Chapter 1
Section 1.a.i:Concerning Contract Boys

She could barely meet my eye across the kitchen table. She'd opened the front door and invited me through, but even then, her expression had been difficult to read the whole time. Hostility, anger, contempt, defeat, sadness; it was all there.

"You probably think I'm scum," I said, leaning back in my uncomfortable traditional wooden chair by the small kitchen table. Both the table and the kitchen were small. Mrs Thomas had evidently tidied the house as much as possible in anticipation of my arrival, but you can't hide that a place is lived-in, especially when it's lived in by young kids.

She still avoided my eye. She looked pale; tired. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail, and it was clear where it was beginning to go grey before its time. She looked like she hadn't brought herself to wash it in a few days, and certainly there was no way she could afford a salon haircut. And, well, was there any other kind for a young woman?

"No, it's not like that," she began, sighing defensively under her grey hooded fleece, worn over the top of her top and cheap jeans to shield her from the biting evidence that there was no heat in the house. "Men… men like… y'know, men who like the things that you… you do – well… well you've always been around, haven't you? I just wish… it's difficult, isn't it? It's unthinkable for me that it could have come to this. I'll be honest with you."

"It's alright, Mrs Thomas," I said. I reached over and squeezed her hand across the table. She allowed me, but I didn't want to push things too far, so I soon released it. She was ice cold.

"No parent would want to be in this position, would they?" she said. "I feel… I feel like such a failure. Like I'm letting them all down, but especially poor Daniel."

"Mrs Thomas, I speak to parents in your position all the time," I replied kindly. "Honestly, it's not your fault. You should never blame yourself. Nobody asks to be put to these lengths, but… well, there's a market. And you have to do what's best for your whole family somehow."

"I… I know…" she sighed. Bright, stale winter light was flooding through the kitchen window from the southwest, to our left-hand side, and making her look ever more pale and drawn. I could tell she was on the brink of a sobbing fit, barely holding things together. "But… Well, it's hardly what's best for Dan, is it? What he'll have to go through…"

"Try not to think about it too much," I said, absent-mindedly brushing a dry cornflake from in front of me on the tiny family table. "Really. It doesn't ever help."

"I tried to do it myself, first," she said, saliva catching in her throat as she fought the emotion. "Really, I did. I would've done anything for my kids. I still would do. After Gethin died, well… Things have only been getting worse, haven't they? We were good. Really we were. We worked, and we paid our way, and everything. But these days, with everything as it is, and without Geth there… In a small place like this, there isn't any money in it, you know? Not when there are other girls doing it too; younger ones… sexier… There's nothing for a mother in her early thirties. Not out here. And… Well I thought about going somewhere else: Llandudno, Wrexham, Liverpool or Manchester, even, but all we have left is this house, even if it isn't much. I'd leave the kids here with one of their grandmothers and send the money back, but they're not well and they still both have to work; it wouldn't be fair. I… Daniel is the only option left. Or else we lose everything, and all the kids get taken away anyway…"

"Mrs Thomas," I said softly, trying to slow her down and bring her back, as gently as possible, to business. "Unfortunately this is what I hear all the time. You're not alone, you're not to blame, and I'm here to help."

"Aye, help by taking my boy away to do–" she snapped at me, then caught herself fearing she might have gone too far. "I'm sorry. I know it's just business to you."

"And it's survival to you."

"Yeah. Well."

"I didn't want any of this, you know," I said. I smiled. This was my favourite line to repeat, because it was true. "I didn't vote for any of this. Not in 2016. Not in 2019. Not ever."

"It's what they all say," Mrs Thomas sighed bitterly. "You're still on the make one way or the other. It doesn't make me feel any better even if it is money in my pocket, and I don't think it's going to make Daniel any happier to know… when he's…"

"I know it's difficult, Mrs Thomas," I said. "Really, trust me, I do. But the first thing I learned from my first client was that the worst thing anyone can do is keep thinking about it and beating themselves up about it. At the end of the day, Daniel is willingly going away to earn money to put food on the table for his brothers and sisters, isn't he?"

She drew another breath and nodded silently, sadly, sitting very straight and drawn in her chair. She was a small woman; small and harassed. Her thin face, beginnings of wrinkles around the lips and eyes, led with her straight, prominent nose. Her eyes danced grey and troubled in the recesses beyond.

"Shall we look over the contract?" I asked, trying to push matters on. "The main details are exactly as we discussed over the phone and on WhatsApp."

I pushed the paper forward, rotating it ninety degrees to sit side on to us both, using my pen as a pointer.

"So, the opening preamble just sets out the basic conditions as I described to you before," I said. "I become Daniel's legal guardian, but I commit to ensure that he continue to be schooled as normal and appropriate for a boy of his age, brought up within the same dietary and religious routine as he is used to at home, and not be subjected to inhumane conditions, treatment, or discipline."

"Hm," Mrs Thomas nodded, making the sound only with difficulty.

"That's the first part that will need a signature from you," I said. "The second is another that we have already discussed, that being the terms of Daniel's free and promotional output. That is, photographs of him posing in clothing down as far as underwear or swimming trunks. That's the part that absolutely all contract boys will be expected to do.

"I understand," Mrs Thomas said, barely whispering from the back of her throat.

