to stop infection maybe you could slap some on now as I drive, I'm sorry not to stop but I want to get back to Simla as quick as I can. The jar is in the glove compartment in front of you."

Mark pushed to one side the M9 Beretta Pistol which was kept in the compartment ready to hand for emergencies and found the jar of ointment. Simon was huddled on the floor crammed in between Mark's extended legs and the passenger door his head resting on his knees. Reaching down Mark got his hand under the boy's chin and pulled his head back. Simon's eyes were blank and unfocused, snot dribbled from his nose and his cheeks were wet with tears.

"I don't think he understands what's going on at all," Mark remarked.

"Probably not – what sort of state is that wound of his?"

Mark slid his left hand down so it was resting on the front of Simon's chest. Feeling the brat's nipple hard against the palm of his hand he pulled Simon back so that he could look down into his crutch. Light glinted on the thin silver chain looped about the boy's waist and was caught and reflected back from the links making up the short length attaching it to the ring set in the cap of his prick. The ring had been threaded through his piss slit and out through a hole cut into the underside of his cock just below the beginning of the pink helmet of the glans. The prick looked swollen and bruised while the flesh round the hole was sore and charred where the hot iron had burnt its sides to try to prevent it healing and closing up.

"It looks pretty sore Dad and there are a few flies beginning to take an interest in it."

"Well slap some of that ointment on it. God knows what's in it. The old witch said monkey fat plus some other stuff and for all I know she might be telling the truth for once. Anyway there is one thing I'll say for her medicine – it usually works. If nothing else it'll probably keep the flies off it."

The jar was sealed with a scrap of brown paper. Mark undid the length of string holding it in place. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the smell, tart and acerbic, that assaulted it.

"I think it will probably discourage any flies that are about," Dad he said with a laugh.

"Keep a firm grip of the brat when you put the stuff on the wound," the General advised, taking a quick glance down at Simon's crutch before turning his attention back to the road ahead, "it looks really tender down there and that stuff smells as though it will sting like hell."

"OK Dad," Mark said cheerfully.

"And give the ring a couple of turns before you put the ointment on. You have to make sure the flesh doesn't grow back round it."

Mark sighed to himself. If his father, he told himself, had one fault more pronounced than any others it was that he was bossy. No doubt it came from being in the army. Long experience had taught him that argument would achieve nothing. He placed the open jar of ointment between his thighs so that he would have both hands free and bent forward. With his left hand once again across Simon's chest he forced the boy back so that he was wedged firmly up against the front of the passenger seat.

Reaching down he gripped the ring. Simon stirred uneasily and he tightened his hold on the boy. He began to try to turn the ring. Simon's head went back, his legs shot out from under him. The brat's scream rang out over the frantic pounding of his heels on the Land Rover's floor.

"Told you to get a good grip of the slut," the General remarked calmly. "You've got to turn the ring or the hole will seal itself. Try again and hold the boy tight. Get your forearm across his windpipe and squeeze."

Following his father's advice Mark bent over and again took hold of the ring. Gripping it firmly with his right hand and tightening his hold across Simon's windpipe with his left forearm he twisted it as hard as he could. At first the ring would not turn. Simon screaming, arched his back, raised his bottom from the floor and struggled to bring his manacled hands round to the front of his body. Then the grip of the half healed flesh on the ring began to give, it turned, at first reluctantly but then with increasing ease. Mark maintained the pressure of his forearm across Simon's throat until the strength went out of the boy and he lay quiet his screams silenced and the wild thrashing of his legs stilled.

Mark seizing his chance dipped the fingers of his free hand into the open jar of ointment and smeared it liberally over the boy's cock taking good care to work it thoroughly into the open wound where the ring was set. Simon stirred and whimpered as the ointment touched his raw flesh.

"I'm sorry Dad," he said looking up from his task at the General who was concentrating on driving, "but the little brute has gone and peed himself all over the floor of the Land Rover."

"Fuck," the General exclaimed in annoyance, "and I wanted to get back with as little delay as possible."

He pulled the 4x4 to the side of the road.

"I'm sorry," Mark repeated, "I thought being a white boy at least he would be house trained. Couldn't we leave it till we get home. I promise I'll take care of it then."

"It's more effective if it's done with as little delay as possible," the General replied as he stopped the car and applied the hand brake."

He got out of the van and walked round to the passenger door and pulled it open.

"Unless you stamp on this sort of behaviour and stamp on it hard he'll pee and worse wherever and whenever he chooses," the General said reaching into the van and grabbing hold of Simon by the collar.

"Come on here you filthy little brute," he snarled dragging Simon out of the van and slamming him backwards against it. Simon's head jerked back striking the side of the van with sickening force.

Pinning the boy against the van with a hand looped through his slave collar the General rained a series of alternate open and backhanded slaps across his face.

"Dirt, filth, scum, pig, turd," the General shouted as the blows rocked Simon's head from side to side.

"Mark get the cane and come round here. He's your boy and you should at least play a part in disciplining the animal."

The General let hold of Simon's collar. Deprived of support the boy's knees began to buckle under him. The General buried his hand in the boy's fair hair and twisting him round thrust him head first into the van.

"Six hard as you can across the little sod's bottom Mark," the General ordered as he forced Simon's head down into the damp carpeting on the floor in front of the passenger seat where the boy had peed.

"Filthy little brute I'll fucking teach you to behave yourself," he snarled turning his attention back to the whimpering brat and grinding his face into the patch of lukewarm urine.

Mark hurrying round the front of the Land Rover was faced by the sight of Simon's bare legs and upraised rump invitingly displayed before him. Not really needing any advice or encouragement from his father he raised the cane over his shoulder and slashed down with it across the boy's bare bottom. The rich hiss of the descending cane was abruptly interrupted by the sharp crack of wood striking taught boy's flesh. Simon's legs jerked wildly. There was the briefest moment of total silence as pain emptied the boy's lungs of air and then an ear splitting scream.

Mark paused to watch fascinated as the initial pale stripe left across the smooth curve of Simon's firm young bottom, tanned golden honey coloured by the sun, darkened and filled with blood while the bruising spread and deepened on either side of it. It was the first time that he had thrashed a white boy and he was surprised how deeply and quickly the cane marked Simon's bottom.

He brought the cane back above his shoulder, paused to get his balance and then cut down once again across the howling boy's quivering rump. Simon's body jerked and writhed as the rod scored livid stripes across his bottom's tender flesh. Excitement gripped Mark as he raked the screaming boy's rump with the cane.

Then suddenly he was aware of his father shouting at him to stop and he was standing panting, his right arm aching, while Simon lay half in and half out of the van, sobbing wildly blood seeping from the broken flesh of his bottom.

"That's enough Mark," his father said laughing. "I think the slut will have got the message by now. Come on let's get him into the back of the van. I don't want his blood on the carpet as well as his pee. For one thing blood is more difficult to shift."

The General pulled Simon clear of the van and half dragged and half carried him round to its back. Catching him under his knees he heaved him up and threw him bodily over the tailgate sending him sprawling on the metal floor.

"Get up there Mark," he ordered, "and fasten him by the ankle to one of the stanchions. Make sure the chain is tight. Of course there's nowhere for him to run to but it's just at times like this, after a good thrashing that a brat will take off."

Mark vaulted into the open back of the Land Rover and getting hold of Simon under the arms pulled him up the van, the heels of the boy's bare feet dragging along the metal floor.

A stout iron hoop was set about a foot from the floor of the van in a low partition that divided the back of the Land Rover from the front passenger's and driver's seats. Mark dumped the boy unceremoniously on his arse still tender from his flogging extorting from Simon an involuntary squeal of pain.

"Shut that noise you stupid little turd," Mark rasped clipping the brat on the side of the head. Mark grabbed the short length of chain joining the two broad metal cuffs round Simon's wrists and pulled them hard up the boy's back. He padlocked them securely to the iron hoop and stood back.

Simon his knees splayed and open, his body forced forward by his wrists being pulled up behind him looked up at him pleadingly his terrified eyes full of tears. Anger and contempt swelled up filling Mark's mind with rage. How could the brat just cringe there waiting to be hit? not making an effort to fight or defend himself. If it was him that was there chained on the floor he would fight back even if his arms were pinioned behind his back. He would lash out with his feet and in his eyes would be hatred and defiance not fear and abject surrender.

Well if the little turd expected to be hurt he would not disappoint him. He lifted his foot and drove his heel down into Simon's crutch deliberately targeting the slut's mangled prick. Mark felt the jolt as his heel smashed down between the boy's legs.

Simon's shrill scream echoing in his ears Mark vaulted over the side of the Land Rover to the ground.

"What the fuck did you do to the whore to make him scream that loud?" The General demanded of his son, laughing as he asked.

"Don't know Dad," Mark replied grinning, "I think I must have accidently stepped on him."

The General laughed and ruffled his hair fondly.

"I was a bit worried Mark you might be going to be too soft with the brat going on about how he reminded you of your friend Bobby."

"Dad," Mark exclaimed indignantly, "I know the difference between a friend and a slave."

"I can see you do Mark," his father replied placatingly, "now let's get on we've still got quite a long way to go and we need to stop somewhere to have our lunch."

He led the way to the front of the Land Rover.

They were back on a properly surfaced road before the General slowed down and swung the car off the road into a neatly surfaced parking area. Away from the road the land sloped gently down to a small sandy beach bordering a broad slowly flowing river. A table and benches had been placed in the shade of a large Acacia tree, part of some long forgotten and long abandoned tourist development program.

"Bring the picnic basket would you Mark," his father said getting out of the car and strolling over to the picnic table.

"Perhaps," he remarked as his son pulled the wicker basket from behind the Land Rover's passenger seat, "it would have been better if we had kept Noah with us. He could have done the heavy lifting and we could always send him back up to Gagool once we'd reached Sima Lodge and no longer had any need of him."

"Too late to do anything about it now," he continued dismissing the subject. "Now let's see what they have given us for lunch," and he began to unpack the picnic basket.

A whole roast chicken, a large cold ham, a bowl of salad, a loaf of bread to be joined by various jars of chutney, salad dressing and so on all took their place on the picnic table.

Out of the long grass at the edge of the clearing appeared two skinny little Ngeni children accompanied by a dog who looked as dirty and as half-starved as they did. They didn't dare to approach the table but hung about on the edge of the clearing looking at the feast spread there through large hungry eyes.

"There should be a bottle of Chablis and a bottle of orange juice in a cool bag behind my seat Mark," the General said pointedly and Mark, taking the hint, set off back to the van to collect them.

To do so he had to go round the back of the Land Rover. That meant he got a clear view of Simon, who seated on the Land Rover floor, his wrists chained behind him and pulled up his back as far as they would go and secured to the ring set way up the metal partition dividing the vehicle behind the driver's seat, sat with his knees splayed and his head forced down. The boy, he thought, looked very miserable but also quite attractive.

He passed on collected the cool box and carried it back to the picnic table.

"Dad," he said as he placed the bottles in from of his father, "may I have Simon out of the back of the Land Rover. He's pretty dirty and maybe if we have time I could wash him down in the river after lunch and give him a chance to shit before he has to go back in the van otherwise the little brute is sure to dirty himself again."

"Ok get him out now and we'll see how we are fixed for time after lunch for washing him down."

Mark returned once again to the Land Rover. Simon disturbed by the sound of Mark vaulting over the tail gate of the van looked up startled. An expression of sheer terror crossed his face as he caught sight of Mark standing so close to him. He pulled up his legs and cringed away from the bigger boy.

Mark forced the Simon's wrists as high as they could go up his back taking the tension off the chain securing them to the bracket behind him. The boy whimpered as Mark fiddled with the padlock holding them in place. The boy's wrists still fastened behind his back were released from the bracket. Mark grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him to his feet. He forced him along the back of the land Rover and giving him a hefty push tumbled him over the tail gate face down onto the ground.

Mark jumped down after him and urged him to his feet with a couple of well aimed kicks into his ribs. Despite this encouragement Simon, with his hands manacled behind his back, struggled to stand up. Mark impatiently grabbed hold of his arm just above the elbow and half dragged, half marched him towards the table where his father had already seated himself.

"That's close enough Mark," his father said, "leave him there where we can keep an eye on him and he's too far away from the bush to be tempted to make a run for it."

Mark kicked the brat's feet away from under him and abandoned him kneeling in the dust about six feet or so [a couple of metres] from where his father sat. He seated himself at the table opposite his father. Mark had the appetite of a healthy young teenager and the General had never lost the habit, acquired in the years spent in the bush during the freedom struggle, of eating quickly and not wasting time on words, so for a time there was silence as the man and the boy ate hungrily. The two Ngeni children and the dog, emboldened by hunger, crept ever closer until they were just a few mistrustful feet away from where Simon crouched naked in the dust.

Eventually the General lent back on his bench and took a swig of chilled white wine from a glass misted by condensation. He twisted round to get a good look at Simon.

"Your brat looks hungry Mark," he remarked tearing a leg off what remained of the chicken carcass, "shall we see how convincing he is at begging."

He held out the chicken leg towards the boy.

"Come on whore," he said softly, "you want a bit of this?"

Simon with his hands pinioned behind his back could not grab for the leg darted his head upwards snatching at it with his teeth.

"No, no whore," the General said laughing and quickly jerking the chicken away from him, "you've got to ask for it properly, squat like a dog begging. Come on slut, I know your hands are fastened behind your back, you've just got to make the best of that. Come on squat… That's better… spread your knees… right apart… you mustn't hide what you've got down there…"

"Not that he has much Dad," Mark interrupted and laughed loudly at his own wit."

"No not much… maybe you should send him back to Gagool so she can help herself to them… he's your brat now so it's up to you. You'd make a nice bit of pocket money if you did though."

As he spoke he teased Simon by repeatedly offering him the chicken leg and snatching it away from him at the last moment when he snapped at it. The little Ngeni brats and the half-starved mongrel dog watched fascinated and crept in ever closer.

"Let's see who gets it now…," the General said and without warning tossed the chicken leg over Simon's head.

Simon snapped at the leg as it flew past him but missed. It landed in the dust behind him. The slut twisted round in the instant as the dog and the children darted towards where the chicken leg had fallen. Simon unable to strike out at them with his wrists secured behind his back snarled fiercely and lunged forward with bared teeth. The Ngeni children, alarmed, backed off and Simon snatched up the chicken bone from the ground in his mouth.

He had turned away from the bench where Mark and his father were sitting when the chicken leg went over his head. Now grabbing it from the ground with his teeth and with his rump stuck up in the air he afforded both of them a clear view of his open bottom.

"Well Mark, what do you think of that bit of boy's cunt?" the General demanded laughing loudly,

Mark did not reply directly but glanced meaningfully at the pronounced bulge that had formed in the front of his father's shorts.

"Why don't you fuck the slut's arse Dad. I can see you want to and it'll show we are the bosses in our own country now not the white planters."

Mark himself had no doubt that this was so and showing or proofing what was to him almost a self-evident truth seemed pointless. However he knew it still bothered his father and being a naturally considerate boy saw this as an opportunity to put this particular demon of his father's to rest.

"You're a nice boy Mark," his father said chuckling and reaching out to ruffle his hair, "Sometime perhaps but not now. After you've loosened his hole up a bit. He's your boy now and I won't spoil him for you. You saw how small and tight his cunt is. I'd split his bottom open if I pumped it now… Oh damn."

Further development of this discussion was prevented for the time being at least. The Ngeni children may have been scared off by Simon's snarling at them but the dog that had accompanied them was not. Seeing his chance he had run in and grabbed hold of one end of it with his teeth. He began to pull on it bracing his front legs on the ground in front of him and doubling his hind legs under himself. Simon responded in kind, however down on his knees with his hands pinioned behind his back, he could only use the strength and weight of his hindquarters to obtain purchase. This he did with complete abandon his knees raising small clouds of dust as he struggled for traction on the dry ground. The harder he pulled the lower and nearer the ground his head went and the higher his rump rose in the air. Both dog and boy jerked and shook their heads violently trying to break the hold of the other's jaws clamped tight on the bone as they snarled fiercely at each other through locked teeth.

The Ngeni children taking courage from the example of the dog joined the fray dropping to their hands and knees and gripping the leg bone with their teeth. The bone was so short that the shoulders and heads of the various contenders, canine or boy were squashed together. As they tugged at the bone fighting against each other they turned and circled on the ground, a dust shrouded jumble of flailing limbs and straining bodies from which rose an increasingly loud and threatening rumble of ill-tempered animal noise.

Mark tried to break the fight up by wading into the mass of struggling bodies and lashing out with his feet but with no effect. The General hurried over to the Land Rover and pulled open the passenger door. He reached inside the vehicle and turned holding the M9 Beretta that was kept in the glove compartment.

"Stand clear Mark," he said quietly, "I don't want to hit you by mistake."

He bent and taking hold of one skinny black arm he dragged one of the Ngeni children from the mass of struggling bodies. Holding the boy by the arm he lifted him clear from the ground and pressed the pistol to his head. There was a sharp crack, the boy's body jerked convulsively. The dog and the second Ngeni child abandoned the struggle for the chicken leg and ran off.

Simon seizing his chance snatched up the chicken bone in his mouth and scuttling under the picnic table settled down to chew on it there.

The General carried the lifeless body of the boy he had just shot to the edge of the river. Facing the river he swung the body back behind him and then lobbed it as far out into the current as he could manage.

He walked back towards the shade of the Acacia tree smiling slightly.

"Must get rid of any rubbish before we go," he said and laughed.

"Now," he said looking round puzzled, "where's that fucking boy whore of yours Mark? I think I need a bit of relieve after all that excitement so I'll take up your offer of the use of it's mouth."

Grinning Mark indicated the picnic table from under which came the sound of loud crunching. The General bent down and saw the naked boy crouched there chewing urgently on the chicken bone.

"Come on out of there slut," he said fighting back his laughter.

He reached under the table and grabbing hold of Simon pulled the boy out into the open. He caught hold of the chicken bone with his free hand and wrestled it out from between the boy's teeth.

"Look after that would you," he said chucking the bone in the general direction of Mark who moved quickly to cover it with his foot.