"The next part is somewhat more complicated, and it will be the most difficult part of the process," I said. "We spoke a little about this on WhatsApp, but it's always more difficult to go through it in person. I think saying it out loud makes it all a little more real, you know? Let's go through it together, and we can take our time and pause whenever you want."

"I… Alright. Okay."

"So, the first part of Section III covers what you agree to allow Daniel to do in solo sets to be sold on to customers; this is how he'll make his money." I paused to look up from the contract, directly at Mrs Thomas, looking from under my brow as I leaned over the paper. "I'll be honest with you, Mrs Thomas: from the pics of Dan you sent me, I'm certain he'll easily be able to sell sets without us having to commit to any of the more… exotic shoot options here."

"Um… yes," she replied, still very tight, drawn, and stiff. "Thanks."

"I'm very much looking forward to meeting him," I said.

"I'm sure."

There was a hint of the clipped hostility again, but I brushed it off with a sly smile. I was used to it. I'd still be the one walking out of there with her son as his legal guardian.

"Let's continue with Daniel's solo options," I said. "You'll see that this first line, 'underpants/swimwear' is automatically ticked for photo and video on the printout. That's because this is a basic expectation for all contract boys. They are already doing this in their promo shots."

She nodded once, sharply. She was following, but I saw her eyes darting ahead down the list. She wasn't liking what she saw. But then, what parent would?

"The next option here is nudes," I said matter-of-factly. "From what we discussed on WhatsApp, I think I'm right in assuming I can tick this off for both photo and video, right?"

Mrs Thomas closed her eyes tightly, swallowed hard, and nodded once. Her hands were gripping the edge of the table. She'd just agreed to give me the right to produce and market naked images of her son. Her mug of tea was going cold to her left on the table. I thought to myself that perhaps I should start insisting on doing these final contract and collection visits over brandy. Especially with the single mothers.

"Alright," I said, ticking the boxes. "The next few options are as follows, and these are the ones I'd recommend for Daniel to achieve his full financial potential. Suggestive nude poses, masturbation – that's Daniel playing with himself – and insertion, which is Daniel either sucking on his fingers or objects and/or putting them up his bum. Am I to tick those off for both the photo and video options?"

So silently she wasn't even breathing, and still with her eyes firmly shut, Mrs Thomas nodded again.

"Wonderful," I continued. "Let's look at some of the rest of these options. Mrs Thomas?"

She opened her eyes up again at my direction. For legal reasons, it was probably best to ensure she kept up with every mark I was making on the contract.

"Now, this is where the options begin to get a little more creative, so it's important you're sure on the decision you make now, both because it might be difficult to amend the contract later on, and because these genres can be quite niche and make a lot of money for the right boy or girl." I pushed my pen into place to highlight the next line. "Light BDSM. Now, I know what your thoughts on this are already, but I want to reassure you again that this is nothing painful or overly traumatic for Daniel. Just being cuffed or tied in different positions for the photo, then released again straight after. From a financial perspective, I'd strongly recommend you agree at least to photo rights in this genre, if not video too."

There was a pause. She seemed to be hyperventilating a little. Then, just as I was about to call her name out of concern, she spoke, in a hoarse whisper. "Alright," she said. "Do them both."

I ticked the boxes.

"Excellent, Mrs Thomas," I said. "Now, presuming there isn't something unusual or wrong with Daniel under his clothes, from the look of what you've sent me, Daniel won't don't need to do the rest of these options to make a reasonable income but of course he might make more with them."

She nodded silently once more. I pressed ahead through the remaining solo rights on the contract.

"First is feminisation. That's dressing Daniel up in clothing meant for girls. I wouldn't rule this one out, as it would be a good one to have in our back pocket as an expensive bonus should a fan request it privately, and thinking of Daniel, it's probably better for him than any nude shots."

"I… I dunno, really," Mrs Thomas said.

"He'll be in clothes," I said. "They'll just be girls' clothes."

"That… I… Well, I suppose it's okay. At least he'd be dressed, I mean. I don't see why not."

"I'll tick that off for both media," I nodded. "Now, the rest are a little more… well, niche. And I honestly don't think they're anything Daniel will need to rely on."

"Go on…" she said, a clear waver in her voice, even as she tried now to sound stern and assured.

"Urination. That covers pictures of Dan having a wee, but also potentially wetting himself. So, you know, him peeing into a toilet on camera is covered by the same category him peeing his pants. Scat means the same but for poo. Then we have diaper, which would obviously involve Daniel in a nappy, and with the addition of urination or scat would assume Daniel actively using the nappy, too. There's humiliation, which I suppose is anything humiliating not otherwise above defined. The final two are related – spanking and BDSM punishment."

"I don't want my boy doing any of that," Mrs Thomas said curtly. I think she was pleased with an opportunity to give an unequivocal no. I nodded and turned the page to continue. I was being honest; presuming the family snaps she'd WhatsApped to me were of remotely the correct boy, there would be no need for him to do any weird fetish stuff in order to turn a profit.

"Right," I said. "Part B of Section III relates to shoots with other children. These are very popular and will be sure to add value to Daniel's work."

"Okay," Mrs Thomas said. She seemed somewhat less disturbed about this now we'd crossed the Rubicon of agreeing to the terms on which her son would be pictured nude, which often seemed to be the way these conversations went if they got this far without the parents getting cold feet and backing out. I suppose arrangements to have them mucking about with other kids seemed far less scary once the moral wall of them being filmed pornographically for money had been successfully hurdled.