The General dragged Simon clear of the table and keeping a firm grip of his collar forced the boy to his knees. With his free hand he unzipped the flies of his drill trousers and unbuckled his belt. He eased the trousers and then his underpants down over his hips. They fell tumbled about his ankles. His prick freed from restraint kept up stiff and erect raising the front of his shirt. Mark looking on at a distance was struck by the power of his father's haunches, muscles rippling under the dark skin. It was the first time he had seen his father largely undressed since returning home from school and he saw that he had also put on weight. Above the dark forest of the man's pubic hair his stomach bulged comfortably forward, the heavy powerful figure of the black man contrasting dramatically with the thin fragile boy cowering on his knees at his feet.

Simon found himself pulled face forward into the General's crutch. He felt the coarse hairs of the man's dark bush against his cheeks, his nostrils filled with the smell of the man, a stale coarse mixture of the animal scent of sour sweat and shit with just the hint of soap from that morning's shower. Immediately in front of him, almost brushing his lips, rose the General's cock a thick pulsating column of dark flesh ribbed with bulging blood vessels.

Instinctively he pulled back, turning his face away. Heavy blows rocked his head on his shoulders as the General delivered a series of alternate open and back handed slaps across his face. He tasted blood as the man's knuckles raked his face and split his lips.

"Open your fucking mouth whore and suck," the General commanded punctuating his words with open handed slaps.

He grabbed the boy by his ears and pulled him hard into his crutch.

"If he won't do as he's told Dad I'll take him back to Gagool and swap him for Noah. Noah was a good little cock sucker I'll say that for the slut," Simon heard Mark remark somewhere behind him.

The threat was enough. He opened his mouth and the General thrust his swollen member in between his lips. His mouth was filled with the tart metallic taste of pre-cum. He would have started back but the General caught hold of him by his ears holding his head steady as he rammed his rigid cock down into his throat. His gullet closed around the column of pulsating flesh in a reflex attempt to resist its intrusion that served only to increase the man's excitement. Keeping a firm grip of Simon's ears the General brutally pumped the boy's mouth driving the full length of his cock deep into his throat. Simon choked and gagged. He tried to turn his head away but the General held him firm, pumping his mouth and throat with increasing violence and urgency. Suddenly the General froze the full length of his cock sheathed in Simon's throat. There was a roaring in the boy's ears and darkness began to close about him. Then suddenly he felt the man's cock surge within him and his mouth and throat were full of warm viscous fluid. The General held Simon firm as he cock shot gouches of man juice deep into the boy's throat.

At last his lust satisfied he released the boy and throwing himself down on one of the benches by the picnic table poured himself a brimming glass of chilled Chablis.

Simon collapsed onto his hands and knees choking and fighting for breath cum dribbling from his mouth and down his chin.

"Seems to think that he's above drinking my cock juice," the General said laughing grimly. "I have neither the time nor the energy to disabuse the slut of that misapprehension. No doubt that's something you can take up with him when you get him back to the lodge. Meanwhile take him down to the river and get the dirt off him I don't want him messing up the Land Rover more than he already has."

"OK Dad," Mark replied, "there's sure to be some rags in the van I can use."

"You better strip off too Mark. Otherwise you're sure to get your clothes wet."

A faint satisfied smile touched the General's lips as he watched, Mark having shed his clothes, returning from the 4x4 carrying a bundle of rags. A good strong lad he thought with approval, square shoulders, deep chest, strong well-muscled buttocks and firm strong thighs and he held himself well, a confident well grown youth on the verge of manhood. His smile broadened as his eyes rested on his son's cock jutting erect and demanding from the nascent bush of coarse black pubic hair, well grown was he reflected very apposite. If size was anything to go by, when the time came, Mark should have no problem in providing him with a good crop of grand-children. His confidence in his son's ability in that respect was not at all undermined by the fact that he was obviously currently sexually aroused by a young slave boy – what else after all were slave boys for. The Kukuama had a saying 'boys for pleasure women for duty(1)' although he hoped that Mark like him would find pleasure in both. It was just a question of taking advantage of what was available.

Grabbing Simon by his collar Mark half dragged, half marched him down to the river's edge. There could, the General reflected with satisfaction, seeing the two boys together, be no doubt which was the slave and which the master. That would have been so even without the overt stigmata of slavery the white boy bore, the manacles, the collar the brand mark burnt into his bum; the black youth was so large, so confident, so well-nourished that even naked beside the starvelling white boy with his famine stunted frame, painfully thin arms and thighs, hunger defined ribs, the deep dimples on the cheeks of his rump and his fearful acceptance of his own subservience. It was Mark who was now to be the agent of that revenge he had dreamed about in the dark days of his own and his people's servitude.

Mark led Simon out into the river until he was about knee deep in the water. As the younger boy stood quiet and still he set to work sponging him down concentrating in the first place on cleaning the dried pee from the back of his rump and thighs. The clear water flowing down over the smooth curves of the slut's tight bottom and slim thighs giving a sliver sheen to his deeply tanned skin. With a hand on the back of the boy's head Mark pushed forwards forcing the boy to bend down relaxing and opening his bottom. The boy stirred uneasily and murmured as he forced the wet cloth into the cleft of his bottom.

He paused a moment to admire the brand burnt into the side of the brat's rump. He traced its shape with tip of his index finger wondering at how neatly and deeply the hot iron had marked the boy's flesh, imagining the pain the brat must have felt as the glowing metal was pressed against the side of his bottom, wondering what it felt like to bear such an indelible badge of perpetual servitude. He felt a rush of emotion, something almost like affection and pity, tempered with a fair measure of contempt, for the little slut.

On an impulse he bent and briefly kissed the brand before delivering a rough open hand smack on the boy's wet bottom and ordering him to stand up straight and turn to face him. Dipping the scrap of now deeply stained white cloth in the river Mark began to swab down the front of Simon's body starting at his thighs and working upwards. Mark had noticed with amusement that Simon once he had been led into the water had begun to shiver nervously. What had started as a mild tremor had now though developed into a marked trembling combined with a low but very audible whimper.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. The job had to be done he told himself. He slapped the inside of one of the boy's thighs to force his legs apart. He reached out towards the brat's scrotum intending to lift his small hairless balls out of the way so that he could sponge between the boy's legs.

Simon who had been doing his best to stand quiet as he was sponged down, lost his nerve completely and started back. In his terror he lost his balance, staggered and fell backwards his head disappearing under the surface of the river. With his hands pinioned behind his back he could not get himself back onto his feet. He lay flat in the water his feet occasionally breaking the surface as he thrashed about desperately trying to recover himself.

Laughing Mark delved into the water and grabbing the panic stricken brat by a thin arm, hauled him back on his feet.

"Stupid slut," he said slapping the now violently trembling boy hard on the side of the head, "what the fuck is the matter with you. Stand still. I won't bother to pull you out next time. And you'll drown and no one will care a monkey's fuck in hell."

Simon whimpered and shrank away from him.

"Stand still fuck you," Mark snarled and then laughed. "Oh I suppose I know what's wrong with you, scared I'll again squeeze that pathetic little prick of yours while it's still sore from Mamma Gagool's piercing it."

"Well let's have a look and see how it's coming on. Not," he said as he bent down to get a better look at the thing, "not too bad, bit bruised and the flesh round the hole she cut in it still sore from the hot skewer."

Without waiting to a reply to what was after all a rhetorical question he straightened up.

"Look up slut," he ordered quietly, "look into my eyes."

Reaching out he tilted the boy's head back with a hand under his chin the water from the damp cloth he gripped dribbling down the tightly drawn skin of the starveling brat's rib cage giving a silvery sheen to the parchment thin flesh. He looked down into the boy's face, bruised and swollen from the blows he had suffered, his chin and lips smeared with dried cum, his eyes fearful and pleading.

It excited him to see the boy so terrified and to know that he could do whatever he wanted to the little slut. He moved his free hand towards the boy's crutch intending to squeeze the little lump of raw flesh that was his prick, to see the pain flare in the brat's eyes, his face twist in agony, and listen to his screams and pleas for mercy, a mercy that the slut would look for in vain.

But then he hesitated. Grubby, bruised and half-starved as he was the brat was an attractive one; the more attractive in a stray animal terrified sort of way for those very signs of abuse and suffering. Of course the little tyke was just a slave and had to be taught like all slaves to fear and respect his master but ideally a slave should be taught to love his master as well as to fear him. Not the love that is of man for his wife or a father for his son but the fawning uncritical devotion of a mongrel dog for its owner. The sort of love that draws a cur back to cringe at the feet of a master who has flogged it many times in the past and will no doubt do so many times in the future.

Mark the descendant of generations of slave owning warriors, reared in a household where slaves were a commonplace, knew all this almost by instinct alone. These were truths that he had absorbed for all intents and purposes with his mother's milk.

He stood for a moment pondering his next move, sun warm on his bare shoulders, the cool limpid waters of the stream rippling round his calves, looking down into the eyes of the terrified slave boy.

It struck him how similar the boy was in appearance to his friend Bobby. He was a little younger and a good deal thinner than Bobby but he had the same slight build, fair hair, brilliant blue eyes, and soft generous lips. Mark had often rather guiltily imagined Bobby as his slave, knowing that could never be as Bobby was his friend and more the son of a man who had taken him into his house as a guest. Now it seemed to him that fantasy had become reality in a way that did not transgress the traditional rules of his race and caste.

Simon, who had been standing shivering in the stream his head tipped back by Mark's hand under his chin gazing fearfully into his eyes, hoping for kindness but fearing he would find none must have read something in his master's face that gave him hope. Tension seemed to flow from his body and his lips parted hopefully.

Mark sensed and reacted to the change in the boy.

"Not yet whore," he said smiling, "not till I've got you cleaned up a bit,"

"You are a pretty little slut under all that dirt," he remarked as he sponged the filth from the brat's face.

Simon felt his heart swell with pride and gratitude. He had been beaten, bullied and half starved for weeks, for weeks no one had taken notice of him except to curse or hit him. His first taste of the lash had been at the hands of Mark's father. Mark himself had treated him with a casual thoughtless cruelty. From the day his Mother had taken him to Simla Lodge forward he had known only abuse and fear. To him Mark was a terrifying all powerful being. He did not resent or question Mark's authority over him, let alone think of resisting it. Mark was a fact, his authority and power was a fact. He could only submit and obey and hope that he would find a way of pleasing him. He regarded Mark with the same fearful awe that a primitive savage felt for some cruel unpredictable tribal God. Now that all powerful being had spoken to him, had told him he was pretty.

Mark sensed the change in the boy and understood its cause. A faint smile movement aril softened his expression.

"You are a silly little slut," he said, rubbing with the wet cloth at the congealed cum that smeared the boy's lips and chin, "you're just asking to be sent back to Mama Gagool spitting out my Dad's man juice. Do you think you're too important or too refined to swallow it."

He paused waiting for a reply the expression on his face benevolent and, apparently mildly amused. Then suddenly his whole attitude changed and his face darkened.

"Come on filth, I asked you a question answer it," Mark snapped the tone of his voice changing in an instant from good humoured contempt to fierce anger.

Simon who had been lulled into a false sense of security by Mark's earlier compliments and mild manner was thrown into a panic by his sudden change of tone.

"P-p-p-please Sir, please, no Sir please Sir, I don't think I'm too important to swallow your Dad's juice Sir… I'll swallow it next time Sir I promise and yours too Sir…," having once started there seemed no reason why he should ever stop as he babbled uncontrollably on.

Mark silenced him by pushing the dirt encrusted piece of cloth with which he had been sponging his face down his throat and holding it there with a hand across his mouth.

Simon stuttered into silence as Mark looked laughing down into his bulging eyes watching his face slowly turn purple as the boy choked on the foul tasting rag.

"Shut up whore," Mark said mildly, "I asked a question I expected an answer. Nothing more and nothing less. I certainly am not looking for a conversation with a lump of dog shit like you."

"Do you understand?" and he pulled the rag from Simon's mouth and stood back with a cold smile to let the boy wretch.

"Yes Sir," Simon managed, and then began to elaborate on that simple statement only to fall abruptly silent as Mark raised the cloth towards his mouth.

Mark nodded and resumed his work cleaning the dried cum and other filth off the brat's face.

"You've got a lot to learn but I'm sure you'll make a good little slut in the end," Mark said encouragingly his short period of anger apparently as quickly forgotten as it took to rouse. "You've just got to learn to do as you're told, watch the other Ngeni brats and copy how they behave and talk, and for God's sake don't start blabbing like you were doing just now. Nobody wants to hear or cares a monkey's fuck about what you think or say. You live to serve me and please me and if you don't its back to Mamma Gagool with you or off to the pit, one or the other. Concentrate on that and you won't go far wrong. When we get back to the lodge watch the other Ngeni boys there and do as they do and talk as they do. Keep it short and keep it simple."

Come on Mark," the General called from the bank, voice impatient and imperious, "get a move on please. I must get back to Simla Lodge fast."

"Finished now Dad," Mark called cheerfully.

Mark placed his hands on the boy's shoulders and turned him to face the river bank. He gave him a little push and a heavy open handed swat across the back side sending him stumbling awkwardly, his wrists pinioned behind his back, towards the shore. Mark began to make his way towards dry land at a more sober pace not at all embarrassed by a massive erection that caused his swollen prick head to wobble erect just below the level of his belly button.

"Come on Mark," the General called from the bank, voice impatient and imperious, "get a move on please. I must get back to Simla Lodge fast. I have a national emergency to cope with. There'll be plenty of time to fuck that little whore's bottom when I've gone.

"O.K. Dad," Mark called back quickening his pace for the General was an impatient man who did not take well to being kept waiting. "Just got to get dried off and dressed."

"Well hurry up then," the General said brusquely but then added in more emollient terms, "I can see you want the boy badly but I am in a hurry. Now you've got him cleaned up you can have him with you in the front of the Land Rover and you can do what you like with him when you get him back home."

Meanwhile Simon had reached dry land and was waiting to be told what to do next. With the unerring instincts of a half-starved boy he spotted the remains of the chicken leg lying on the picnic table where Mark had thrown it. His first thought was to make a dart for it and grab it. But he was beginning to learn from experience. That way he might get a bite or two at it but he knew it would be quickly taken from him and he would get yet another beating. He checked himself and eyes fixed hungrily on the bone and the few fragments of dirty chicken flesh attached to it he squatted down on his haunches spreading his knees as wide as he could so that his genitals were on full display, deliberately humiliating himself and robbing himself of any pretence of modesty or dignity, begging doglike for scraps.

The General glanced over to where he squatted and laughed.

"That brat of yours is a quick learner Mark," he said.

"What Dad? Oh yes. All right if I let him have it?"

"Yes but do get a move on."

Quickly pulling his shorts up Mark carefully manoeuvred their flies over his erect cock. Easing the zip up over his erection he walked over to the picnic table and gingerly picking up the chicken bone between his finger and thumb he chucked it to where Simon squatted in the dirt. Simon was on the bone in a flash and chewed noisily on it while Mark got himself dried and dressed.

Mark collected the various picnic things and put them back in the Land Rover.. With his pocket knife he cut a few good sized chunks of meat off the cold chicken and placed them on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat.

He walked over to where Simon was kneeling in the dust trying to get the last remains of meat from the chicken leg. He pulled it away from the boy and sent it skimming out into the river. Simon gave a low howl of muted protest. He turned his head to follow it's trajectory until it splashed down in the stream as Mark yanked him to his feet.

The bone landed with a splash far out in the stream. Simon regretfully accepting that there was no chance of recovering it turned his head away from the river only to find Mark's hand gripping his chin, forcing his head back, the black youth's lips pressing hard on his.

Surprised Simon hesitated a split second before responding enthusiastically. He pressed his body back against Mark's and strained upwards with open lips. Mark took immediate advantage of the unspoken invitation. His tongue shot snake like between Simons's parted lips probing deep into the back of his mouth.

Simon felt a rush of confused emotion, excitement, fear, gratitude and even pride were involved. It simply was exciting to be kissed by someone so strong so powerful and so aroused. But that excitement was tinged with fear. Simon could feel the length of Mark's erect penis, a throbbing rod of swollen flesh and gristle pressing against the side of his bottom it's sheer size and rigidity a silent indication of the strength and urgency of the youth's passion and the size of the challenge he would face in satisfying it. But although fearful Simon was also grateful that Mark, a being so superior, so infinitely more important and powerful than himself had shown an interest in him. And all the more grateful since it was only through attracting his Master's interest and retaining it could a slave brat hope to escape the near starvation and grinding drudgery that was the fate of all but a very few, very fortunate boys. And that gratitude was leavened with just a small grain of pride, pride that he had been chosen to be Mark's boy. He must he told himself be a little special to be singled out for such an honour. He would try to show himself worthy of it.

"Come on brat," Mark ordered, "over to the Land Rover quickly now."

Grinning broadly He drove Simon in front of him across the clearing to where the 4x4 stood with a series of short jabs of his knee up the boy's bum. With his wrists pinioned behind his back and the Land Rover standing well clear of the ground Simon found it difficult to into the van. Mark took over, bundling the naked slut bodily into the space immediately in front of the passenger seat. The process required a good deal of pushing and lifting and afforded the General who was already in the driver's seat many delectable glimpses of Simon's firm young limbs and the smooth golden promise of his tight little rump.

The General put the 4x4 into gear and pulled out onto the surfaced road. Mark got himself comfortable, a series of stamps and kicks ensuring that Simon was positioned in such a way as to ensure his own legs had sufficient room to stretch out.

That being achieved he reached out for one of the chunks of chicken meat he had placed on dash board and broke a fragment off. Reaching down he offered it to the naked boy huddled on the floor at his feet. Simon seeing the proffered morsel of cold meat just a few inches from his face lent towards it and taking it from Mark's fingers began to chew on it while Mark and his father chatted over his head.

"Sorry to have interrupted you Mark," the General said chortling, "I could see you had the slut ready to take you up its boy hole but I am afraid that must wait till I can get home."

"That's all right Dad, anyway like they say at school, 'a pleasure postponed is a pleasure gained'."

"And I'd postpone it just a bit more when you get the little whore back home though I can tell, anyone could from the bulge in the front of your shorts, that you'd like to get on with it as soon as you get him out of the car."

"I got a good view of his boy cunt when you were getting him into the ban and it's small and tight. It's clear your prick would be the first up it and you're a big well grown young man. Have him over your knee before you fuck him and loosen him up a bit. You don't want to split him badly the first time you penetrate him. Three fingers knuckle deep should do the trick."

"I was planning to loosen him up first Dad anyway but I was thinking of letting Bobby have first go at the little tyke's bum. I'm sure he's never had the chance to fuck a boy although he's nearly thirteen. Things are very different England than they are here and it would be a nice exciting introduction to the place. And he's a good deal smaller than me so he won't spoil it for me later."