"There are three tick boxes here: boys, girls, and video. Obviously, that means you're agreeing to him being grouped with other boys, girls, and then whether it can be a video as well as still images."

She nodded. She seemed almost primed to race through this section as quickly as possible – perhaps anticipating the chance to cut me off at the adult section with a hard no to make herself feel better about the whole thing. Yes, my Daniel was a brave lad and he volunteered to be a Contract Boy for a while to help us back on our feet, but I told them straight that I'd never let him do anything perverted with an adult involved.

I had to stifle a giggle to myself with a smirk, as I put more ridiculous words into her mouth and voice in my head. Can you imagine? Men who want to pay for pictures and videos of little boys! Yes, love, I can well imagine, and so can you and plenty of others, that's why we're here cutting a deal for the carefully-legalised wing of the child porn industry.

"Okay," I said, regaining my professional composure. "These first few mirror what we've agreed for his solo work, so I'm assuming I can tick all three boxes the same: underpants/swimwear, nudes, suggestive poses, masturbation, insertion – in the case of the latter two, that would just be Daniel doing himself alongside other children doing the same unless we agree to some of the later options."

"That's… yeah," Mrs Thomas said, clearly losing a little of her confidence – or bravado – as she came to the act of agreeing out loud that her young son should be allowed to appear in erotic videos with other children for money.

"Let's continue," I said. The winter sun had disappeared behind a cloud outside, but occasionally emerged into at least partial occlusion to dapple the cheap wooden table between us with patterns of daylight. "Then we have dress-up/role-play. I'm guessing that's also acceptable."

Mrs Thomas nodded again. I moved on.

"This will be one of the difficult parts," I said. "Now we move on to sexual contact between the actors. I'm going to read out the action, and I'd like you to confirm for me whether it's okay for Dan to do it with boys, girls, or whether it's a no. If it's both and you're okay with it being filmed, just say, 'video'. If it's just one but you're okay with video, say either, 'boys, video', or 'girls, video'. That okay?"

She nodded and took a deep breath, playing with her wedding ring with her hands in her lap. Her eyes were closed again. I began to read the clauses.

"Non-suggestive cuddling."

"Video," Mrs Thomas said clearly. I was always glad that was the opening term.

"Embracing and/or kissing."

"Video," she said again, with only a slight pause. That one didn't seem so bad either, presuming you ignored the fact she'd already agreed to the possibility of her son being naked when being instructed to do so.

"Masturbation."

This one was always the first kicker. My voice reverberated around the room, despite the quiet – only occasionally interrupted by the muffled chatter of small children upstairs – until Mrs Thomas came up with a throat-clenching answer.

"V-video," she said.

"Fingering," I replied as soon as I'd ticked the boxes.

"Video," she responded in a hoarse whisper. And it made sense. I mean, once you've agreed to allow your son to jerk and get jerked off, or rub a kiddy-clit, what difference do fingers in the mouth, up the bum, or in a tight, bald, mini-cunt really make?

"Licking of non-intimate parts of the body," I said. This one tended to be a de-escalator after the masturbation questions, although some parents got particularly hung up on it. Some were so nervous and scrambled by this stage of proceedings that they couldn't help but release a nervous laugh at the ridiculousness of the legal language. Many never made it this far at all. And so they never got the money to alleviate even a little of their poverty.

"Video," Mrs Thomas said, with a little more conviction. She was obviously of the mind that this wasn't as difficult a scenario as fiddling with or being fiddled by other kids, either. Having filmed a few 'non-intimate licking' takes in my time, it could even be quite a laugh for the kids themselves, and was especially useful as something to relax those on a group shoot for the first time.

"Insertion," I read. It was ramping up again.

"Um… V-video, I suppose," she replied.

I nodded and ticked three boxes.

"Oral sex."

Mrs Thomas physically shivered at the thought. She paused and sat in silence, quivering, eyes closed. It was often the case for parents who got this far. She had managed not to blanche at any of the options for her kid to fool around with other kids, but this was getting into the realms of what was undeniably sex. Out-and-out, adult sex.

"Remember, Mrs Thomas, you have the option of splitting your decision by gender if you're not comfortable with the idea of Daniel sucking a penis or having his penis sucked by another boy. Though I will remind you what I previously told you via text; group videos are most likely to prove most lucrative when they finish with full sex between the child actors, and it's far better for Daniel to be flexible and have a full range of combinations open to him."

"Video…" she whispered, almost too quietly for me to hear.

"Sorry, Mrs Thomas," I said. "In the interest of being clear for the contract, I need you to speak up so we can both hear."

"Video," she snapped, though only a little louder.

"Thank you," I said. "Anilingus."

"What?" she responded. Clearly this was not the thing she was expecting next. She was thinking next on the playlist was the 'big deal'. But it wasn't.

"The pleasuring of an anus or rectum with the lips and tongue," I replied, straight and unflinching.

"Oh…" she said. "Well, is that… Do people… Is… Is it really, you know, n-necessary, I mean, to make sure his videos do well?"

"It's another option open to us if you say yes," I said, as reassuringly as one can be when talking to a parent about signing up their son for kiddy rim jobs. "We make sure all of the children are clean before the shoot, and it's not an enormous leap with Daniel already signed up to all the oral options for group work."