Simon had finished the fragment of chicken flesh. He waited hoping for more. He knew there was more for he had seen, his eyesight sharpened with hunger, the fragments on the dashboard when he was being loaded into the Land-Rover. None being forthcoming he pressed his lips against the side of Mark's thigh touching the bare black skin with his tongue, tasting the slight saltiness of the youth's flesh.

He could hear what his betters were saying, knew they were talking about him and understood more or less what they were talking about. The thought of his playing any part in the discussions did not occur to him. They were his betters they would decide what was to become of him. He had no part to play in such discussions. Better to concentrate his efforts on something he might be able to influence like inveigling another fragment of chicken meat from his young master. As for the bigger decisions they were for his betters to decide, all he could hope to do was to learn what they wanted of him and try to provide it.

Feeling Simon's tentative caresses and understanding their purpose Mark smiled faintly and broke off a further scrap of meat and fed it in his fingers to the hungry little slut while the General continued to talk.

"Mind you again you don't want to make it too easy for the whore. He should feel it when you fuck him first, and afterwards too for that matter. Ramming your cock up a slut's boy cunt is as much an assertion of ownership as burning your brand into its rump and makes as indelible mark on its mind as the hot iron makes on its flesh. It should hurt and hurt badly so it never forgets the moment."

"Don't worry Dad I promise both Bobby and I'll hurt him. You should have heard the way I made little Noah squeal last night and it certainly wasn't the first time I'd been up that one's arse. Squealed like a stuck pig and this brat will do the same I promise you. Anyway there is something really arousing having your boy howling in pain when you're at the very point of shooting your cum into his guts. His suffering adds to your fun."

"That was certainly the opinion of King Charka," Mark"s father said chuckling, "has anyone told you about him. No? Well he was by way of being an ancestor of yours. He ruled in the days before the white man first came. He killed every boy he fucked and he fucked a lot. Just at the point of orgasm he'd snap the child's neck. He said this generated a particular contortion in the boy's guts that it was impossible to achieve in any other way."

"Mind you I wouldn't try it with your slut, not yet anyway, not until you have got a bit more use out of it. Of course if you want to – get on and do it. It's no bad thing to kill a slave boy every so often. Keeps the rest of them on their toes."

Simon huddled on the floor of the Land Rover, squashed into the small space left in front of the passenger seat after Mark's legs and had been accommodated, chewed quietly on the scraps of chicken fed to him in a desultory sort of way by his young master. He could hear the sound of Mark's and his father's voices as they chatted above his head. The noise of the engine and the occasional rattles and thumps of the car on the road made it difficult to understand all of what they were saying. Before long he gave up trying. Why bother, there was nothing he could do to change things. There was no point in struggling or resisting.

Anyway Simon's expectations and sense of entitlement, never very high had been reduced by his experiences since his purchase by Mark's father to nil. He was grateful for the scraps Mark had fed him and he was grateful to be allowed to huddle quietly on the floor of the Land Rover at Mark's feet. That was much better than working under the lash in the pit or being caged in Cagool's hut while the evil old witch chopped body parts off the albino Negro boy.

He wondered if there was by any chance any more chicken for him. Master, he thought of Mark as Master now, had not passed any to him for quite some time. Perhaps he thought he could get away with just reminding him he was there, not demanding of course, not even asking, but just sort of reminding. He was crouched at Mark's feet his shoulders pressed against the front of the seat on which Mark was sitting. His face was just inches away from the side of Mark's thigh, very tentatively he rested his cheek against it. Mark moved slightly but made no other acknowledgement of his touch. Mark's shorts had risen up his legs exposing strong black thighs, plucking up, courage, feeling he was being very daring, but hoping for the best, for he had got away with it before and might get away with it again, Simon pressed his lips once again against his master's firm dark flesh and then touched it with his tongue. Down there Mark smelt of soap with just an underlying hint of stale sweat.

"Hungry little tyke," Mark said chuckling indulgently, "there's no chicken left but you can suck my fingers clean maybe there's a taste of meat on them."

He reached down with his right hand and felt Simon's lips soft and damp close about them. The boy sucked and licked enthusiastically at Mark's fingers until the youth judging that there was not even the taste of chicken left on them withdrew them. Mark wiped the boy slobber from his fingers in Simon's fair hair. The boy sat half dozing on the floor of the Land Rover his cheek resting on his young master's bare thigh while Mark and the General chatted desultorily over his head and the car steadily ate up the miles to Simba Lodge.

Simon was brought back to full consciousness by the Land Rover jerking to a halt. Above his head Mark swung the passenger door open. Simon caught a brief glimpse of an evenly raked gravel drive, closely cropped grass lawns and a white single storied bungalow surrounded by an open sided wooden veranda before Mark tipped him bodily out of the car. Mark jumped out after him.

"I won't hang around Mark," the General called from the driver's seat, "I must get up North sharpish to take charge up there. There should be everything you and your English friend need in the guest bungalow. If there's anything you find you need help yourself from the main house. Have a good time. Please apologise to your friend for my not being here to welcome him. I'll see him when I get back but I don't know when that will be. Probably about a fortnight to three weeks. It usually takes about that time to drive off one of these nomad bands and kill enough of them to discourage them from coming back for a couple of years. Have a good time."

"Thanks Dad I'm sure I will," Mark called back and leaning forward slammed the passenger door shut. There was the sharp crunch of gravel as the General put the Land Rover into gear and drove off towards the big house whose gabled roof could be seen over the thorn trees in the distance.

Mark was left standing on the gravel drive with Simon huddled naked at his feet.

"Come on, on your feet slut," Mark ordered bending down and taking hold of Simon by the arm hauled him to his feet. Cramped and stiff from his time crammed into a corner of the Land Rover stood unsteadily his head bowed with fatigue.

Mark urged the younger boy stumbling across the expanse of neatly raked gravel towards the bungalow and up the veranda steps. He swung the front door open and guided the boy inside.

The bungalow was very similar in size and construction to the old farm manager's house in which Simon's father and mother had taken refuge when expelled from Simla Lodge but in contrast to the dilapidated squalor of the latter it was well maintained and luxuriously furnished. The dark floor boards were highly polished, the expensive carpets and rugs meticulously cleaned, sunlight filtered through partly drawn heavy drapes, to dimly light rooms heavy with the scent of newly cut flowers. It was clear that although the bungalow was now deserted considerable trouble had been taken preparing it for the reception of Mark and his young guest from England.

Mark led Simon across the hall into the sitting room. Abandoning the boy in the centre of the room he walked over to the windows and drew back the curtains, flooding the place with light. Simon found himself in a large room with a marble fire place currently filled with a large bowl of elaborately arranged flowers. The room was furnished with deep arm-chairs and a super- sized sofa together with a scattering of occasional tables.

Exhausted and confused for a moment the years fell away and Simon thought himself back in Simla Lodge in the days before the freedom fighters came and took it all away from them, the days when they were all happy together. He looked about expecting to see Mummy somewhere, for back then she was never far away, looking cool and beautiful in some elegant summer dress. But then reality returned and he saw himself as he was standing naked in the middle of the room, a slave collar weighing heavily round his neck, wrists secured behind his back, ankles hobbled by a short length of chain, a captive and a slave.

He watched with a feeling of sick dread as Mark turned away from the window to face him. Looking at Mark he saw not a coloured youth only a few years older than himself but a dark menacing figure of unbridled power and authority both arbitrary and unpredictable. Simon remembered both the savage beating and the chicken scraps and petting he had received at his young master's hand. He wondered uneasily what Mark intended. He knew only one thing for certain that Mark's decision whatever it was would be final. Once made there was nothing he could do, nobody he could appeal to, to alter it.

Mark strolled across the room towards him. He pause by a low circular table set in front of one of the deep leather armchairs and stooped to pick up something from it. He straightened and Simon saw he was holding a light riding crop perhaps 3 foot or so in length [a metre more or less], its cane or possibly fibre glass core encased in plaited leather. It tapered from, at its broadest the width of a man's forefinger to almost nothing. There was no handle as such. A silver cap topped the thick end of the cane and perhaps five inches [12/13 centimetres] below that a raised band of plaited leather from which a looped leather thong hung encircled it. Attached to its tip was a knotted leather thong designed to curl about and nip the tender taughtly stretched flesh of some unfortunate child.

Mark hefted it experimentally in his hand trying it for weight and movement. Simon fought back a sob as he saw the expression on the black youth's face cold, cruel and merciless.

Alerted by the sound Mark looked at him and smiled. Simon saw the smile and began to cry in earnest.

"Keep your eyes down in the presence of your betters you silly little slut," Mark said his voice amused and mocking as he slipped his right wrist through the crop's looped thong. Letting the crop dangle from his wrist he took a key from a plate on the occasional table.

"You've got a lot to learn Simon," Mark remarked as he advanced on the trembling brat, "and you will have to learn it very quickly if you don't want to be sent back to Cagool or perhaps the big pit. Which would you prefer slut. starved and worked to death under the overseers' lash in the great pit or having your living carcass slowly dismembered by that evil old witch Cagool?"

"Not," he continued chuckling, "that what you would prefer matters at all. I decide what happens to you, no one else. If you try hard and make a good eager little cunt boy for me I may decide to keep you until that is I get bored of you. If you don't try or just don't succeed you'll be back with Mummy Cagool chopping bits off you quick as quick can be."

Now he was standing directly in front of Simon. Cupping the boy's chin in the palm of his hand he tipped his head back and spent a few seconds gazing into his eyes enjoying the fear and abject submission that he saw there. With his left hand he fingered the boy's tiny hairless balls and thin little prick. The latter held tight against the front of Simon's tummy by the thin chain looped round his waste with its loose end attached to the ring set in his glans. It stood, small though it was, proud and erect, throbbing with boyish eagerness despite his obvious terror.

Mark moved round to stand behind Simon. The tip of the crop hanging loose from his wrist brushed against the the back of Simon's shins as he unlocked the chain joining the two metal rings clamped about his wrists securing his hands behind his back. Simon started convulsively and cried out in terror.

This time Mark laughed openly.

"You'll soon have something really to cry about beyond a mere tap on your shin," he promised.

There were a couple of clicks as the locks securing the short length of chain to the two steel bands around Simon's wrists were released.

"Hands together on the back of your head," Mark ordered as he knelt down to unlock the chain securing the other boy's ankles.

"Now stay there and do not move."

Mark walked quickly from the room only to return a minute or two later carrying a large white bath towel. He dropped it on the floor in front of Simon and roughly spread it to cover the carpet there with his foot.

"Come on move forward, keep your hands on your head. I want you standing on that towel," Mark instructed guiding Simon as he shuffled forwards with a hand on the back of his neck.

"Good boy," he said eventually apparently satisfied, "Now we can get on with your training. Mum makes such a fuss if I get slave blood on the furniture or carpets."

Mark stood directly in front of Simon holding the crop between his two hands, flexing it menacingly as he spoke.

"Pay attention slut. You are a slave. Your mother sold you to my father as a slave. There is no escape, no going back. A slave you are and a slave you will stay. You must act slave, think slave, talk slave. I will teach you using this," he flexed the cane suggestively between his two hand and smiled coldly.

"It will be hard for you but you will learn."

"My methods," there was a hint of laughter in his voice, "are simple. To be sure of having your attention before I tell you something I will give you a cut across that cute little bottom of yours to make sure you are paying attention – like this."

Mark moved to one side, He raised his right hand holding the cane over his shoulder. Simon whimpered and clenched the muscles in his bottom in anticipation of the coming blow. Mark gave himself a second or two to enjoy his victim's terror. Then with a sudden explosion of energy lashed the rod down across the boy's naked rump. The rich hiss of the descending cane was interrupted by the sharp crack of wood striking firm boy's flesh. Simon squealed and jumped, clapping his two hands against his burning rump.

"Get back in position – Stand up straight, head bowed, hands clasped behind your neck, feet together, quick whore," Mark snapped angrily reinforcing his command with a vicious flick of the cane across the side of Simon's thigh.

Whimpering Simon obeyed. Mark paused for a moment to examine the welt that the cane had scored across the smooth curve of the boy's bottom. He ran his finger tip along it while he watched the blood, driven out by the initial impact of the cane flowing back into the broken blood vessels as the stripe changed colour from white to deepest red. He had seen many Ngeni boy's whipped and whipped hard but even when their skin was torn and their blood flowed freely their dark bodies obscured the marks of the whip and produced nothing as exciting or as colourful.

"Now stay like that."

Mark took half a step back, away from the trembling boy. Very gently he laid the rod across the curve of Simon's rump. The boy tensed at the touch of the cane and a strange half strangled sound came from him, part moan, part whimper, an unspoken plea for mercy. Mark paused for a moment as Simon waited shivering for the next stroke. He was enjoying the boy's suffering too much to hurry things and he knew very well that the terror of a beating was increased considerably if it was administered with proper deliberation.

After what no doubt seemed to Simon as he waited sick with trepidation an age but was only in reality a couple of minutes, Mark lifted the cane over his shoulder, paused again and then brought it cracking down for a second time across the whimpering brat's bottom. Again Simon jerked convulsively as the pain exploded in his rump and coursed through his body. This time though he managed to keep his hands locked together across the back of his neck. Mark could see that it was a struggle for him to do so but he did so.

"Lesson one," Mark said raising his voice to be heard over the boy's wild sobbing, "stay in position while you are being beaten."

Suddenly without any warning Mark lashed the cane across for a third time across the boy's buttocks.

"Lesson two…" he said evenly as Simon fought to keep in position…

***

Mark had switched the lights on long ago. He had not bothered to draw the curtains and the windows were rectangular areas of blackness. Simon was still on his feet – just. He stood swaying unsteadily, blood streaming from his lacerated rump and flowing down the back of his legs. His bottom felt as if the flames of a blazing torch were being played against it. His whole body was screaming from cramp from being forced to maintain his position for so long. The floor seemed to heave and turn under his feet.

It was time to stop Mark decided regretfully for he was enjoying himself. However the important job was done. Not of instruction because he doubted if the sobbing brat driven near hysterical with pain and exhaustion would be able to repeat more than a small fraction of the 'lessons' that had been beaten into him over the past five hours although no doubt some more lingered in his subconscious. The important thing that had been achieved was the pain and the fear that the brat would remember to its dyeing day, the two elements as Mark had often heard his father remark, when ordering a flogging of some delinquent slave brat, that formed the essential foundation of the relationship between Master and slave.

In any event there was one further point he wanted to establish that night. His father often went on about the qualities that you looked for in a high quality slave boy. According to him obedience might be the first and most important of the servile virtues but the obedience required of a good slave boy involved more than a simple compliance with its master's verbal orders. A high quality boy had to be aware that there would be occasions that its master's unspoken imperatives overruled any verbal orders or standing instructions and be able to identify such occasions. With slave boys of course this ability was a matter of instinct not intellect. In one sense either a boy had it or he had not. On the other hand you could not simply tell at a glance if a boy had that instinctive knowledge or not. In his experience, his father had said, if you dug deep enough you would discover somewhere in a boy's psyche his essential slave nature. The deeper you delved the more likely you were to find it. Simon exhausted and on the verge of mental and physical collapse, incapable of calculation and subterfuge, provided the ideal opportunity to do this.

As for the Master having what his Dad referred to as an 'unspoken imperative' Mark thought with a faint grin as he eased the front of his shorts to accommodate his swollen cock he certainly had that and its existence was very clearly signalled. Mark found beating a boy very exciting, as Bobby, whom he had on more than one occasion tipped face down over his knees before giving him a half playful spanking on his deliciously wriggling bare bottom, could testify. And if giving half playful smackings with the palm of his hand made the front of his shorts bulge how much more intense did his excitement become when the beating was not at all playful and the victim's screams and pleas for mercy were heartfelt and above all when the first gleaming scarlet beads of fresh blood began to well from the sobbing brat's lacerated rump.

Mark took hold of the boy by the elbow and turned him so that he was facing him his hands still clasped on the back of his neck. He placed both hands on Simon's shoulders and pressed firmly downwards. Responding to the pressure the boy sank slowly to his knees, his hands still clasped to the back of his neck, his face level with the bulge in the front of Mark's shorts which seemed to be growing ever more pronounced

Mark stood looking down at the top of Simon's fair head waiting to see what the boy would do next. The problem facing him was clear. Mark's prick judging from the way it tented the front of his shorts demanded urgent attention. But forbidden to move his hands from the back of his neck and with Mark's wearing shorts and no doubt underpants how was he to get at it. Mark watched stone faced as the brat struggled with increasing desperation and urgency to solve this conundrum. Pushing his face hard up against Mark's waist Simon tried to grip his belt and tease it free of its buckle. Looking down Mark could see the top of Simon's golden head pressing into his crutch and below that his bruised bottom pushed out and oozing blood, wriggling desperately as the slut worried at his belt with his teeth. Impatiently he turned his attention to Mark's flies. With a great deal of wriggling., twisting and pulling Simon finally managed to open the zip with his teeth. Encouraged by this success he buried his face in Mark 's flies and tried to burrow through the layers of shirt and underpants to reach the swollen rod of throbbing meat below.

The day had been a warm one and Mark had been sitting in the Land Rover for many hours quietly sweating. There was still the faint lingering smell of soap and cleanliness from his morning shower but Simon's nostrils were overwhelmingly filled with the animal odours of hot sweaty boy flesh supplemented down there by the faint yet distinct smells of human faeces, urine and precum. This did nothing to decrease his excitement. On the contrary they combined with the pressing imperative represented by the swelling in the crutch of Mark shorts to fuel his lust.

In the course of the last three months Simon's father had died, his mother had sold him as a slave to a vengeful Negro, he had been beaten, branded, starved, worked to exhaustion and beyond in the hell of the big pit, and threatened with a lingering death at the hands of the ghastly old witch Gagool. Fear, hunger, exhaustion had combined to destroy his spirit and to erase from his mind the assumptions, the habits of thought, the sense of entitlement learnt from his parents. He not only lost the will to resist more fundamentally he lost the ability to resent. He accepted that he was Mark's boy, that Mark or his Dad could do what ever they liked with him, that was the way the world was.