"I… hmm. Well, I suppose if you think it's best… If he were to say no, would… would you still make him?"

"Listen, Rebecca – if I may?" I began. "I'm not a monster. Yes, it's an advantage to me that I enjoy young boys in a sexual way" – there was a sharp intake of breath and a visible stiffening from her as I admitted it out loud, much as it had been hanging constantly over the whole transaction – "…but primarily this is a way for me to use the contacts I've made and the skills I've developed to help families like yours make good money from what is a very lucrative market if we do things properly. And I think your Dan will be very popular if we produce the right content for people. Ultimately I don't want to force him into anything he is dead set against doing, but what I would do if the situation occurred would be to try to persuade him to carry on, and see if we can compromise in some way on what he performs. I'd also point out to him that it's only fair that he does it if another child has done it to him. Remember, these rights we're agreeing are reciprocal; they're about allowing other children to be pictured doing them to him as well as him performing for others."

"I… Okay then. I mean, if you say it's alright…?"

"Mrs Thomas – Rebecca," I began. "Let me put down boys and girls for now, and I'll leave video out. If we have any issues with it the first time he performs it, I can give you a call and we can see about removing it from the contract altogether. If not, we can see how it goes and then look at adding video footage to the contract, if you're happy to go that way when the time comes. It's always good to have something in hand on photo but not video to keep customers in suspense, anyway. It might work in our favour."

"Okay," she said, clenching herself once more as she nodded assent.

"Frottage."

"What's that?"

"Humping against each other without penetration."

"Video," she nodded. Again – a bit of a de-escalation from the prior clauses, even if the logic of their order was clear. Finally, it was time for the biggy.

"Intercourse," I said.

Rebecca Thomas took another few moments of breathing and shuddering to herself. Rather than playing with her hands in her lap, she'd moved to gripping the edge of the table, and her knuckles had gone white with the stress she was transferring through her joints to the innocent wood of the family table. I wondered for a second how they ate at it, tight as it was for two adults to sit opposite each other across it, but then I realised that they probably never did. Perhaps the younger two or three – I wasn't sure of the kids ages, beyond Daniel being the eldest and ten going on eleven – ate their cereal or toast, or whatever they could afford for breakfast, around the table where their mother could keep an eye on them, while Daniel and the next oldest were trusted to have their breakfast on their laps in front of the TV in the living room. For dinner, it was easy to imagine them eating from laptop trays on the living room settee, with perhaps the youngest children sitting and eating on the floor where there was less danger of mess.

"Video," she finally said, in a gasp that stifled a sob. She had just pre-sold her son's virginity to the camera to put those meals on the table or on the dinner trays, whichever the reality might be.

"It's okay, Mrs Thomas," I said. "Take a moment if you need it before we move on. This is hard for any mother. Just remember that you're doing this for the good of all your children."

She nodded and breathed back tears, her face screwed stubbornly and tightly, both fists balled on the table.

"The remaining options are the same as for Daniel's solo work," I said. "I'll run through them again for you, and let you have a little think about whether you want to consider any perhaps as a little bonus for Dan's group video work or just as a little something extra for group photo shoots. They were: light BDSM, feminisation/role-reversal, urination, scat, diaper, humiliation, spanking, BDSM punishment."

"Mmng," she nodded, rocking slightly as she fought to keep it together.

"May I suggest that you consider at least feminisation and diaper as photo options? They're essentially just dress-up without any of the other fetish options involved, they'll add a little something to role-play shoots that punters will love and pay extra for, and it might even be fun for Dan to play babies with other kids and suchlike. Likewise spanking and even light BDSM. The kids will just be playing and they can't really hurt each other. They'd be in big trouble with me if they did."

Mrs Thomas was still rocking and nodding. She took a sharp intake of breath.

"Do it," she said. "Video if you think it's best. No… n-no point in signing him up to all the rest of it and then turning down a little bit extra if it gets him more. That… t-that's right, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, Mrs Thomas," I replied warmly. She was searching deeply and openly for my assurance and reinforcement; anything by which she could rationalise contracting away her son for sex work, clause by clause. "What we all want most of all is for Daniel to make as much money as possible in the least intrusive way possible. And trust me: I think Daniel can. From what I've seen, he's a handsome boy. He's much luckier than many others I've spoken to in the past. You can imagine I wasn't able to take many of them on once their parents realised they'd only make money by agreeing to the most extreme packages. Daniel will be fine without having to do much out of the ordinary. I mean, kids experiment anyway from around his age, right?"

Mrs Thomas was nodding, but I wasn't sure how much she was actually accepting and taking in.

"With that in mind," I continued, "we can probably gloss over the next two parts of Section III and Section IV. The next area is videos with the producer, i.e. me. I know you're probably certain you don't want that for Daniel, but keep in mind that even the most basic adult/child video can make a lot of money and really help promote Daniel as an actor and model. Even without active sexual contact, a producer and child photoset or video can generate a lot of new interest in children's existing group and solo material."

"He.. he's ten," she hissed.

"Consider this," I suggested. "We agree to underpants and swimwear photos and videos, nudes, and suggestive. That means we could, for example, produce a video of me washing him for the camera. Not particularly sexual, but guaranteed to generate interest in his other work."

"And you get your hands on my son."

"Mrs Thomas…" I said, pausing and sighing for emphasis, "let me remind you that we're here to discuss a contract to place your son in my custody for sex work. Even if you don't agree to anything from this section, in half an hour or so, he'll be out of that door and on his way to his new life. After everything we've already agreed regarding his solo and group options, who do you think is going to be directing and training him to do all that? Who do you think is going to be dressing and posing him for his solo work, hmm? This isn't about me touching your son – he's going to be my responsibility anyway. It's about making sure he gets the right profile to maximise his earnings potential. Isn't that what you want? Money to support your family now? Extra to save for his growth spurt when he needs new clothes every five minutes? For school trips? For him to be able to go away to university and not have to worry about making ends meet?"

"Mmm-hmmmmm!" she nodded, openly crying and rocking. Perhaps I'd gone in a bit hard, but that's negotiation, after all. And I really did want to get my hands on her son.

"Okay," I said. "Alright. It's fine. You're fine. Just calm yourself now, Mrs Thomas; we're almost there. So, with your assent, I'm going to tick off those three initial options. And how about the fourth – masturbation? It doesn't mean we have to use it. Yes? Good."

Poor Rebecca Thomas was panting and sobbing, hunched over the table. The fact that she was signing over her ten-year-old to a pervert she'd found advertised on line had fully hit home, evidently, and it was proving difficult to bear. What a monstrous failure she must feel. She'd admitted to being unable to make enough from attempting to whore herself out in her little North Wales backwater to make it worthwhile. Now the only option left was letting her innocent son get whisked off to some distant city for at least the next year, in the hope that letting his body – and soul – get sexualised would make enough to keep a roof over his siblings' heads. It burned deep inside me to relive this almost every time – especially with those parents who felt they had to go through with it. I hadn't been lying about my politics. But my sex drive… Well, that was a different animal altogether.

"We'll skip shoots with third party adults as Daniel definitely won't need that, and I wouldn't want him to do anything he doesn't need to just to line my own pockets," I said. "I mean that. Likewise, we can definitely skip over Section IV, which deals with private favours for preferred clients. I'll make sure he never needs to go there."

"Thanks," Mrs Thomas spluttered.

"All that's left is to check I've filled in all the correct boxes, read over the financial declaration, and sign and print at the bottom where it says 'parent/guardian'."

As she read over the papers, I explained the gist of the financial declaration.

"The financial declaration agrees that Daniel will receive 75% of everything he earns each month after the first £500 [$670]."

"The first £500?!"

"Think about it, Mrs Thomas. It isn't really much at all. Not only is it a saving on your part not having another mouth to feed and body to clothe and keep warm each month, but that five hundred covers his accommodation, food, clothing, plus any transport costs and running costs involved in shooting, producing, and hosting. It's far less than many other producers ask for. And Daniel will easily make that each month."

"I… Well, I suppose, if that's just the way it's done…"

"And of course the rest of the document simply outlines penalty fees and liabilities. Basically, penalties for either party terminating the contract before the year is up, and an undertaking that, if the child does not earn £500 [$670] monthly from their second month onward, any difference is owed by the child's family to me as a producer. But, again, I don't think either of those things will be a problem with Daniel. Believe me."

Rebecca sighed, pressing her temples and fingertips together hard with her elbows planted roughly on the tabletop, and let out a long, low, growling whine of powerlessness and frustration. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Right then," she murmured, her voice level and decided. "If this is how it must be, I suppose you'd better hand me the pen, don't you?"

Chapter 2
Section 1.a.ii:Concerning Daniel Llyr Thomas

"Mrs Thomas?"

She didn't respond. She'd been in a daze since she left her curly signature on the contract forms.

"Mrs Thomas?"

"Nh? Oh, sorry," she sniffled. "I was completely in a world of my own there."

"Not a problem," I smiled. "Now, the last formality before we get Daniel ready to travel, is to fill in his measurements for his health and development certificate. Have you got those ready for me?"

"His what?"

"His measurements for the health form. I sent you a blank copy over WhatsApp on Monday."

"Oh! Oh crap! No – sorry – it completely slipped my mind! What with everything else that's been going on, and with making sure Daniel is okay and ready, and all the things I've had to manage lately…"

I held up my hand for her to stop.

"Not to worry, Mrs Thomas. We can simply get Daniel down here now and take the measurements ourselves as we go through filling it in."

"Is that alright?" she asked.

"Yes," I said reassuringly. She made to rise to her feet but hovered in front of the table a while. I could tell she was either consciously or subconsciously delaying bringing Daniel down to meet me, as if that might yet save him. It would not; I had her signature and that was that.

There is a logic to the way these meetings are structured, just as there is a logic to the ordering of items on the contract. Every aspect of the deal has to fire in a certain order – unless the parent is completely reckless with their child (of which there are more than a few) – to ensure that an otherwise devoted parent be led down the path of signing over their kid to perversion. Of course, they're desperate – lots of people are – but it takes very certain prevailing circumstances to crack a parent into giving up their son. And I mean son, as I don't deal with girls: not my thing and way too complicated besides.

Naturally there's good money in it; of course there would be, with the Kingdom of England & Wales being the only developed country on Earth taking the step to partially legalise child porn. The domestic market isn't so strong – not with the economy as it is – but the perv pound has always been there. Then there are foreign purchasers – that's the real honey pot. Arab perverts remain rich perverts – at least while oil is still a thing – and American perverts… Well, professional quality shoots of white kids who look like they could be the boy or girl next door? Who else is offering that kind of material to the discerning American paedo with a bit of cash to whack via PayPal into an e-pay site outside of US jurisdiction? We make it as easy as we can, of course, though we have to be clear the risk remains theirs. Funnily enough, that doesn't stop many of them.