Once long ago when his father was alive before his Mother sold him to the General he was jealous of Mark. He envied him his clothes, his pony, his opportunities, all the things and privileged the black boy enjoyed and he did not. No more, Mark was no longer just another boy, the same as himself but luckier with a richer more powerful Dad who could be envied and indeed hated. He was an infinitely superior being with whom a slave boy like himself had nothing in common, set so far above him that comparisons were impossible. He feared him as a slave should his Master, he was in awe of him. He did not envy him, for he knew Mark was his master and that between them lay an unbridgeable chasm. The difference between slave and Master was not of degree but of kind.

Nor did he hate him, not even now with his bottom shredded by the cane and every muscle in his body screaming with the agony of cramp. If he had thought about perhaps he would have seen such a reaction would have been quite illogical. Mark after was only training him to be a slave and if he did not learn that quickly he would be returned to the Great Pit to be worked to death or passed to Gagool to have his living body slowly dismembered in the service of mutti. In fact he did not think, he just suffered, unquestioning, unresisting. There was very little now if there was anything at all to set him apart from the mere animal.

And it was like an animal he now acted. Driven by fear and sex, two animal compulsions, aroused by the smells of boy flesh and boy sex emanating from Mark's crutch, Simon attempted to access his young master's genitals by main force. Still with his hands locked behind his head he grabbed Mark's shorts by the slack cloth at the junction of their legs and threw all his weight into an attempt to drag them down over Mark's hips with sheer force. His knees scrabbled on the floor his bum went back wriggling energetically as he fought to gain purchase.

Mark off balance and taken by surprise staggered forward and almost fell. He swore angrily and bunching his right hand drove his fist hard into the side of Simon's head catching him squarely on his ear. Stunned by the weight of the blow, his head ringing Simon's teeth relaxed their grip and Mark recovered his balance.

"What the hell do you think you are doing you stupid whore?" he shouted driving his knee into Simon's face, rocking the boy back on his knees.

"Come on and get your lips round my cock and start sucking."

His head ringing from the blows and blood running down his chin from a split lip Simon knelt for a moment feeling dazed. Then satisfying his Master's needs and his own whore instincts taking precedence over obedience to earlier instructions he unclasped his hands from behind his neck and reached for Mark's belt buckle.

Simon, clumsy in his excitement and eagerness, fumbled with the buckle. Eventually he managed to unfasten it. Reaching up he took hold of Mark's shorts and underpants by the waist band and with one swift movement drew them down to his knees. A blast of stale air intensely charged with the odours of excited young manhood struck Simon sending his blood racing with excitement,

Mark's t-shirt reached only half way down his bum. He was a strong well-built youth on the cusp of manhood. Simon paused a moment wondering at his young master's cock. Not as large as the General's, which earlier in the day had been forced down his gullet and filled his throat with floods of warm viscous man's seed it was nevertheless so much larger and imposing than his own twig like little boy's tool. A swollen column of dark pulsating flesh and gristle rising from a small but dense forest of coal black wiry hair it stood, erect and demanding; only a few inches from his face. From the slit in its dark pink helmet beads of pre-cum welled glistening in the electric light.

It seemed to Simon to dominate his whole field of vision. He regarded it with the same mixture of fear and awe that he had come to accord Mark. To him it symbolised and made real his master's unlimited power and authority over him. Eagerly he shuffled forward on his knees and burying his face in Mark's damp sweaty crutch took the shaft of throbbing shaft of blood filled gristle into his mouth.

His attitude was very different from earlier in the day when he had baulked at taking Mark's father 's cock into his mouth. Then his reluctance to take that 'thing' into his mouth and suck on it had only been overcome by a series of blows about the head and the implicit threat of worse to come.

Partly this was because since that morning he had learnt two lessons, that he had to do 'it' and that doing 'it' was not too bad.

Then he had been taken by surprise by the General's assault. He had no idea that it was coming. One moment he was standing knee deep in the river being washed down by Mark, the next he had been forced to his knees and the General was pushing his swollen prick, oozing pre-cum, into his face. Now he had had plenty of warnings. His experience with the General taught him what to expect. That he might expect it from Mark in due course was made clear to him by that youth's very obvious excitement. He would have been a very obtuse boy to miss the significance of the ever more pronounced tenting in the front of Mark's shorts.

But more important than these specific material factors a deeper and more universal need common to every human being but strongest in the young was in play. The need, to put it at its basic, to belong to someone or something, or at a slightly higher level to have someone who cares about you or at least whom you hope cares about you and about whom you care. It is the need that binds the abused and starving child to its abusers until they go too far and the neighbours, the police, the school and the social workers are all left trying to explain why they did not intervene before it was too late.

Simon had lost his father, been rejected by his mother, cast adrift utterly friendless in a cruel and heartless world. Mark was the first person to show him any kindness even though the kindness was off hand and contemptuous and far outweighed by his cruelty. In Simon's friendless misery a morsel of of half eaten chicken and a little meaningless rough petting was enough to secure his devotion. As for the beatings and abuse he had persuaded himself he had brought them on himself by his stupidity and stubbornness. Mark beat him to try to make him a better boy. He should be and was grateful to him – though the beatings had hurt.

Simon longed for an opportunity to show his devotion and gratitude to Mark. Now kneeling naked at his feet Mark's blood bloated cock head bobbing about a fraction of an inch from his mouth was his opportunity. He pushed his head between the two strong well muscled ebony pillars that were Mark's thighs and twisted round so that he could get his tongue up behind the youth's loosely hanging balls heavy with stored semen and teased the hyper-sensitive strip of flesh that lay at the junction of Mark's legs between the back of his balls and the beginning of his anus. Mark moaned and tensed. Opening his mouth as wide as he could Simon wrapped his lips around his balls and sucked vigorously.

Turning his attention to Mark's cock, rigid, pulsating and leaking pre-cum from the urethra, he ran his tongue its full length from its roots among the dark tuft of wiry pubic hair to its swollen cap. There he spent a minute or two teasing Mark's piss slit with the tip of his tongue savouring the strangely tart metallic taste of his master's pre-cum. He ran his tongue along his lips, dampening them, before taking Mark's throbbing prick into his mouth. His soft agile lips enveloped the youth's swollen glans. Swallowing he pushed his head forward struggling to take Mark's prick deep into his throat. His gullet contracted resisting the invasion. Simon pulled back, drew breath, and thrust forward again and again, each forward thrust driving his master's prick a painful fraction of an inch deeper down his throat.

Mark looked down at the top of Simon's fair head bobbing vigorously away at his crutch. Blood seethed and roared in his head. The most exquisite sensations of pleasure and excitement and power coursed through his body generated by the boy's mobile lips and tight warm throat. He knew he was on the point of orgasm. Blackness seemed to rise and swirl about him. Seizing Simon by the ears he pulled the brat down onto his cock while thrusting heavily forward with his hips, sheathing the full length of his cock in the boy's throat. He arched his body, the muscles in his buttocks pulsed and writhed as he pumped his seed into Simon's guts.

Gripped firmly by his ears, his face pulled hard into Mark's crutch, Simon choked and gagged on the semen flooding with youthful vigour and generosity from his master's cock. He swallowed hard, desperate to swallow every last drop of the precious fluid. Precious in that it came from his master, a real and visible proof that he had served his purpose and pleased him. He knew that if he allowed any of it to dribble from his mouth he would receive yet another savage beating on a rump already bruised and bleeding from the rod. But that was not the main reason he fought to swallow Mark's seed. That was because it was the only way open to him to demonstrate his devotion and total submission to his Master. That is not to say he knew that of itself, intellectually, but rather instinctively from the inchoate emotions and instincts excited and released from his few weeks of servitude.

Nor did Mark understand other than intuitively that some tipping point in the relationship between himself and his slave had been achieved and passed. But that he did somehow understand this was shown by his, still grasping Simon by the ears, pulling the boy to his feet, forcing his head back and kissing him hard on his open lips. He stood for a moment like that darting his tongue down deep into the back of Simon's throat tasting his own cum in the boy's mouth. Then he released his grip of the brat's ears and stood back wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Stay here," he ordered gruffly.

"And get your hands back behind your head," he added sharply. He might be pleased with the boy but that was no reason to slacken off with him. He would only see it as a sign of weakness and try to take advantage. It was better and in the long term kinder to be strict.

Simon wearily got back into position. He was exhausted and his whole body ached. The room seemed to be revolving slowly round him and the floor was shifting under his feet.

Mark hurried to the bathroom and dampened a flannel with warm water. Carrying this and a dry towel he returned to the sitting room to find Simon standing somewhat unsteadily where he had left him. With a hand on the boy's shoulder he turned him so he was facing away from him. Blood was still oozing from the brat's bottom where repeated strokes of the cane had torn his skin but it was already beginning to thicken and the flow of blood to slacken. Kneeling down he sponged the dried and drying blood from the back of Simon's thighs.

"Come on," he said getting to his feet and hustling Simon from the room before fresh blood had the opportunity of trickling down the back of his legs again and marking the carpet. It was a pity he thought Mum made such an unreasonable fuss about getting Ngeni blood on the furniture but she did and if when she got back from her most recent shopping trip to Paris she found the merest speck on the carpet she would go and on and on.

He hurried Simon down the short corridor to the back of the bungalow and out through the kitchen to the backyard. It was quite dark outside but he knew very well where the light switch was by the back door and he flicked it on lighting up the high walled enclosure with a harsh unforgiving glare. He guided Simon across the yard to a small iron barred cage. On its concrete floor was a bowl of water and an old thread bare blanket.

"Hands behind your back," he ordered and Simon heard the chink of a metal chain and the click of a lock as his hand were secured behind his back.

He felt Mark's hand on the back of his neck forcing him to his knees before the open door to the cage.

"Get in quick," Mark snapped accompanying the order with a hefty boot up the arse.

Simon heard the door of the cage swing closed behind him and rattle of a bolt being shot as Mark locked him in. Then the sound of receding footsteps and the yard was plunged into sudden darkness as Mark re-entered the house and switched the light off. Simon crawled across the concrete to where the blanket lay tumbled on the floor. He stretched himself out on it and too exhausted even to feel hungry immediately fell asleep.

Back in the kitchen Mark checked his watch. It was too late to go up to the main house for supper. He would have to make do with what there was in the bungalow's kitchen. He doubted if that would be much of a hardship. He was sure his father would have seen to it that the bungalow was fully stocked with food for him.

***

Mark woke the next morning to find the sunshine streaming through the gap in the curtains sending a bar of bright light across the floor of the bungalow's main bedroom where he had spent the night. He stretched luxuriously in the double bed enjoying the feel of the fresh sheets cool against his bare skin. He felt pleasantly rested and comfortably replete after a decent supper followed by a good night's sleep. He lay for a moment in that comfortable state halfway between sleep and full consciousness thinking over the days ahead.

Today was the day Bobby was due to arrive for his stay. He had missed him and it would be fun having him here and showing him around. With Dad away and the use of the guest bungalow they would be able to take their game to new lengths and with Simon available to them they would be free of those irritating limitations that convention placed on their activities together. It would be good to show Bobby at last what real slavery involved even if the reality was experienced by him vicariously and anyway Simon, he reflected, looked remarkably similar to Bobby, just a little younger and a good deal thinner and slighter. If Bobby was starved and worked hard he would be a dead ringer for the other boy.

This thought conjured up a number of pleasing images and Mark lay on his back with his eyes half closed for a few minutes enjoying them until a strong sense of what was right and appropriate jerked him back to reality. Bobby was his friend and just as important in this context his guest. He was off limits. Any way why should he waste time imagining doing things to and with Bobby that he knew he would never in reality perform when he could do anything he liked to Simon.

Despite this comforting reflection he found his mind returning repeatedly to Bobby as his slave, his collar locked round his neck, his brand burnt into the side of his firm young rump. To put an end to these imaginings and feeling distinctly guilty he got out of bed and padding across to the bath room plunged into a cold shower.

Feeling considerably calmer he towelled himself down and got dressed. A quick glance at his watch told him it was half past nine and that he was in danger of missing breakfast at the main house as he had missed dinner the previous evening. He had done pretty well for himself just the same but like all teen age boys he had a healthy appetite and he felt quite ready for another substantial meal.

Of course it would mean leaving Simon for another hour or so but locked in his cage with his hands manacled behind his back he was not going anywhere and the brat had a bowl of fresh water, he had checked that last night. Of course the slut would be hungry, he hadn't had anything to eat since midday yesterday but he would survive and hunger was as his father often remarked a great tamer of brats.

Mark had plenty of time he thought to have a nice leisurely breakfast and get Simon fed and cleaned up before Bobby was due. He would only get into Kikuyana International Airport at about 3.30 pm and it would take him at least a couple of hours to get to Simla Lodge from there even in the presidential Rolls with motor cycle escorts (Mark had suggested sending the Presidential Jet to get his friend first from Heathrow and then as a concession from Cairo but his father vetoed both suggestions on the grounds that the plane had to be kept at Paris ready to fly his mother home immediately she had had enough of shopping. His alternative suggestion that the Republic should pay for Bobby to fly first class on one of the two scheduled flights into Kikuyana was blocked by Bobby's father who said that he would pay the boy's airfare and he would fly tourist. The Rolls-Royce and police outriders were suggested by the General as an alternative to all of these in order to placate his son.)

Mark walked briskly up to the lodge enjoying the morning sunshine. With his father away in the North and his mother and elder sister busy shopping in Paris, Mark breakfasted alone in the large panelled dining room that could have easily, from its appearance have been situated in some country house in the Cotswolds as in an obscure corner of sub-tropical Africa. That is were it not for the unremitting sunshine blazing down outside and the four young bare footed Ngeni slave boys, with iron collars round their necks and the tight white shorts that contrasted so dramatically with their glistening ebony skins, serving at table.

The food too would not have been out of place in some affluent household in the Home Counties. The General having in his time serving as a boy in a white settler household observed the rituals of the British breakfast had adopted them himself in the time of his prosperity.

Mark having woken his palate with a chilled freshly pressed orange juice, proceeded to consume a bowl of porridge followed by large plate of bacon (three rashers), fried egg, pork sausages (two), mushrooms, baked beans, fried potatoes, fried bread and black pudding accompanied by a couple of cups of coffee and topped off with toast and marmalade.

Leaving the Ngeni serving boy's to clear the table and quarrel over the cold bacon rinds he had left on his plate he set off to walk back to the bungalow.

Simon woke shivering. It would he knew get very hot very quickly once the sun was out but now in the dim light of early dawn and with only a single thread bare blanket to cover him he was very cold. To make his misery more complete he was also very hungry. He had been so exhausted when Mark had eventually locked him in the cage for the night that neither his stomach aching with hunger nor the pain from his rump shredded by the cane kept him awake. Now though he felt both intensely. But there was nothing, locked in the cage, his wrists chained together behind his back, he could do about it. He huddled down naked on the hard concrete floor trying to make the most of the inadequate protection offered by the thin blanket. The minutes crawled by and lengthened into hours and he sank deeper and deeper into apathetic misery.

The sun rose and strengthened. Before long the day began to heat up. At first he felt just pleasantly warm. It steadily grew hotter, the sun rose higher and came round so that it was shining directly into the slave kennel. There was no shade apart from the thin stripes thrown across the concrete floor by the bars of the cage. The heat grew stronger and stronger. Simon became thirsty. He found that even the water in the bowl had been heated by the sun. Hunger gnawed at his guts. The cuts on his bottom burnt fiercely. He lay in the sun on the concrete floor powerless to brush away the flies that crawled over his naked flesh and buzzed about his nostrils and eyes.

It was only the appearance of Mark in the yard, carrying a battered and dirty wooden bowl that roused him from his torpor. It took Simon a minute or two to react to his Master's presence. He raised his head from the ground and blinked, momentarily clearing the flies that swarmed around his eyes away. Then seeing the bowl, galvanised by the prospect of food, he got his feet under himself and started across the cage. The bowl meant only one thing to him (food) and he wanted part of it.

Mark was his Master both an object of fear and terror and a potential source of food and a means of release from the cage. To speak to him without being spoken to first would get him a beating. To call out to him was even more unthinkable. But he was desperate for food and dreaded having to spend more time in the fast becoming inferno of the cage. Partly driven by instinct and partly prompted by the memory of the scraps of food he had managed to beg the previous day, he squatted down and pressing the insides of his wide spread thighs up against the bars in a grotesque and abject imitation of a begging dog began to whine plaintively.

His attention caught by the noise Mark looked at the slut and smiled, the smile a nice mixture of contempt and amusement touched by a mild affection. The boy was squatting, thighs spread wide apart, pressed tight up against the railings of the cage, his genitals shamelessly exhibited pressed out between a gap in the bars, devoid of dignity, modesty, pride or self-respect.

Mark strolled over to the cage, Simon's whimpers increasing in volume and urgency as he (and the bowl of food) drew nearer. Standing close to the railings Mark placed the bowl on the ground and reached out with his right hand to fondle the slut's fair head. Simon could now see into the bowl. It was almost full maize porridge. To less hungry eyes a peculiarly unappetising mound of yellowish stodge, the sight roused Simon to a frenzy of famine induced excitement. Turning his head he nuzzled the palm of Mark's hand and thrust the inside of his spread thighs against the cages railings forcing his knees even wider apart and pushing his small hairless genitals between the bars.

"Hot little boy bitch," Mark murmured approvingly pressing his open free hand against the brat's proffered testicles, feeling his small prick hard and throbbing against his palm.

Emboldened Simon dared to look up into his master's face running the tip of his tongue along his parted lips.

"Not now slut," Mark said laughing.

Unlocking the gate of the kennels he swung it open.

"Come on, out you come boy," Mark ordered standing to one side and pushing the bowl forward with his foot.

Simon shuffled through the low doorway on his knees and headed straight for the bowl. With his hands manacled behind his back he could neither lift the bowl nor the food it contained to his mouth. Down on his hands and knees he buried his face in the glutinous mound of maize porridge. Unable to use his hands to steady the bow, in his desperation to get the food into his belly, he pushed the bowl in front of him across the floor until it lodged against the wall of the cage. With the bowl caught there he got his head well down and oblivious to the exhibition he was making of his open bottom guzzled eagerly at the lukewarm pap.

Mark moved round so he was standing immediately behind the brat. Bending down he slipped a hand between Simon's legs and lifted, forcing his bottom higher while the boy continued to eagerly gulp down the porridge. Mark spent a moment or two looking down thoughtfully at his young slave's raised bottom, the previous night's beating had left livid welts across the smooth curves of the boy's sun tanned flesh, underlying these lines of fresh raw flesh were the darker fainter blotches left by earlier floggings. He would have liked to have produced the brat for Bobby with an unmarked bottom but that clearly was not going to be possible. The most he could do was to rub some more of Cagool's lotion into the bruises and give them time to fade.