But still, you have to know what you're looking for and how to play your cards if you want to be sure to take on a stable of contract boys. Parents don't just give their children away. Even with life-changing money on offer. You have to do your research and target things properly. Take places like North West Wales. There was a good reason why I'd been drawn to that part of the world on that weekend. You might have a crippling nationwide depression, but some areas will be more resilient than others. You can go to the big cities with their deep structural issues, like Birmingham, Liverpool, Bradford – and believe me, I've fished in all those pools – but there have always been underhand ways for people to make ends meet in cities with unemployment and decline, because big populations bring big opportunities. More sex work for women. Sly factory or warehouse work for dodgy companies paying much less than the minimum wage. Established charity infrastructure. Remote rural areas, with their small towns and villages, don't have any of that. You heard Rebecca Thomas say herself that she couldn't even find worthwhile ways to whore herself out. As the pinch keeps coming, these are the weak links you need to find and snap while the pressure is high. Plus, I won't deny that it's a big help that Gwynedd is a long way from my studio in Alcester. I can certainly do without regretful parents tracking me down and banging on the door – and that's happened more than once already. It probably doesn't help when they see that I'm running things from a rather pretty converted barn – a literal stable of boys.

Mrs Thomas had been frozen in place across from me at the kitchen table – stood, but not quite stood – for some sixty seconds now. I cleared my throat.

"Go on, Mrs Thomas. Time to bring Daniel down to meet us."

Closing her eyes with a deep intake of breath and a visible, body-encompassing shudder, she set stiffly away to prise Daniel from the company of his younger siblings upstairs. Watching how they summon the child is always a good read on where a parent's head is at this stage of events. Some stand at the bottom of the stairs and screech their son's name until they appear. Some already have the child prepared in an adjacent room, ready to be whisked into my command on the first gesture. I even saw one mother send a text to get her son to come downstairs to us. Mrs Thomas took the most common tact – that of the guilt-ridden and bereft parent – quietly climbing the stairs herself to collect Daniel in person, returning with him under her arm looking nervously at his feet most of the way, pale with fright.

"Nice to meet you, Daniel," I said, smiling at the boy warmly and standing to offer my hand.

"You too," he offered quietly, just about managing to steal a glance at my face before looking away, and touching my fingers weakly with soft, clammy hands in the barest parody of a handshake.

"I've heard a lot about you, and seen pictures too," I said. "I think we're going to make a lot of money together for your mom and your brothers and sisters. What do you think about that?"

He shrugged and kept his eyes on the floor, turned side-on into his mother's protective embrace with his right hand at her back. I had to stop myself grinning too much. He was perfect!

The pictures hadn't lied at all. In fact, they had infact not done him true justice. Big, light-brown eyes – almost green, even – gazing sadly at the floor, framed by small, soft brown eyebrows. Neatly cropped brown hair, mousey, golden to the light around its edges, slightly longer on top than its fade-buzzed sides, with boyish unruliness around the fringe, either cowlicked or a result of clumsy ten-year-old styling. A beautiful straight nose, separating two equally round cheeks, and balancing two well-formed ears, before his face swept to a pointed jaw with a little oval chin, small, nervous pink mouth sitting in the middle. And he was small and slim. Oh, how beautifully, perfectly, childishly slight. I was sure I would be able to count his ribs while I was taking his chest measurements. I couldn't work out whether his clothing was a result of his mother perhaps dressing him up in preparation, or a response to the biting cold of the house. Blue jeans, red-and-black plaid shirt, and the hint of a white tee underneath where his top button didn't close. Charmander socks. He looked like he could be anyone's pretty little son, or nephew, or cousin, or neighbour, or pupil, or whatever. And if that was making my blood rush a little faster, it was a dead cert that it would be very good for business indeed.

"The last thing we need to do, Daniel, before we get you ready to leave, is take a few measurements so we have a record that you're nice and healthy. Alright?"

"Mam?" Daniel squeaked, looking up at his mother with apprehension. She nodded.

"Go on now, Dan. You've got to be mummy's big boy from now on, remember?"

She eased him forward a little and he stumbled slightly into position standing awkwardly before me.

"Do you prefer Dan to Daniel?" I asked, thinking that it might put him at ease. It didn't matter all that much to me, but I'd rather have a calmer and more compliant boy on my hands than a terrified or furious one. It would probably be a four-hour drive once little boy comfort stops were factored in, not counting the other stop I had to make before turning home. More than four hours of inconsolable or tantrum-filled boy would be annoying, to say the least.

"Dunno," he shrugged, finding my feet the safest part of me to respond to.

"I'm sure we'll work it out," I smiled back. I'd already decided by the time he gave his little non-committal show of defiance that he'd be marketed as Danny Boy. It suited him down to the ground he was currently staring at. I sat back on my uncomfortable kitchen chair. "Come and rest one of your feet on my lap, Daniel."

He took another glance back at his mother, but it was clear she was refusing to meet his gaze, so he looked back down at his feet and slowly hoisted one into place on my knee. He shivered from tip to tail as I touched it through the fabric of his sock.