On the other hand perhaps the sight of Simon's sore backside would explain to Bobby more clearly and explicitly than he could ever hope to do verbally the difference between the pretend games the two of them used to play in secret and the harsh reality of African slavery.

Also remembering the feel of Bobby's hard little prick when he had him lying across his knees, squealing with a mixture of pain and delighted excitement as he delivered a series of heavy open handed smacks across his wriggling rump it was probable that he might very well find the state of the slut's backside positively exciting.

Simon had by now eaten almost all the maize porridge. The empty bowl was tilted up against the wall of the kennels rattling noisily as he tried to lick the very last traces of food from its sides.

"It's all finished now boy," Mark announced kicking the bowl away out into the centre of the yard.

Ignoring Simon's whimper of protest he gripped him firmly by an arm just below the shoulder and dragged him to his feet. He marched him across the yard to the far corner where at the bottom of a circular hole in the concrete floor flowing water ran along a small channel towards the river. Mark unlocked the boy's cock ring and eased the plug out of his bottom and ordered him to squat over the hole. With his wrists still secured behind his back Simon crouched wobbling precariously over the hole straining to empty himself while Mark fetched rags and pales of steaming water from the kitchen.

"Up," he ordered poking Simon in the bottom with his toe.

He crossed to a tap set in the yards wall with a hose pipe attached. Turning the tap on he first swilled away any residual filth from around the hole. Then taking hold of Simon by the back of his neck with one hand he bent him forward while directing a. Jet of water into the cleft of his bottom. Once the worst of the dirt had been removed he thoroughly washed the boy's hole using his index finger to force the soapy rag past the sphincter deep into the Simon's body ringing whimpers more or less of equal parts of excitement and pain from the wriggling boy. Using a fresh rag he sponged the congealed blood left following the previous night's beating from the back of the slut's thighs and bottom before cleaning the congealed maize porridge from around his mouth and chin.

He led Simon across the yard to a stone bench. It was not until he had seated himself on it that he unlocked the cuffs securing the boy's wrists behind his back. Without waiting for an order the boy moved quickly to clasp his hands on the back of his neck.

Mark smiled with approval, the brat he thought was learning fast. With one hand on Simon's naked hip he turned the boy to face him.

Leaning forward Mark took Simon's small hairless balls no bigger than two small olives between his finger and thumb, twisting and lifting them to check for soreness and abrasions round the roots of the ball sac where the metal cock ring had bitten into the boy's flesh restricting the flow of blood to his testicles. Simon did not move his hands from their position clasped on the back of his neck but he shifted uneasily under Mark's touch.

"Stand still," Mark snapped giving the boy's balls a sharp admonitory tweak.

He was pleased with the boy's progress but that did not mean he was going to ease off on the lad. Rather it was the signal to tighten the screw further taking him to a higher and more exacting level of compliance and discipline.

The ring had been secured so tightly that it had inevitably done some damage. Mark dipped the tip of his index finger into the jar of lotion and began to rub it firmly into the band of reddened flesh that marked where the cock ring had squeezed the slut's scrotum. The boy started and caught his breath as the lotion stung his broken skin. Mark laughed and took a firm grip of his balls between the finger and thumb of his free hand to hold him steady.

That job completed Mark released his grip of the boy's balls.

"Face down over my knee," he ordered slapping the front of his thigh with the flat of his hand.

He guided Simon down and then with his two hands gripping the boy by his hips and lifting him to ensure his bottom was resting across his knees. He could feel the hardness of the boy's little prick rigid with excitement pressing down across the top of his thighs like a smalls tiff wooden peg. Mark set about working the ointment into the multiple welts that marred the smooth curves of Simon's tight young rump. Lying face down, naked, across his master's lap the boy wriggled and whimpered as Mark's prying fingers both hurt and excited him.

"Cock your arse up higher and spread your legs," Mark ordered.

Pinning Simon firmly down across his knees with a hand on the small of the boy's back Mark set about deliberately raising him to new heights of excitement, teasing his anus with his index finger, touching it lightly, running his finger tip along the joint of its lips and then withdrawing it, working the boy up to such a state of excitement that it took on a life of its own, quivering and winking at him as if to invite intrusion.

An apparent invitation that Mark did not reject. At the moment he judged Simon was on the point of climaxing he steadied the boy with a stinging flat handed wack across his already raw buttocks. The boy threw his head back and howled and Mark, seizing the moment, ceased to tease and rammed his index finger into his anus prizing its lips apart.

Simon's bottom had already been partly loosened and once it's sphincter had been breached Mark had little difficulty in forcing his single finger into the slut. Despite this the initial shock inflicted on Simon by the sudden assault was considerable. He caught his breath and then, as Mark eased his finger deeper into him, whimpered incoherently.

Mark laughed.

"Don't make such a fuss you silly little whore. Wait till you have my cock up your arse. Then you will have something to really squeal about."

He laughed again and increasing the pressure pushed down until his finger was fully sheathed in the brat's bottom and the knuckles of his clenched fist were pressing hard into the curve of the boy's upturned rump. He crooked his finger inside the boy and turned it to and fro extorting strange animal noises from the naked boy wriggling on his lap.

Easing off the pressure Mark slowly withdrew his finger until only its tip was inside the boy holding his sphincter open. Bending his middle finger he forced its tip into the brat beside his index finger. Slowly but firmly he eased the two fingers deeper into Simon's body turning them as he did so, widening and loosening the boy's hole.

But not he told himself too much. The object of the exercise was to loosen the slit up to allow the slut's penetration not to ease his pain. The cries and whimpers of a young boy as his hole was forced for the first time were an integral part of the treat and not to be missed. He would have forced a third finger into Simon's hole if he was preparing him for his own enjoyment but he was planning to offer his bottom to Bobby as a welcome present and remembering the younger boy's more modest size he thought that more than two would take the edge off the experience for both boy and slut.

Pulling his finger's out Mark inserted the butt plug into the brat and tipped him off his knees back onto his feet. Simon unbidden clasped his hands once again on the back of his neck and stood waiting quietly to be told what to do next.

"Good little whore," Mark said approvingly as he fastened the light metal chain around Simon's waste locking its loose end to the ring set in the tip of his erect penis, "you're learning. Now come with me."

Mark walked into the bungalow and followed by Simon who kept a couple of respectful paces behind him and led the way into the sitting room. He seated himself on the large leather settee and signalled to Simon to come and stand in front of him.

Mark settled himself comfortably on the big leather settee. He pulled his mobile phone out of his shorts pocket and place it on the seat beside him.

"Make an arch," Mark ordered.

Simon hesitated, puzzled, unsure of what was required. Mark lashed him hard across the backside with the cane. Simon, his uncertainty suddenly banished, lent over backwards, bending at the knees, stretching his hands out over his head straining to reach the carpet behind him. Mark rested his feet on the boy's taughtly stretched tummy. Picking up the remote control from an occasional table he switched on the Television.

***

The Boeing 737-200 Democratic Republic of Kikyana Airlines Flight LIe-0054 out of Cairo banked and turned for its run in to Lieue Airport. Bobby seated way back in the economy class twisted round in his seat and strained to catch a glimpse of the Capital of the Democratic Republic through the small airline window. For a few minutes he looked down on a patchwork of brown and green large fields, then row after row of well ordered small bungalows set along wide straight roads. It contrasted with the chaos and muddle of Cairo and reminded him more than anything else of pictures he had seen of reconstructions of Roman Military forts. The town of course was much bigger than any fort but there was the same geometrical regularity about its lay out. Then the plane tipped the other way and all he could see was blue sky and the occasional fleck of cloud.

His ears popped painfully as they lost height. There was a bump a rushing roaring sound, outside Tarmac and beyond that coarse sun dried grass rushed past. Then they were still, the engines fell silent, the safety notices telling them to fasten their seat belts and remain in their seats were switched off and people stood up and began to collect their hand luggage from the overhead lockers.

Bobby joined the crowd of passengers eager to escape from the cramped discomforts of the flight. He stepped outside the plane onto the metal steps of the disembarkation gantry. Away from the air conditioning of the plane the heat and the humidity hit him, for a second he thought he would not be able to breth, he felt himself to begin to sweat.

He descended the steps and headed off towards the battered and dirty airport bus about which a crowd of ex-passengers was already jostling.

Rather nearer the plane than the bus stood a large black Rolls Royce gleaming opulently in the sunshine a standard hanging loosely from a miniature flag pole set on its bonnet. A soldier impeccably turned out in freshly pressed khaki drill uniform and black shoes whose toe caps glistened in the sunlight stepped forward blocking Bobby's path.

"Master (2) Robert Simpson?" he asked flashing a salute and taking Bobby's hand luggage from him.

"I am to take you to Master Mark at Simla Lodge," he continued leading him to the car and opening the rear passenger door for him.

"What about my other case? Bobby asked hesitating. His parents had stressed the importance of his keeping track of his luggage and he knew he would never hear the end of it from his mother if he managed to lose a good portion of it."

"It will be collected separately from the terminal and will be brought out to Simla Lodge. Now if you would get in the car."

The door closed with a solid but discrete clunk behind him and Bobby found himself in a spacious darkly luxurious interior smelling of faintly of leather upholstery.

The soldier walked quickly round the car to get in the front passenger seat. The uniformed chauffeur slid the car into gear and it moved gently of with hardly a whisper of sound.

The glass partition behind the driver's head slid back and the soldier reached through it holding out a mobile telephone.

"Master Mark asked me to let him know once we had collected you. He wants to speak to you now."

Bobby took the mobile and leaned back in his seat his stomach tightening with excitement at the opportunity to speak again to his friend.

The glass partition slid closed sealing him off from the driver and his military companion as he lifted the phone to his ear

"Hi Bobby how are you boy? Welcome to Africa. Like the car?"

Mark's voice as always when speaking to him was confident, relaxed and with just a hint of amused condescension. Like an elder brother speaking to an eager and very much younger junior Bobby thought to himself without a hint of resentment. He rather liked it that way. That indeed was the way he saw things himself with Mark as his elder brother, on occasion a rather rough and sometimes rather demanding elder brother, but he rather liked that as well.

Looking through the window of the Rolls Bobby saw they were approaching the exit from the Airdrome. Four motorbikes ridden by uniformed police men peeled away from the pavement and took up station, two in front, two behind, the car.

"Mark," Bobby almost squealed his voice high with excitement, "we've got a motorcycle escort too."

"Well I don't want to lose you before you even reach me," Mark said openly laughing. "Now calm down and don't pee yourself with excitement. The car was my father's idea. I wanted him to collect you in the Presidential jet but Mum needed that for her shopping trip to Paris so the car is a sort of consolation prize and the motor cycle escort goes with it."

"I've never been in a car with one before. I don't expect any boy in my class at school has ever been either. Mark do you think…"

"I don't know Bobby," Mark cut in. He knew from experience that if Bobby got really excited he could just keep chattering on and on. "Anyway what I telephoned was to say Hello and tell you to get the car to take you to the guest bungalow when you get here."

"O.K. Mark," Bobby said suddenly deflated and unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice, "I thought I was going to stay with you."

"You will be Bobby, don't worry I wouldn't let the opportunity to have you all alone go by. Mum like I said is in Paris shopping and my sister is with her and that is a long term occupation with those two and Dad's off as well to the North chasing bandits so apart from the servants we'll have the house to ourselves. And you'll be staying with me in the guest bungalow down by the river so we won't even be bothered by the servants. We can go up to the big house if we want meals or anything but I think we can manage for ourselves mostly."

"We're going to have a great time together."

Bobby thought he heard a faint noise coming from somewhere behind Mark and wondered for the moment if there was someone else with his friend.

"Anyway Bobby got to go now. You'll be here soon."

Mark broke the connection leaving Bobby to delicious speculations as to what Mark meant exactly as to their having a great time together. They had he thought already got up to some pretty exciting things together. His mind flitted fleetingly to the last day of term the hot sunshine, the soft slough of the sea on the beach, the sky lark's shrill song and him kneeling naked at Mark's feet cleaning the sand from between his toes with the tip of his tongue. The walk into the dunes to the little saucer of short grass. Spreading his towel out on the ground while Mark watched both stiff with excitement and anticipation, then lying on his face feeling Mark's hardness along the cleft of his bottom. Their two bodies working together with increasing urgency and tempo then the blackness, the rush of blood the wet warmness on the small of his back as they both ejaculated. He remembered big things like Mark's swollen cock with the beads of moisture welling from its piss slit and little minor things like the dark pink flesh between Mark's toes and on the souls of his feet contrasting with the jet black of most of the rest of his body.

Surely they would now be able to share a bed. He had a few times crept into Mark's bed after lights out or before getting up in the morning, stealing barefooted across the linoleum floor and snuggling between sheets already warmed by Mark's body but just fleetingly and always fearful of discovery or of messing the sheets. Perhaps that would still be a difficulty but maybe there was a washing machine in the bungalow so all would be well.

The Rolls Royce with its presidential standard fluttering in the wind and its four motorcycle out-riders tore along the Tarmacked highway towards Simla Lodge while Bobby sat in its cushioned luxury almost oblivious to his surroundings speculating as to the fleshly delights to come.

Then he was jerked back to reality and the present as the car swung in through the double gates into the grounds of Simla Lodge. He looked out eagerly as they traversed well ordered parkland, so well ordered it could have been part of the grounds of a great English country house were it not for the herds of Zebra's and Wildebeests grazing there. Then through another set of gates to run between closely cropped lawns with vivid flower beds and banks of flowering shrubs, past the mass of Simla Lodge down the slope to the river and the guest bungalow.

Bobby jumped out of the Rolls Royce and ran up the steps to the veranda running along the front of the bungalow facing the river.

The front door of the bungalow swung open and Mark was there smiling and holding his hand out to him in welcome. Bobby started forward to grab his hand, then came to a sudden halt. Crouched on the floor at Mark's feet his fair head pressed to the ground was a young and to Bobby's eyes very beautiful naked white boy. It had been no part of his dreams or plans to share Mark with a younger and prettier boy.

"Good to see you Bobby, got here at last, "Mark said grinning broadly and grabbing his friend's right hand he shook it vigorously.

"Hell no come here boy," and he pulled Bobby to him and enveloped him in a bear hug his hand straying down the smaller boy's back to cup and squeeze his bottom.

"What the fucks the matter boy," he asked as Bobby pulled back wriggling free of his grasp. "You're not usually so shy."

"What about him?" Bobby asked shrilly pointing at Simon crouching naked at Mark's feet, his head pressed to the floor.

"That," Mark exclaimed his surprise and amusement apparent in his voice as he prodded Simon none too gently in the bottom with his toe. "He's just a slave. He doesn't count. The Kikuama word for him is Ngeni which means 'nothing' which is exactly what he is. It doesn't matter what he sees or what he says. Nobody will take any notice of what he says. Legally he doesn't exist. He's nothing."

"I thought that you might like to fuck his bottom later on. He's a virgin and you're a good deal smaller than me."

"Come on slut," he continued prodding Simon once again with his toe, "say 'how do you do?' to Master Bobby."

Simon raised his head from the floor and went back on his knees, his thighs spread wide, his bum pressed down on the floor. Flashing a shy respectful smile at Bobby he quickly bowed his head.

"How do you do Master Bobby Sir," he said his voice trembling with fear and fixing Bobby with wide beseeching eyes. "Please I hope you enjoy fucking this slut's boy cunt."

Bobby who was a kind hearted boy instinctively reacted to the nervousness in the boy's voice by patting him on the top of his head.

"I'm sure I will," he said trying to sound reassuring.

"Don't go soft on the brat," Mark laughed, "he'll only try to take advantage if you do."

"But Mark, you know I am not a real Master," Bobby protested mildly.

"You're certainly not a real slave, Bobby, and you should be bloody grateful for that. If you don't believe me take a look at a real African slave and see what being one involves. – Get on your feet whore and let Master Bobby have a good look at you."

Simon encouraged by further sharp boot up the bum by Mark scrambled quickly to his feet and stood with head slightly bowed hands clasped on the back of his neck.

"Look at the brand burnt into the side of his left hip. Don't you think it looks attractive, specially when you think how much it must have hurt the little brute. Just imagine being dragged to the block and having the red hot iron pressed into your tender rump."

Bobby peered fascinated at the mark etched by the hot iron deep into the boy's flesh, tracing its outline with his fingertip.

"It's really clear" he exclaimed, "each letter and number sharp and easily read."

"Dad says using a really hot iron is the secret. The hotter the iron the deeper and the clearer it will mark a brat. I'll take you to watch the next batch of sluts being processed and you can see how the job is done. It's noisy and smelly though what with the brats screaming and the smell of burnt flesh an most of them shit themselves when they feel the hot iron."

"I wasn't there when this brute was done, I was at St Aidan's being educated, but I bet the disgusting little turd shit himself. They usually, do no self-control or pride, just animals."

"Well boy did you scream and shit yourself when the hot iron marked your pretty little bottom. Come on whore speak up, Master Bobby wants to know."

"Master please I couldn't help it…" Simon began only to break off as Mark slapped him hard across the f ace. The boy staggered but recovered himself with his hand still clasped behind his head.

"Of course it hurt you stupid lump of dog turd," Mark raved at the now openly sobbing boy. "I didn't ask you if it hurt. Nobody could care a monkey's fuck if it hurt you. I asked you to tell Master Bobby whether you shit yourself. That's all now answer the question and none of this 'I' nonsense uppity little brute."

"Please Master Bobby it did shit itself …"

Another resounding slap across the face staggered and silenced the boy.

"That's enough. That's all we wanted to hear from you."

"He is," Mark continued in much milder tones turning to Bobby, "just an animal. He thinks like an animal and behaves like an animal. He is, as I have said already, in our language a Ngeni and Ngeni means nothing and that is what he is – nothing – less than filth."

"Why does he talk that way Mark?" Bobby asked, "calling himself 'this boy' and 'it' and 'filth' instead of I suppose 'I'."

"That's what we call 'Ngeni talk' or 'slave talk'. The Ngeni naturally talk a sort of degraded patios with a very limited vocabulary and funny grammar; there are no words for instance in Ngeni for 'I' or 'me' or 'we' and generally speaking they have only the one tense for their verbs, the present. Simon here can speak pretty near as well as you and me for the moment at least but he's learnt Ngeni real fast. Dad says the cane is a real good teacher. And Ngeni is the right language for a slave; if a boy talks simple he thinks simple."

Bobby looked at the boy standing in front of them, stark naked hands clasped on the back of his neck, head bowed submissively, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth from where Mark had struck him and felt pity and embarrassment. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to have to stand like that, the shame, humiliation and inner resentment. But in that he was totally wrong for Simon felt none of those things. He would have felt them all and more a couple of months earlier but not now for he had been stripped of everything that distinguished him from brute creation. Pride, modesty, hope, ambition all these had been taken from him. Mark was right he had been reduced to a mere animal and when Mark described him as such he did not resent it or feel shame or embarrassment or anger for he knew it was true. He accepted it.

"And look," Mark continued intent on making clear to a Bobby the gulf between fantasy play servitude and harsh reality, "at the stripes on the little whore's rump. Marzipan striped with cochineal you don't get them as raw and colourful as that with a few swats across the bare bum with the palm of your hand."

"Let me show you," he turned to the mantelpiece over the empty fire place and picked up from it a slim but vicious looking cane causing poor naked Simon to start and whimper quietly.

"It's worth remembering you will find one of these in the same place in every room should you need one," Mark remarked grinning widely and flexing the stiff plated leather covered rod between his two hands as he spoke.

"Now for a demonstration," he continued cheerfully.

Taking a step backwards away from where Simon stood trembling he laid the rod gently across the curve of the brat's rump. Bobby saw the muscles in the boy's bottom tighten and the dimples on its side deepen as he tensed at the touch of the cane.

Mark raised the cane over his shoulder, paused a moment and then lashed down with it. The rich hiss of the descending cane ended in a sharp crack as the it struck firm young boy flesh, ringing an anguished yelp from Simon who jerked convulsively as the rod bit into his bottom. Simon took a half step forward under the impact of the cane but then hastily got back into position to stand trembling and tense with fearful anticipation, his hands still somehow clasped behind his head.

"Good slut," Mark said softly and Bobby saw the boy smiled weakly through his tears at the praise.

"What discipline eh Bobby? Do you think you could stand like that while I cut at your bottom with the cane? Maybe we should try later and see. After all we can play harder here than we did back in England and it would be a pity to let the opportunity pass without taking advantage of it. What do you think?"

Bobby hesitated. There was a gleeful edge and a hardness to Mark's manner that was unfamiliar to him. Before he could reply Mark spoke again.

"Maybe though I should make the decision. After all I am the older and the 'master' too. We will discuss it later after you've had a chance to settle in and agree the general conditions of your 'slavery' but I think on the whole I should use the cane on you. It will be interesting to see if you can make yourself stand still for it like young Simon does and the pale hides of you white boys show the marks of the cane so much more vividly than our black skins. I'll show you."

"Stand still filth there's another cut coming," he snapped at Simon and lashed him across the bottom with the cane. Grabbing Simon by his shoulder he turned him so his back was towards Bobby so he could watch as the white line scored across the smooth curve of the boy's rump filled with blood and darkened.

"Well what do you think Bobby? Do I decide?" Mark demanded again.

Bobby swallowed, with Mark standing there looking at him, so big, so commanding and somehow at that moment so black, he knew there ws only one possible answer to the question.

"Yes Mark, I agree you decide."

Bobby only just managed to force the words out but as soon as they were spoken he knew he had made the right decision, the right decision for himself and for Mark.

Mark's face a second before heavy with menace broke into a cheerful smile.

"Brave boy Bobby," he said cheerfully. "I think you know my decision already. I'll see you have a holiday you won't ever forget."

"Well back to this little slut," Mark said slapping Simon on the bottom, "he could never be mistaken for a free boy he has so little flesh on him. You don't carry much surplus weight yourself Bobby but he's just skin and bones."

Mark bent and squeezed Simon's thigh with his right hand.

"Scrawny little brute," he remarked "and his chest is just as bad."

"Turn round and face me boy."

"There you can see every rib in his chest and his skins so tight you can hardly get a pinch of it between your finger and thumb. We keep our slaves half-starved they're easier to handle that way but you wouldn't like it."

"Mind you," he added thoughtfully, the pair of you are basically not very dissimilar in appearance. You're both fair haired and fair skinned and broadly similar in height and build and the slut's started to put on some flesh. If we fed him up a bit and you were worked hard and fed on slave swill for a few weeks you would be difficult to tell apart. Rather a nice idea a matching pare of white skinned slave brats. What do you think Bobby would you be able to survive on a bowl of brat swill a day?"

"I don't know," Bobby said doubtfully he was a boy who liked his food and brat swill did not sound very appetizing. "I suppose it depends on how large the bowl is and anyway what is brat swill."

"Well basically its maize porridge mixed in with what-ever is going in the way of scraps boiled vegetables animal tripes and low quality bush meat and such like."

"It doesn't sound all that nice."

"Well the brats like it well enough. You should see filth here getting it in inside him gulping it down, his face buried in the feed bowl and his bare arse stuck up in the air, wriggling with excitement."

"Boy you like your pap don't you boy? – pap's our word for maize porridge Bobby."

"Please Master boy likes pap Massa it lucky boy it real grateful…"

"OK that's enough boy you don't need to go hogging the conversation Master Bobby's got the picture – you like pap."

Privately Mark thought that was another characteristic that Bobby had in common with the slut, a tendency to run on and on once started unless checked.

"Bobby you can try a spoonful of it later to see how you like it. There is a bucket of the stuff soaking in the scullery."

"Then there's the irons, the ankle and wrist wrings and the slave collar. They are training aids specialty designed to be heavy and cumbersome so he feels them and are a constant reminder of his servile status. They're useful for that but they slow him up and make him clumsy serving his betters. He's pretty well schooled now and I don't think there is any likelihood of his forgetting his place so I may well take the leg and wrist irons off him and give him a lighter collar."

"Anyway if we wanted a set for you we would have to get them from the stores in the big house and that might be a problem. I think we'll have to make do with just a chain round your neck."

"What about the chain round his waste and all the rest of it?"

"Well I think we can let you off those but I'll explain them to you."

"It's really in two bits and I'll show you."

"First there is the cock ring here round his balls and back here shoved up his boy cunt, – turn round slut and bend forward and pull the cheeks of your arse apart so Master Bobby can see – the butt plug. They're joined by a short chain running between the slut's legs from the back of the cock ring to the top of the butt plug. The plug is so long and buried so deep in his guts and the chain so tight that once it is in place and the chain locked to the back of the cock ring it can't be removed without tearing the whore's balls off."

"Look I'll show you."

Mark placing the palm of his left hand flat on the small of the slut's bent back took a firm grip with the index finger and thumb of his right hand of the length of chain running between the boy's legs from the back of his cock ring to the top of the butt plug. He pulled hard, Simon yelped with pain and took a half step backwards until checked by Mark's restraining hand on his back.

Bobby watched as the butt plug was slowly and painfully drawn from the brat's hole its sharply swelling body prizing his anus lips ever wider apart.

"Remarkable noises the slut makes," Mark said laughing as growing pain extorted a succession of whimpers, moans and broken pleas for mercy from the suffering boy.

The tension on the chain running from the base of the plug to the back of the cock ring had slackened somewhat as the plug emerged from Simon's hole. Taking advantage of this Mark slid his index finger and forefinger under the chain and gripping it rather as an archer grips a bowstring he looked up grinning.

"Now I can show you what I mean when I say the plug is anchored in the whore," he said

Placing his left hand so that it was braced against the curve of his victim's bottom Mark pulled hard on the chain with his right hand.

The plug emerged a little further Simon's bottom and then stopped abruptly. The boy's pain generated screams increased in volume and desperation.

"You see," Mark said to the plainly appalled Bobby the plug is buried so deep in the brat that you can't get it's full length clear of his guts without unlocking the chain from the back of his cock ring."

"Unless that is you are prepared to rip his balls off. Then of course it would come out. Probably the shock would kill the little turd though or if not the loss of blood would. I'll try it shall I?" and Mark laughed.

"Please Master Please…" Simon's panic stricken pleas ended in a screech of agony as Mark pulled sharply upwards on the chain with such force that the boy's feet were momentarily lifted from the ground.

"Mark, put him down. Put him down," Bobby shouted and launched himself at his friend.

Laughing uproariously, for he enjoyed a joke as much as anyone, Mark released his hold of the chain. Simon's legs collapsed under him and he tumbled to his knees on the floor, doubled over, his hands clasped to his tortured balls, sobbing loudly.

"Whatever is the problem Bobby?" Mark asked his body shaking with barely suppressed laughter. "He's just a slave. I can take his balls off or kill him in any other way I want if the fancy takes me."

"Come on, stop making such a fuss, get up," he yelled at Simon urging him back to his feet with a series of heavy kicks into his bottom.

"And get your hands on the back of your neck. For God's sake what do you think you are up to? Did I give you permission to move them."

Simon dragged himself painfully to his feet and stood with his hands once more clasped together on the back of his neck.

"I don't know what you're making a fuss about Bobby. He'll probably be dead anyway within the next five years or so. Very few of them last much beyond their eighteenth year. And being my slave it is very likely he'll die at my hands probably from a flogging or something. It's so easy to overdo things with the lash and brats do tend just to die on you from time to time."

"But it just brings home," Mark said getting round to the point he wanted to get across to his young friend, "the difference between play and reality. No matter how realistic we try to make our play, and I think we can go much further in doing that in the next few weeks, you will never feel the depths of fear that that slut knows now. We neither of us can begin to imagine what it is like to know that you will die a slave, naked with a slave collar round your neck at a time and in a manner determined by your Master."

"But Mark you wouldn't really kill him would you?" Bobby asked his horror showing in his voice..

"One thing is certain, he will die a slave," Mark replied cheerfully, "either mine or another's. It's no big deal Bobby he's only a slave."

"Anyway there's one more thing to look at apart from the butt plug and cock ring and that is this light chain looped round his tummy with its loose end attached to a ring set in his glans. Dad insists that any domestic slave boy who is or is likely to be required to serve naked should be fitted with this harness. He says such boys are pretty well permanently stiff and it is much tidier and more hygienic to have their cocks restrained in this way than sticking out in front of them with their knobs bobbing about leaking cum."

"Hang on a moment I'll just get hold of the brat so I can hold him still."

Mark grabbed Simon by the shoulders and twisted him round so that he was facing Bobby and slipping his hands under the boy's shoulders he pulled him back against his own body. Simon seizing his opportunity pushed his bottom back tight into Mark's crutch wriggling it provocatively as he did so.

"Now have a look at it Bobby."

Bobby bent down to take a closer look at Simon's stiff little penis with the ring at the end held firmly in place tight up against the front of the boy's tummy just short of his belly button.

"It looks sore," Bobby said a touch of sympathy in his voice.

"You should have heard the little slut scream," Mark said cheerfully. "Of course it hurt. Still does. The old woman punched a hole through the underside of his cock into his piss channel. Then she scorched its sides with a red hot skewer to try to ensure it didn't heal over before threading the metal wire to make the ring through the hole and along the piss channel. Then she bent the wire into a ring and soldered the two ends together. I've had to turn it four times a day to make sure the raw flesh does not heal round it."

"I had to hold the boy while the old woman worked on him, lucky I stripped naked to do it cos the bitch peed itself."

Mark laughed again and pinched Simon's nipples and burying his head in the side of the boy's neck kissed it hard. Simon moaned and threw his head back.

"Bobby," Mark ordered his voice tense and demanding, "squeeze his prick and make him squeal. Come on Bobby do as you're told. Good and hard. Come on."

Bobby had heard Mark use that tone of voice before usually when he was at the point of orgasm but not charged with such urgency and force. It seemed his friend's character had become harsher and more demanding on his return to his native country. Reluctantly he reached out towards Bobby's cock standing erect and quivering, the chain attached to the ring set in its swollen and inflamed helmet.

He hesitated, he was not a naturally cruel boy, he didn't want to hurt the younger smaller boy but Mark was demanding that he should and he was used to doing what Mark told him. Timidly he touched the sore tip of this pulsating column of boy flesh. The brat gasped and his naked body jerked convulsively as the pain hit him.

"Harder Bobby, fuck you, harder," Mark demanded his voice thick with passion.

Bobby feeling slightly sick bit his lip and screwed up his courage. He felt rather as he had done when his father had said when out fishing for brown trout with him and he had just brought that big 3½ pounder last Easter Holidays, "you hooked it – now you kill it." Taking hold of Simon's small but stiff cock just below the point where the ring was set between his finger and thumb he squeezed it firmly.

Simon's shrill scream was broken off sharply as Mark gripped him by the chin and pulling his head round kissed him hard on his open, pain distorted, mouth.

Bobby started back, letting go of the brat's prick as though an electric charge had been passed through it. Simon reaching up above his head wrapped his arms around Mark's neck strained upwards his body taught with lust to return his master's kiss.

Mark's hands, black against the boy's rich golden skin, explored his body caressing his back. An ebony finger inserted into the cleft of the eager little slut's tight round bottom visibly increased the intensity of his passion.

Mark's hands moved to the boy's thin shoulders pushing downwards. Simon sank to his knees. Reaching upwards his fingers fumbled at the fastening of the older boy's shorts. Then his face was buried in Mark's crutch.

Bobby stood and watched the vigorous movements of Bobby's head as he used his lips and tongue to pleasure his Master. He could not see exactly what was going on but the violent bobbing of the boy's head and the associated damply slobbery sounds left little to the imagination. He had a rather limited theoretical knowledge of the techniques of gay love gleaned from the chatter of the school yard and the dormitory. Mark had shielded him from more direct experience of the pleasures and indeed pains of oral and anal sex through his own very evident interest in the boy that discouraged other potential lovers and his own self-denial that limited their activities together to various forms of rough play and mutual masturbation. Bobby therefore was aware of the existence of oral sex but, beyond a feeling of surprise that anyone would be prepared to take that thing into his mouth and suck on it, had not bothered his head about it very much.

Now though he was observing it at close quarters and judging from the enthusiastic wriggling of Simon's bare bottom as he worked away at Mark's crutch and the laboured breathing and ecstatic expression on the older boy's face both the participants were thoroughly enjoying the experience. As he watched Mark seemed to reach some crisis of arousement, grabbing Simon's head by the ears to steady it he began to pump his mouth hard with his cock, the muscles rippling under his ebony skin as he drove his swollen cock down into the brat's gullet with brutal thrusts of his strong young haunches. Suddenly he froze, his head thrown back, his body arched the muscles in his rump convulsed as he shot load after load of boy juice into Simon's guts.

And then another thing happened or perhaps did not happen that surprised Bobby. Mark had released his grip of Simon's ears but the brat instead of pulling back in disgust and turning his head away and spitting the hot boy seed from his mouth, as Bobby felt he would surely have done in his place, had remained with his face buried in his crutch. He reached upwards wrapping his arms about the black youth's waist. Bobby could see the muscles in the side of the boy's neck work as he swallowed.

Bobby watched as Mark, a few seconds earlier isolated in a world of seething passion, his face an empty mask, his blank, his mouth frozen in a lust induced rictus returned to earth. His face became animated. His eyes wandered uncertainly around the room before focusing on the fair haired boy standing close by. Mark grinned broadly his teeth a line of brilliant white splitting his dark face.

"Real slavery African style," he said with a laugh.

He reached down and burying his hand in Simon's hair pulled his face out of his crutch, forcing the kneeling boy back onto his heels. Mark glanced quickly at the ground at his feet.

,"Very good," he announced, "Not a drop of cum on the floor. Just as well too Mum is as fussy about cum as she is about blood and would make an awful fuss if she came home to find stains all over the place."

Bobby felt contempt and disgust. Taking someone's cock in your mouth and sucking on it was bad enough but swallowing the stuff that came out of it was just gross. And yet behind this feeling of general revulsion he was aware of other more complicated emotions lurking. To Bobby there was something desperately appealing, something in the deepest and most essential sense 'right', about the sight of Simon's small slim figure kneeling naked at the feet of the much bigger more robust Mark. Perversely this quality of 'rightness' seemed to extend even to the position of Simon's head just inches from Mark's gaping flies and now flaccid cock, the very same things that he found disgusting and contemptible. How could the same thing be both disgusting, contemptible and right? Perhaps Bobby thought it was disgusting for him but right for Simon but if so why? Certainly it seemed to be right for Simon judging from his expression as he knelt looking into Mark's face, devotion seasoned with a healthy dose of fear in his eyes. Bobby slipped a hand inside the waist band of his shorts to adjust his swollen prick that was pressing painfully against the front of his shorts.

"You're a good little whore, come on slut," Mark said using his hand buried in Simon's hair to urge him to his feet, interrupting Bobby's fevered speculations.

Not indeed that Simon needed overmuch urging as he scrambled eagerly from the floor and tilted his head back offering his open lips to his Master. Still retaining his grip of the brat's hair Mark pulled his head back and kissed him hard on his open mouth.

Bobby had often over the past fortnight spent time imagining his reunion with Mark. Not once though had he thought that this would involve time spent watching his friend kissing another boy and now, in the few hours he had been with Mark, this had happened twice. Bobby was quite an intelligent boy and though he had had difficulty earlier in sorting out his emotions he had no difficulty in recognising that what he was now feeling, ridiculous though it was, was jealousy. It was ridiculous because how could he possibly be jealous of a naked boy with a badly bruised bottom, an iron slave collar clamped round his neck, his master's mark burnt into his hide? Yet he was and his mood was not improved when he saw Mark's dark hand cup and squeeze the boy's tight little rum.

He hadn't he told himself come all the way to Africa to watch Mark fondling another boy's bottom. He stirred angrily and muttered discontentedly to himself. Mark shot an apologetic grin at Bobby over Simon's head.

"That's enough of that slut," he said pushing the boy away, "now get off with you and fetch a jug of iced orange juice and two glasses into the sitting room. Quick boy, mooch mooch."

Simon grinned and twisting round darted off towards the service door leading to the back of the bungalow. He was quick but not quick enough to evade the hearty swat that Martin landed across his backside to send him on his way.

"Well what do you think of real slavery Bobby?" Mark asked. "I don't think you'd care for it, not to play the slave part anyway. Not that you could hardly play at that."

"I don't know how he can do it. Taking your cock into his mouth and swallowing your stuff I mean. I just couldn't."