"What's your shoe size?" I asked.

"Three," Mrs Thomas answered for him, after a pause. Daniel simply stared at his slender little foot rested on my leg, holding his balance against the corner of the table.

"That's what? 22cm [8½"]?" I thought out loud. "We can call it that rather than faffing about having to take his socks off and measure both feet, if you're happy with it?"

"Mmn," Mrs Thomas grunted, so, one hand still gently gripping Daniel's raised foot, I leant over and entered 22cm [8½"] in the box for foot size.

"I did that one first as it's simple," I replied. "The sheet actually starts with height and weight."

"You can see his height here," Mrs Thomas said, gesturing to the wall behind me. I had noticed it earlier and was hoping she'd direct me to use it. They had a children's height chart on the wall, easily reaching a high enough measure to get a read on Daniel's approximate height without having to resort to the awkwardness of tape measures. I released his foot and gestured for him to stand against the wall.

"Your mom can fetch us the scales while I take your height," I said. "Isn't that right, Mrs Thomas?"

"I'll get them now," she sighed, turning to leave the kitchen once more.

"Mam!" Daniel cried out, beseeching her with big, shimmering eyes not to leave him alone with me.

"Dewrder," she muttered to him, leaving the room and failing to stifle a loud sob as she headed for the stairs. I only found out from Daniel days later that what she had told him was 'courage'.

"Up straight, Daniel," I said, forcing him to focus on having his height taken. "Stand up straight. Straighter! Tall as you can. Feet flat. That's it!"

Daniel was refusing to look at me as he followed my instructions. His breathing was erratic and loud, and he looked a gust of wind away from hysterical tears. I wondered exactly how much his mother had explained to him about what his new working life would entail, and how much he had understood and taken in. On this evidence, it seemed she may have been rather more honest with Daniel than a lot of parents I'd seen.

"Right," I said. "133cm [4'4"]. That's totally normal. Now, where's your mom with those scales?"

On cue, the sound of Mrs Thomas descending the stairs began. I kept Daniel stood in place against the wall until she appeared.

"Thanks," I said, taking them from her hand. They were old, bulky things, still with an analogue readout. "I'll put them down here in front of you, Daniel. Let them settle and then step on, there's a good lad."

He came out at 28kg [62lb]. I noted it down with his height. He was small for his age on both counts.

"Now I need some body measurements," I said. "These are to help track your development and useful in making sure we're keeping you in clothes that fit nicely. First is chest size. Shirt off, thanks."

Daniel slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and he dumped it on the table after a few seconds of confusion over what to do with it. He stood resignedly, waiting for me to begin.

"Tee shirt too, Daniel," I added.

"Mam!" Daniel whined again. Yes. He knew enough that he was reluctant even to remove his outer clothing in front of me. This was surely beyond normal bashfulness and apprehension around a stranger.

"Daniel…" she grunted firmly. I could tell she was having to force herself to discipline him into undressing for me, fighting every last maternal urge in her body. Thankfully, Daniel was evidently the kind of good, obedient little boy who only needed telling once. He let out a pathetic whine and false sob and went about worming his way out of his white tee. He shivered and dumped it moodily on the table with his shirt.

"See?" I declared. "Not so bad or scary. Let's get on with measuring you around. Arms up. The tape might be a bit cold at first."

I was having a wonderful time. I always love it when the parents neglect to take the measurements. I wonder whether it's a form of denial for some of them to 'forget' about it, and not have to worry about undressing their children to be measured up like meat to be auctioned off to me. Their refusal is my gain. I get to unwrap and touch their sons right off the bat, and they always end up sitting there watching me do it. Call it a lesson in the folly of psychological avoidance. And Daniel was a real pleasure to measure. Small, reluctant, fearful… The perfect rush of power in showing him my authority over him, recording by recording. His chest, for example. Beautiful. I could indeed count his ribs, and his pale skin was blemished with the odd freckle, alongside his networks of blue, green, and purple blood vessels over the white surface, like cracks through porcelain. His nipples were the same ghostly pink as his lips. I made sure to catch one with the tape and watch him jerk in surprise and discomfort, pulling the measuring tape away without comment and watching how the little nub had erected for me. His mother surely noticed. Yet, only once have I had a parent realise at this point that they could still physically tear up the contract as it sat on whatever surface in their home I'd left it on. It was astonishing how many simply accepted being privy to my first session of prep with their child for undressing and manhandling as part of the terrible punishment they must endure for what they had agreed to, rather than something they could still prevent.

Mrs Thomas was no different. I smiled at her as I entered Daniel's chest measurement on the sheet.

"Time for the waist measurement," I said, turning back to where Daniel was stood topless beside the table. I pushed the waistband of his jeans, and the elastic of his underpants visible beneath, down a little. He gasped and stiffened. "Let's lower these just a tiny bit so we have some room, hey?"

His lower abdomen was as beautiful as his chest. Still blotched by occasional freckles and painted by the network of his circulatory system, but with real suppleness to the pale skin and soft flesh. The tiniest amount of puppy fat on an otherwise flat expanse beyond his lower ribs, and a small, slight, innie in the middle. He said nothing as I took his waist measurement. Nor did his mother. I wrote it down. He was a thin boy, for sure.

"Mam," Daniel said quietly, "should I put my clothes back on now?"