"He's a slave, a real slave, not a pretend one. He just doesn't have any choice in the matter.

"Anyway come on into the drawing room. I have got a couple of videos for you to watch which I think you will find enjoyable and indeed instructive. Maybe after seeing them you will understand why young Simon is so obedient and eager to please. And they'll put you into the mood for the next part of the entertainment I have got planned for you."

Placing an arm over Bobby's shoulder Mark guided him across the hall into the sitting room.

"Where the hell is that boy?" Mark demanded once he had got Bobby seated beside him on the settee carefully sited to give the best possible view of the curved screen of the 65 inch television set that dominated one side of the drawing room.

"He's a pretty boy," Bobby said trying not to let the jealousy show in his voice but not succeeding, "although a bit on the thin side."

"He's not a bad looking whore," Mark agreed grudgingly and then added as Bobby returned to the room carrying a silver tray bearing a large jug of orange juice and two empty cut glass tumblers. "Put the tray on the table slut and fill the glasses. Hurry up now you won't keep your Masters waiting if you know what's good for you."

"And pretty good as a cock sucker," he continued apparently oblivious to Simon's presence as the boy poured out the orange juice, "quick, agile tongue, nice soft lips and has learnt the knack of swallowing cock so he can take the full length down into his gullet and as you saw he's really cum hungry, not a drop on the floor."

"I don't know how he does that," Bobby said voicing puzzlement that up to then he had kept to himself, "he can't really like the taste. I couldn't do it. I think it's a dirty thing to do."

"Where you go wrong Bobby is in thinking that animals like that think and feel the same way we do. First of all they hardly think at all they just live in the present and act on instinct and second they are just that, animals. Simon gets hungry and he eats he gets randy and he has sex and he's randy most of the time. And so far as having my cock in his mouth and drinking my cum, he longs for it partly because the filthy little brute just likes doing it and partly because it's a way of pleasing me and he hopes if he does that he will get fed and be allowed to live."

"Isn't that right slut," he said directly to Simon who had poured the orange juice and was in the act of placing the full glasses on the table in front of the two boys, "you like sucking my cock and swallowing my cum don't you filthy little whore boy."

Simon looked up into his master's face and smiled and ran his tongue along his lips moistening them letting that gesture answer the question before replying, "yes Master Sir," and beginning to back away into a corner of the room.

"Stay there a moment boy," Mark snapped, "and turn round bend forward and pull the cheeks of your arse apart I want to show my friend your boy cunt."

"Yes there it is Bobby," Mark continued as Simon with no sign of embarrassment or resentment presented his bottom for inspection. "We'll have the plug out of it later on and you can give the whore his first butt fuck. It shouldn't be too difficult the plug will have opened it up a bit and I've used my fingers to loosen him up for you."

Bobby looked uneasily at the brat's bottom so blatantly displayed before him with its smooth flesh still bearing the fading marks of a recent caning the end of the metal plug in its anus forcing its lips apart in a permanent pout.

He had been looking forward so much to being with Mark again but now he wished he was back in England. He was embarrassed by the younger boy's humiliation and although he had the beginnings of an erection felt distinctly doubtful of his ability or indeed desire to penetrate his bottom and unsure of exactly what that process involved.

"All right, we've seen enough, fetch the CDs I put on the table by the television, quick," Mark snapped before turning to Bobby and continuing in milder tones. "There you are. Like I said it shouldn't be too difficult I've loosened him up a bit. Not too much though, the brat will still howl they always do the first time. Don't worry about that, just hammer it in. Dad says a slut's first fuck should hurt. Like branding it's one of the ways a boy is made to understand he is owned."

Simon returned to the settee and kneeling held out the boxed CDs he had fetched to Mark.

Bobby's sympathy for him was misplaced or at least founded on a mistaken premise. He no longer felt humiliation but he lived, like any slave in a world of many complex and overlapping fears, fear of the lash, of his master, of his master's friends, of being sent to work in the big pit or the fields, so many fears that they could not all be listed or known. To these multiple fears was now added the fear of being raped. He had not seen Bobby naked so had no idea of how large the thing was he would shortly have forced up his bottom but Mark's remarks were frightening enough in themselves without any further details. And there was nothing he could do to avoid or even postpone the moment.

"Which would you like to watch first Bobby?" Mark asked taking the boxes each decorated with garish pictures indicating the contents and subject matter of the CD it contained. "They're all pretty interesting. This one was taken following the final suppression of the Ngeni mutiny with plenty of floggings, limb loppings, hangings, even a couple of disembowellings."

He held the box out for Bobby to see who looked at the pictures and caught his breath.

"Yes," Mark said misunderstanding his friend's reaction, "it is very exciting. Look at that boy there he's been pretty near flayed with the lash. Put this on slut and come back here. You ought to watch it – show you what you can expect if you misbehave."

****

"Well Bobby that should have put you in the mood," Mark remarked a couple of hours later as the picture of the boy's tumbled body, blood, filth and cum oozing from its defiled hole faded from the television screen.

"Come on slut," he continued looping one hand under Simon's collar and yanking the kneeling slave boy to his feet, "time to get your arse fucked."

Bobby levered himself wearily from the settee. He could see Mark was excited but he had a head ache and only wanted to creep off somewhere by himself away from the unremitting cruelty of the succession of videos that had filled the preceding two and a half hours. He would have left very shortly after the start of the first video but that might have made Mark regard him as soft and he didn't want that so he sat trying to keep his eyes closed and to block out the sound of screams and blows and miscellaneous sounds of violence and suffering that constituted the sound tracks to the videos.

Mark led the way, dragging Simon along with him, out of the sitting room across the hall and into a large airy bedroom with a big double bed. Releasing his hold of Simon's collar he quickly unlocked the butt plug from its restraining harness and drew it from the brat's bottom. It came out with a soft rather satisfying 'plop'.

"On your back on the bed whore," Mark ordered slapping the foot of the bed with the flat of his hand to indicate where the boy was lie.

"Knees either side of your head and grab your ankles. Now stay still while I grease your hole."

"Strip off Bobby," he continued picking up a jar of lubricant from the bed side table, "I'll have him ready for you in a moment."

Bobby reluctantly pulled his clothes off. Simon lying on the bed his bottom raised and open for his enjoyment might in other circumstances aroused him but the extreme violence and cruelty of the videos had sickened rather than excited him. He wanted to impress Mark and it worried him that he didn't have an erection. He was fearful that the older boy, who was showing very obvious signs of excitement would laugh at him.

Mark dipped his index finger in the jar of lubricant before smearing the jelly along the entrance to Simon's hole. The boy's excited whimpers increased in volume and intensity as Mark increased the pressure on the boy's anus forcing its lips apart and working the grease between them.

"OK it's up to you now," he said stepping back and grabbing Bobby by the arm he pulled the naked boy forward to stand immediately in front of Simon's exposed rump.

"Bloody hell," he exclaimed in amazement as he caught site of his friend's limp cock, "what's the matter with you? You're usually keen enough."

Bobby flushed red with embarrassment and shame. He felt that he had disgraced himself and that Mark would despise him. Even worse Simon would do so too. The thought of being despised by a cock sucking, cum drinking, slave boy was unbearable.

"I don't know …," he began but was cut short by Mark

"Well let's see if I can do something about it." Mark reached out and began to fondle Bobby's limp cock.

"That's always done the trick in the past," Mark exclaimed after a minute or two of gentle teasing. "There's only one thing left to try," and he delivered a hard open handed smack across Bobby's bare rump.

Bobby's prick snapped to attention as a rosy flush spread across the egg white skin of his naked bottom.

"Now get on with it. Hammer it into the little slut – let's hear him squeal"

Bobby looked down at the boy lying naked on his back on the edge of the double bed, his knees pressed to the mattress on either side of his ears. At first he saw only the brat's raised bottom with its little tight hole immediately in front of him. Then his gaze travelled up the back of the slut's firm young thighs to focus on a small scared face peering up at him through eyes wide with fear.

"Come on Bobby, get a move on," Mark's voice sounded impatiently behind him. "Grab the slut by the ankles and bury your cock in his arse. And Simon get your hands round the back of your bum and pull its cheeks apart. Do something to help Master Bobby whore."

Bobby gripped the boy by his ankles. Suddenly Simon seemed very small and fragile.

"Oh for God's sake get a move on," Mark snapped impatiently and moving to stand close beside Bobby took hold of his hard little cock and levelled it at Simon's hole.

Bobby gritted his teeth and summoning up all his determination lunged forward. Simon gasped and pain flared in his eyes. Unable to stop himself Bobby jerked backwards and then hearing Mark curse impatiently to himself plunged forward again. Simon's eyes widened as the pain hit him, his mouth flew open and he squealed shrilly. Bobby, his nerve shattered, jumped backwards.

"Christ," Mark exclaimed.

His patience cracked. Anger, lust and disappointment combined in an explosive mixture. He had deliberately held off penetrating Bobby in order to give Simon first crack at the slut's tight little rump. He had thought he was being very generous to do so. He had expected gratitude and excitement and the pleasure of watching two pretty young boy's having sex together. Instead Bobby had been unenthusiastic and hesitant.

He had been keenly looking forward to seeing Bobby again anticipating introducing and sharing with his younger friend all manner of exotic pleasures and excitements but the boy had stumbled and failed at the first hurdle making heavy weather of such a simple routine matter as fucking a young slave boy's virgin bottom. What had made it all the worse and harder to bear was that he had been through for him a long period of abstinence and he, in sexual matters at least with an almost infinite number Ngeni slave brats available to him, was unused to abstinence and did not handle it well. Admittedly it was only limited abstinence, he had fucked Bobby's mouth twice in the last forty eight hours but that did not come near to satisfying him. What he wanted was the savage pleasure of sheathing his swollen cock in some sobbing boy's tight little arse, the slut's suffering and broken pleas for mercy acting as seasoning to his own savage pleasures. To do without that, to make do with something second best was, in the context of his life in Africa, abstinence.

And Bobby when he arrived at the bungalow was as pretty and as attractive as ever, even more so, when stripped and rampant he was coupled with that hot little whore Simon.

Frustrated and angry he grabbed Bobby by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the room away from the double bed. His hands tearing impatiently at the waste-band of his shorts he pulled his trousers and underpants down letting them tumble to the ground. Kicking them clear of his feet he grabbed hold of Simon by the back of his knees and using his swollen cock as a battering ram began to hammer away at the entrance to Simon's hole.

Bobby crashed against the bedroom wall and with the breath knocked out of him by the force of the impact lost his balance finishing up sitting on the floor. Bruised and shaken he gazed across the room to where Mark, aroused and furious, like some savage priapic God about to slake his lust in the body of a golden haired Ganymede, towered over Simon's frail figure. Mark, always sturdy and well-muscled seemed to him to have grown taller and larger, just as he had apparently become crueller and more violent. He had always enjoyed playing things a little rough, which suited Bobby well enough as well, but now things had gone beyond mere play. His character seemed to have assumed a crueller more extreme edge since his return to Africa. But if Mark had changed, Bobby's attitude to him had not or not at least to any decisive extent. There had always been a strong element of hero worship on Bobby's part. Now as the boy scrambled painfully to his feet that was supplemented by a very real degree of fear.

Mark looked magnificent, not that Bobby used that word to describe him to himself, cool or great or perhaps more appositely wicked or indeed cruel but magnificent was what he meant. Darkly handsome, naked except for the flimsy t-shirt that had risen half way up his buttocks, with the build of a young athlete on the verge of manhood, his ebony flesh glistening with health and energy, he looked what he was the young off spring of a warrior race, confident in his own strength. His cock rose, a swollen rod of dark pulsating flesh, from the freshly sprouted thicket of black wiry hair at the junction of the youth's legs. Bobby gazed at the youth's erect member and heavy balls swollen with cum with respectful awe. He remembered Simon whimpering as he tried to force his own small prick into his arse and imagined the agonies that would be inflicted on the child when Mark prized his bottom open with his much larger weapon.

Mark wasted no time. Grabbing the boy by the ankles he forced his legs back over his head so that his knees were pressed to the mattress on either side of his head. Looking down he could see the grease glinting round the entrance to the boy's hole. It was as well he thought grimly to himself that the brat had been well lubricated as he had not had an opportunity to grease up his own prick. It was going to hurt the boy a lot anyway what with his having to accommodate his own almost man size cock rather than starting him off with Bobby's little boy cock but it would hurt a damn sight more if the job was done with both hole and cock dry.

He could of course made things easier for the boy but he had no intention of doing so. Primarily for the simplest and best of reasons, because the brat's suffering enhanced his own pleasure. To see the pain flare in a slut's eyes as he forced his sphincter, to hear his whimpers, to see the damp tears glisten on his cheeks added zest to his own excitement.

But there were also practical reasons unrelated to his own enjoyment of the boy. It was a truism, one he had heard his father often express, that one of the defining experiences of a young slave boy was having his bottom fucked and it should hurt. And Bobby's stupid indulgence of the slut, backing off at the first sign of discomfort, made this even more vital. If this was not done the boy would think all he needed to do to get out of something uncomfortable was to whimper a bit. This was a misapprehension Mark was determined to correct. He was going to make sure Simon would never forget having his bottom penetrated.

"Reach round and pull your arse cheeks apart and relax your bottom. Push back like you're shitting," he snapped, "Bobby come here, kneel on the bed above the little whore's head and take his ankles from me."

Mark looked down at Simon's upturned bottom the boy's finger tips digging into its taught flesh as he strained to pull its cheeks apart. He slipped his hand between the boy's legs and spent a few seconds fingering his stiff little cock and small hairless balls. He smiled down into the frightened young face staring up at him between the back of boy's parted legs. It amused him to find that the whore was sexually excited despite the humiliation of his position and his obvious terror. His own cock was hard too. Taking careful aim he aligned it with the gap between the parted lips of the boy's anus. At first sight it seemed impossible that so small a hole would stretch to accommodate the thick black rod of flesh banded with swollen and knotted blood vessels. Mark though, knowing from experience with the Ngeni serving brats of the household, the elasticity of young sinews was sure it could be done and equally sure that it would hurt.

Simon tensed as he felt the touch of Mark's cock against his anus lips. He caught his breath and his eyes widened as Mark gradually increased the pressure easing the tip of his cock into the boy. Mark felt Simon's sphincter tense in an instinctive attempt to resist the invasion. He knew the time for gentleness had passed. He drove forward hard with his hips and Simon squealed in pain. With hard brutal thrusts of his pelvis he drove his cock millimetre by painful millimetre deeper into the brat while Simon screamed and beat the mattress with his clenched fists in his agony

Bobby naked his body slicked with sweat fought grimly to keep a grip of Simon's flailing ankles. The boy's screams and the brutality of Mark's assault appalled him but he did not think of protesting let alone of trying to stop it. For one thing Bobby was used to doing as Mark said. In addition his father had taken Bobby to one side before he left home and given him a very serious talk about his probably finding things being done differently in Africa and the un-wisdom of challenging local practices and customs. Bobby was alone, far from home, in a strange country as the guest of Mark, an older boy whom he hero worshipped and was accustomed to obey; perhaps he should have protested against Mark's treatment of Simon, but he could in the circumstances be forgiven for not doing so, especially as Simon, the victim, made no attempt to do so.

Looking down Bobby could see Mark's cock, a thick cylinder of dark flesh, partly sheathed in Simon's bum. Around the rim of the hole where the black cock entered Simon's paler skinned bum a thin circle of semi liquid filth, brown laced with red, had begun to form and froth, welling from the boy's bottom, slowly spreading as Mark vigorously pumped Simon's hole.

Bobby watched fascinated as Mark increased the tempo and weight of his assault, hammering his cock deeper and deeper into the sobbing boy's guts. At last the boy's cries of distress, the creaking of bed , and the sound of Mark's harsh panting were supplemented by the sound of flesh impacting on flesh as the black youth buried the full length of his cock in the boy and his forward thrusting hips repeatedly hit the back of the boy's bottom.

Suddenly Bobby felt his chin gripped and his head forced back. He found himself looking into Mark's eyes, glazed with lust, just inches away from his own, Mark bent his head and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, darting his tongue snake like between his parted lips. Still keeping hold of Simon's ankles Mark surrendered himself to the black boy's embrace. At least, he thought to himself as his cock snapped upright, things are beginning to develop the way I imagined. Mark's body shuddered and his head jerked back braking the embrace. Mark stood for a moment, still, his head bowed, panting harshly, his cock still buried in Simon's bottom. And then he was off again, his dark prick pumping Simon's boy cunt with redoubled energy.

Mark orgasmed four more times before he pulled his now flaccid cock with an audible wet plop out of Simon's boy hole. Then he collapsed on the bed beside the quietly sobbing figure of the boy he had just been abusing so cruelly.

Bobby released his hold on Simon's ankles.

"Why the hell did you do that Bobby?" Mark demanded quickly rousing himself and grabbing Simon by the back of a knee before he had a chance of lowering his legs. "Show some sense. You can see the slut's leaking filth from his hole as it is. It'll go everywhere if he's allowed to lower his bum before we've plugged it and Mum'd make a hell of a fuss. You've no idea how she goes on about such things. Go to the bathroom and fetch a good wad of loo paper. Hurry."

Bobby jumped off the bed on which he had been kneeling and then hesitated looking round uncertainly wondering where the nearest loo was.

"Through the door at the head of the bed," Mark called out impatiently, "Do get a move on."

Bobby pushed the door open and found himself standing in a luxurious en suite bathroom all mirror's and black marble but no sign of a loo. There was another door though on the far side of the room. Dodging round the free standing bath and the whirl pool Bobby ran across to it and pulled it open; more mirrors, more black marble, a bidet a complicated looking loo. Bobby grabbed a handful of paper and ran back to the bedroom.

Mark snatched it off him and wiped round the boy's hole cleaning up the mixture of blood shit and cum that had already leaked from it and begun to dribble down between his legs towards his balls. That done he bunched the paper into a good sized wad and forced it into the brat who screamed shrilly as the plug was pushed into his sore hole.

"Stop that stupid noise," Mark shouted dragging him by the collar from the bed and forcing him down on his knees at his feet.

"Shut up I tell you," he shouted again, rocking the boy's head with a series of heavy slaps across the face.

"That's better," he said as the boy's howls of pain subsided into a soft whimpering interrupted by the occasional loud sniff, "now get busy and clean your filth off me. Come on get on with it."

Grabbing the boy by the ears he pulled his face down into his crutch.

"What did you think of the bathroom Bobby," he asked raising his voice slightly to be hard from the wet sucking sounds and occasional whimpers coming from the direction of his crutch as Simon set to work.

"It's vast," Bobby replied, "I don't think I've seen anything like it. I don't think I could work half the things in there. Even the loo looks complicated."

"That was made in Japan," Mark replied laughing. "Dad insisted on it, we get a lot of politicians, and industrialists and some big game hunters too staying here from all over the place, America, Asia, Europe. He said people judge a country by its plumbing and therefore we had to have the best and most complicated. You know that lavatory you mentioned – it'll wash and dry your bottom if you want it to. I said 'why not have a couple of Ngeni slave brats to lick it clean?' They'd be just as good and more fun but he wouldn't wear it at all."

He stopped talking and pulled Simon's head back out of his crutch and peered down.

"Come on plenty more to do. You haven't started to suck the cum out of my pubic hair."

Then pulling Simon's head even further back and twisting his face so Bobby could look into it he continued. "Look at the filth he's got on his face already."

Indeed Bobby, his gorge rising in disgust, could see the boy's lips and chin were liberally smeared with a brownish noxious looking fluid a mixture of cum, shit and blood that had leaked from his hole. Mark released his grip and the boy quickly buried his head once again between his legs and the wet soft sucking sounds rose once more as the brat returned to his work.

"I suppose that's the difference between real and play slavery" Mark said thoughtfully, "a real slave can have its bottom fucked and then be told to suck his master's cock clean."

"You could do both to me," Bobby ventured doubtfully. He certainly didn't want either but he thought he should just point the simple fact out.

"But I never would," Mark replied quickly. "You're my friend not to mention guest. I would never ask you to do either."

"And you would never allow your bottom or your mouth, for that matter to be fucked, because you are a free boy. Indeed under our tribal law, which still applies here, a boy whose bottom or mouth is violated by a man, even if he is raped, loses his freedom and becomes the possession of his violator and I am sure you would never let that happen."

"Now it looks as though the slut has finished cleaning me up. I'll just lock him up in a cage out in the back yard. I'll leave checking him out for damage till tomorrow morning. I'm too tired to be bothered doing it right now. If he's badly injured inside he'll most likely be dead in the morning which will save me wasting time on him."

"Come on turd."

Mark stood up and grabbing Simon by the arm dragged him to his feet. Simon guided by Mark took one or two unsteady steps towards the door and then collapsed to his knees.

"Mark," Bobby said urgently, "shouldn't we do something for first? He's hurt. There's all sort of stuff coming out of his bottom, including blood."

"Don't be so fucking soft," Mark exploded, "I'm too tired to be bothered with that sort of rubbish now. We'll shove him in a cage and leave him. Then we'll have a go together in the whirlpool bath before bed."

"Come on turd," Mark said again accompanying, the words on this occasion, with a hefty kick up the boy's backside. Simon made an effort to stand up but failed.

"Blasted, useless brat," Mark exploded.

Bending Mark scooped the boy up in his arms.

"Come with me Bobby," he ordered leading the way out of the room Simon cradled in his arms.

Bobby followed Mark across the hallway and through the green baize door to the kitchen and finally out of the back door into the yard. Mark set Simon on his feet outside one of the small cages set in a row against the boundary wall. He took a the short length of chain hanging looped round one of the cage bars.

"Open the gate would you please Bobby," he said as he secured Simon's wrists behind his back attaching the chain ends to the heavy metal bands locked about the boy's thin wrists.

Holding the boy by a wrist and an ankle he picked him up off the ground and threw him bodily through the open gate. Simon landed heavily, his head hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thump.

"Come on Bobby," he called as he strode from the yard without a backward glance.

Bobby hurried after him. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Simon's crumpled body lying still on the ground.

"Mark please," he pleaded as he followed the older boy into the bungalow, "Simon maybe badly hurt. He banged his head really hard when you threw him into the cage. We can't leave him like this."

"Do stop it Bobby. You're just being silly. Come on now we're in the scullery it's your chance to try slave pap. Let's see what I can offer you."

He stooped and lifted the lid off a large rather chipped enamel pale standing on the tiled floor near the sink. He peered inside it and taking a large wooden spoon from the draining board gave the contents a stir. Standing beside Mark could see the pale was three quarters full of a yellowish rather liquid porridge in which a very few small lumps of indeterminate solids floated.

"It looks horrible," he said wrinkling his nose in distaste, "what's he stuff floating in it."

"Oh just bits of vegetable and if you're lucky maybe a bit of zebra or monkey meat or something. Now where's a bowl. Damn I can't see one."

A sudden rather evil smile split Mark's face. He tipped a generous spoonful of the porridge onto the tiled floor at Bobby's feet.

"Now you can eat like a real slave Bobby. Get down on your hands and knees and lick it up. Get on with it, I want to have a bath and get to bed. Come on you're not afraid to or shy are you."

Mark seemed almost at the point of laughing at him.

Bobby hesitated he didn't want to do it but he had upset Mark already by failing so miserably to perform when invited to fuck Simon. He didn't want to upset his friend again and he certainly didn't want to have Mark laughing at him for being scared and shy. He took a deep breath and got down onto his hands and knees. He could feel Simon standing over him. He got down with his elbows on the floor and began nuzzling at the cold lumpy porridge. He was acutely conscious of Mark standing over him looking down at him with his face pressed to the floor and his bare bottom stuck up in the air.

He hardly tasted the porridge the sense of humiliation and embarrassment was so intense. "Come on lick it all up," Mark said laughing.

***

Simon's screams were shrill and loud and persistent. They tore through Bobby's head demanding help and attention. Bobby stumbled forward in the dark towards where he judged they were coming from but he never seemed to get closer to their source. They seemed always to be shifting and changing direction.

He started up in bed feeling the sheets damp with his own sweat against his naked body. It was very dark. He could just see the outline of Mark's body dark against the white sheets lying on the bed next to him snoring gently. Clearly he had not heard the boy's screams. But then he had hardly noticed anything that evening. Certainly Bobby thought with a touch of bitterness Mark had hardly noticed him despite his sharing the whirlpool bath with him and then their climbing together into the double bed. Mark, after his multiple rape of Simon's pretty little bottom had little energy to spare for anything else. Bobby who had been looking forward to spending time with his older friend and had spent many hours with a raging erection imagining what they would get up to together had been bitterly disappointed. He had not flown three thousand odd miles to lie in the bed in the dark just to listen to Mark snore as he was doing now.

It seemed Bobby thought that Mark had not heard those screams. Which raised the question as to whether he himself had really heard them or had he just dreamt them. He listened intently. Mark continued to snore and somewhere out in the darkness some animal howled eerily. He must have dreamed them. He would go back to sleep.

He was just approaching the borderline between sleep and consciousness and the screams began again. Bobby snapped awake. Again the screaming stopped. Dream or reality Bobby thought those screams would prevent him sleeping properly. Out in the darkness beyond the bedroom window came that strange call part bark, part howl ending in what sounded almost like a demented human laugh. Beside him Mark continued to snore quietly.

He remembered Simon's head cracking down on the concrete floor of the cage and his body lying still and unmoving. He imagined how terrified the boy must be, if indeed he was still alive, locked alone in the dark in that cage with that animal prowling outside. He felt guilty not standing up to Mark and insisting that they should have checked on the boy and not left him alone not knowing if he was alive or dead. Of course Mark had told him to leave the brat be to get on by himself as best he could and he was accustomed to doing what Mark told him. But he knew he should have insisted they had not left Simon alone in the cage and he wished they had not. Anyway one advantage of leaving doing it till now he thought stealing another look at Mark's dark figure slumbering beside him, was that Mark would never find out he had been defied.

Bobby swung his bare legs out of the bed and began gingerly to feel his way through the darkness towards the bedroom door. Again there was that strange animal sound. Bobby froze the hair on the back of his neck rising in terror. For a moment he thought of creeping back to bed and wriggling up against Mark taking comfort and protection from the youth's sturdy body. But the shrill terrified screams to which he had woken still rang in his ears and he still felt guilty at his failure to do anything to help or protect young Simon earlier not even something safe and simple like a protest. He had failed back then and this was his chance to do better and with Mark sound asleep and safely out of the way it would be that much easier.

He remembered pretty well his way around the bungalow and he made his way cautiously across the hall, through the kitchen to the back door and out into the yard, feeling his way for he did not want to switch any lights on in case he somehow woke Mark.

It was a clear cloud less night and the light was better out of the bungalow than inside the quarter moon filling the yard with a pale silvery light. Bobby could see the row of cages along the yard's boundary wall opposite the back door of the bungalow and very dimly, through the darkness, a small dark bundle lying on the concrete floor of the nearest one. It looked at first like just an old scruffy blanket lying tumbled on the ground but when he got nearer the cage he could see a small bare foot sticking out from its folds. Simon must have dragged himself across the cage to it and wrapped himself in it sometime after Mark had so unceremoniously dumped him there. At least Bobby thought, remembering the sickening thump as the boy's head struck the floor, he was alive. At least back then he was. Was he though still alive, that thump was a hell of a big one. Through the cage's bars Bobby studied tumble of dark blanket. He thought he could see some slight movement but he could not be sure. He slipped the key into the cage door lock and turned it.. Easing the door open he pulled the key out of the lock and carrying it padded on bare feet across to the bundle of dark cloth. Something about the darkness and the unfamiliar sounds of the African night made him move as quietly as he could.

He stood for a moment looking down but still, in the darkness, could not be certain he saw any movement. He squatted down on the floor at the opposite end of the bundle to where the bare foot slipped his hand between its folds. He felt hair and then smooth, warm, undoubtedly livin,g boy flesh.

Bobby paused wondering, the boy was alive, that he had established, but what was he meant to do next? He could not turn him loose to fend for himself, neither could he run away with him, for there was nowhere to run to. Indeed he was not sure even if he had been able to do either it would have been the right thing to do. His father had specifically warned him that he might find things different in Africa and he should not interfere or challenge local customs. And then he was Mark's friend and guest and didn't the boy in some sort of way belong to Mark? Mark would certainly think so and taking things that belonged to someone else was stealing and that was bad and stealing from a friend was worse.

As Bobby squatted in the dark the night air cool against his naked flesh Simon roused by his touch woke from a troubled and broken sleep. The first thing he registered as he struggled back to consciousness was that he hurt, his head hurt, his body hurt and above everything his bottom hurt.. Not just a sore hurt but a tearing desperate penetrating pain. An unbearable but a pain he had to bear. Then he became awareof Bobby's hand resting against his cheek. Of course buried in the folds of the old blanket he had no idea of whose hand it was, all that he was aware of was that it was there and for the first time in months someone was with him, not hitting him, not cursing him. For a moment he was back again in a time before the freedom fighters came, when Mummy was kind and beautiful and Daddy was happy and good fun and hewas small and ill and Mummy had come to sit by his bed to comfort him. Still half asleep he reached up and took hold of Bobby's hand.

***

Mark woke to the sound of an animal cry, the same weird savage sound that Bobby had heard earlier. Hyenas he thought sleepily and simultaneously became aware that he had woken with a raging erection. He lay for a moment as memories of the previous day came flooding back and he considered his options. Raping Simon had been fun, the brat had clearly felt it and showed that he had done so, the boy's tears and cries enhancing his own pleasure until that delicious moment of conquest and possession when he planted his seed in the slut's guts. Well Simon was out of commission for the moment at least. By the amount of blood and other stuff he had been badly ripped. How badly and whether the damage could be put right were questions that would have to wait untill he got round to looking at him sometime the next morning.

Very fortunately Bobby's arrival had provided him with another equally attractive play mate. Certainly he was restricted somewhat in the things he could do to Bobby but then there was plenty he could do. And it was time he paid some attention to the boy. He was conscious that he had been rather too busy with Simon and had noticed some indications that Bobby resented this. Now was the chance to set this right.

He rolled over on his side and reached out for Bobby only to find the boy was not there. Well, that was all right, presumably he had gone to the loo for a pee and would be back in a minute or two. In fact it was a plus because when Bobby got back he would have a good excuse, his not being there when he was wanted, to put him over his knee and give him a good spanking on his nice tight bare bottom, something both of them would enjoy intensely in their different ways.

Mark lay on the bed happily imagining the sequel of events. Bobby padding back on bare feet. The boy's alarm and surprise, part real, part simulated, at finding him awake and demanding with pretended anger to know where he had been and berating him his absence. The stammered apology, the drawing of the boy down over his knee, the adjusting of his position so his delicious little bum was positioned just right, raised, taught, with the skin drawn tight, ready to his hand. The moment or two spent stroking it and squeezing it while he sternly admonished Bobby for his faults and the boy pleaded for forgiveness and promised amendment in the future. Then the really exciting bit, the actual chastisement, with Bobby wriggling and squealing across his knees the white skin of his bottom taking on an ever deeper flush as the punishment progressed and their mutual excitement rose.

But. Where the hell was the boy? He should be back by now. Had he done something stupid like going outside to see what was making those animal noises? Mark knew it was hyenas but Bobby would not. If he had that could be dangerous. He had better go and find him. Mark sat up in bed and switched the light on. He looked around and saw the key to the cage in the yard where he had dumped Simon after he had finished with the slut was missing.

Mark remembered the fuss Bobby had made about the brat. The persistent suggestions that he should do something, goodness knows what, dress the boy's torn bottom, or stitch it up, or give him something for the pain, and going on and on, despite being told Mark was too tired to be bothered and that it would be all looked after in the morning – if of course the slut survived the night. Now the stupid boy had presumably sneaked off to see if he could do something for the little whore.

Irritation replaced concern in Mark's mind. Bobby was not really his slave and he was not really Bobby's master but he had no doubt he was the boss, the one who called the shots. He had told Bobby that he was to share his bed and that they were to leave seeing to the brat till the morning. Yet Bobby had chosen to sneak off to see the slut preferring to keep company with an injured slave brat rather than to staying where he had been put where he would have been available for a little mild but very satisfying petting. From Mark's point of view Bobby had been disobedient, disrespectful and inconsiderate.

Mark was used at home at least to being able to gratify his sexual needs pretty near immediately, after all what otherwise was the point of slave boys? He did not take kindly to finding himself frustrated. He had hinted to Bobby earlier that their play could be rougher and more extreme now they were in his home country and had suggested that he might use the cane on him if occasion arose. Now he thought grimly as he picked up the cane from the marble mantelpiece the occasion had arisen.

He strode purposively from the bedroom carrying the cane with his swollen prick lifting the front of his t-shirt, his only article of clothing.

***

Bobby squatted in the dark with no idea what to do. He knew he should go back to the bungalow before Mark missed him but he was naturally a kind hearted boy and he could not bring himself to break Simon's grip on his hand. The brat was so defenceless and had so little he could not bear the thought of deserting him.

Suddenly the yard was flooded with harsh white light. Simon sensing something had changed sat up and looked about himself.

Mark strode out of the bungalow. Bobby could see from the way he moved and the look on his face that he was very angry indeed. Mark walked without speaking across the yard to the cage's open door and checked the lock for the key.

"Slave," he snapped, "bring me the key."

Hearing the key word that triggered their master/slave fantasy games Bobby's throat as always tightened in excitement. On this occasion with Mark clearly in a fowl temper and away from the restraining presence of nearby adults that excitement was supplemented with a considerable leavening of trepidation. Bobby's prick snapped to attention for sexual excitement and fear combined is an intoxicating and, as Bobby was to discover in time, addictive mixture.

He snatched up the key from the ground beside him and forced to bend almost double by the low roof of the cage scuttled across the cage to the door outside which Mark stood waiting impatiently.

The door was much lower than the cage and he had to almost get down on his hands and knees to get through it.

Mark found his emotions, as he looked down on the top of Bobby's fair head and bare shoulders as he ducked through the doorway, were mixed. He was still irritated and a little miffed by what he regarded as Bobby's desertion and apparent preference for the company of a slave brat. At the same time he was very fond of the boy though that fondness was seasoned as ever with just a touch of amusement at his youthful innocence and enthusiasm. The fondness and the amusement were old well established emotions to which he was well used. New and quite unfamiliar in relation to Bobby was just the slightest hint of contempt.

Back at school and on holiday at Bobby's home they had when alone sometimes played as Master and slave. Mark always taking the Master roll Bobby the slave's. But Mark had always assumed that this was because he was the older, stronger and bigger, that if circumstances had been different their rolls would have been reversed and that in due course when Bobby was bigger he would take a younger smaller boy under his wing just as Mark had taken him. Now though Mark had begun to wonder if that was so. There was something very unhealthy and wrong to Mark's mind about Bobby's developing relationship with Simon.

Anyway there was no more time at the moment in which to try to sort out this chaotic jumble of emotions. Bobby was standing in front of him smiling nervously, offering him the key to the cage door. He had warned Bobby earlier that he might play harder and that he could use the cane on him. If Bobby wanted a taste of real slavery and to spend time with a real slave he would see his wishes were granted.

Gritting his teeth he slashed Bobby hard across the front of his shins with the cane. The boy's eyes widened and his mouth flew open as the shock and the pain hit him.

It was the first time that Bobby had had the cane and the intensity of the pain surprised him. He had been expecting something in line with but perhaps a little more intense than a hard open handed smack on the bare bottom but this was different in nature and kind. It tore through his body, emptying his lungs of breath, leaving him for a moment gasping for air unable to speak or utter a sound.

Mark raised the cane for a second blow and Bobby hastily dropped to his knees before he could strike again. The last thing he wanted was a second cut from that thing.

"Now give me the key… Right get back in the cage. Quick."

Bobby opened his mouth to protest or at least to question. Mark raised the cane again and Bobby changing his mind closed his mouth and turning bent to duck through the low door back into the cage. Mark could not resist so tempting a target and sent Bobby scuttling forward into the cage with a vicious cut across his bare rump.

"You'll have five more of those tomorrow morning. I'm too tired to be bothered now."

Gasping with pain Bobby heard the door slam shut behind him. Crouched on the ground, naked, the fresh stripe on his bottom burning fiercely, with the promise of more to come the next day, he watched as Mark locked the door and strode back into the bungalow taking the key with him. A second or two after the light went suddenly out and the yard was plunged into darkness.

The temperature had fallen sharply. He began to shiver.

"Please Master Bobby Sir if you want you could come in under the blanket. It would be warmer," Simon suggested diffidently out of the darkness.

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