"I need to take your inside leg measurement first," I said, dropping my pen back to the paper. "Jeans off. Come on."

"N… N-no!" he eventually managed to complain.

I twisted my body around to face Mrs Thomas. "It's usual for contract boys to be transported in their school uniform. Once I've got Daniel's inside leg done, why don't you fetch it for him to change into. You're aware there's another set of measurements I need to take for which he might want more privacy."

She nodded stiffly without looking up from the table. Her lips were drawn and pursed, and her eyes seemed darkened, drained of life. I left her to turn back to Daniel.

"Daniel, remove your jeans. You'll be changing into your school trousers soon."

He looked around the room for some hope of relief, but his mother was in no mood to respond, and no other viable options presented themselves. He growled under his breath and began to take off his jeans. He muttered something to himself that I presumed was Welsh, except fI picked out the word 'hate'. Soon he was pulling his jeans from around his ankles. He wore dark grey boxer briefs, with not much of a bulge.

"Stand with your leg straight so I can measure you," I said, kneeling alongside him when he was ready. He jumped and wriggled at my touch, so I tapped his leg lightly, with a tut, just to remind him.

"Mmph!" he groaned as my thumb pushed against the side of a testicle, pushing the top of the tape into his warm groin.

"Pull it aside then," I said. He clamped both hands down as hard as he could over his covered boyhood and noticeably opened up my way too the very inside crook of his leg. "Good boy."

I turned to write this latest figure on Daniel's sheet, him pulling back determinedly from my touch as I took the tape measure away. He was about to get an unforgettable lesson in just how utterly his body belonged to me, but he still didn't know it yet.

"Mrs Thomas?" I intoned. She got up robotically, presumably to head for his bedroom and collect his school uniform. I turned back to Daniel as soon as she was out of the door. "Come here. We have another set of measurements we still need to take, with a proof picture for the two main ones. Look. What does that say?"

Daniel leant reluctantly over the table to read the paper, now down to just his dark grey boxer briefs and his Charmander socks. His eyes bugged and he looked frantically around the room, beginning to whimper.

"Tell me what it says," I instructed Daniel simply.

"Nnnm!" he squeaked, shaking his head.

"What does it say, Daniel?" I grabbed his wrist roughly and dragged the boy in front of me. He had broken and begun to sob heavily. His chest heaving and rattling, causing him to cough as his mouth filled with despair and his eyes ran down his chin.

"Mam…" he whispered, wanting to cry out for her to return, but fully registering that her trip to collect his change of clothes at this point was all part of the betrayal.

"What do we still have to measure, Daniel?" I said, pulling the hysterical boy between my legs where I was seated, repeating the question directly into one of his ears – the one part of his body he was still yet to grow into.

"It said…" he sobbed. He swallowed a huge mouthful of thick, sticky despair saliva. "It… it said p… p-penis…"

"Come on now," I said. "Best to get it over with as quick as we can. Let's get those pants down."

With my left hand still gripping Daniel by his left wrist, I used my right to work his boxers down to just above his knees, pulling by the bottoms of their legs and alternating sides to hoist them down. He offered no more resistance. There he stood, to all intents and purposes – me not being a man particularly interested in feet – completely naked before me. I always like to etch the memories of those first times as strongly and deeply as I can.

"See? You didn't have to be embarrassed about showing one like that, did you?" I cooed into his ear. I could smell his sadness all around me – the particular scent of salty tears, and sad breath, and endless sniffling – but there's also always a scent whenever a cock and balls is released from hiding. Leaning my rough chin on Daniel's small, bare shoulder, I was certainly close enough to pick it up. The buttery smell of immature boyhood that has sat for a few hours in clean underwear, with the slightest hint of urea. He must have gone once today and left behind only the faintest dribble. Good. Clean and tidy boys are much less of a headache to prepare and direct for shoots than ones who have to be fought into the shower before every session.

"Let's take our first measurement, flaccid," I said. "That means floppy, like it is now."

I released his wrist and wrapped my left arm around him. With both my hands now at work in front of him, and him positioned between my legs squeezing at his, there was no way he'd be able to wriggle free at all.

"Hold onto this for me."

It was a 15cm [6"] ruler – exactly the kind he would have in his pencil case for school. I like to make sure the children have familiar reference points when I have to lead their intimate measuring. He took it disbelievingly between his small finger and thumb, fingernails square and trimmed to fit the length of his digits precisely.

"Hold it there, right against the base where your willy starts," I said. "Push in a little so it's lined right up. Good boy."

He followed my instructions and pushed the ruler against the side of his dick, the end pushing uncomfortably into the top fold of his scrotum. His pubis was of course entirely bare, smooth like the surface of an iced cake. I used my left hand to pinch the end of his penis by its tail of foreskin and pulled it out taut to line up with the rule that Daniel held in place. I felt his body flinch at my initial touch, his pelvic muscles tightening and causing his entire boyhood, from the tip of his penis to the seat of his scrotum, to twitch. He sobbed harder again at what was being done to him. At what he was being forced to do to himself, stood there obediently with his kiddy ruler.

"About 47mm [1¾"]," I said. "That's a good size."

I hoped that was reassuring to him. I hated seeing any of my charges this upset; I really did. In this moment, Daniel simply had to learn who was boss now he was officially a contract boy. We could be friends later.

He just stood there somewhere between shell-shocked disbelief that his willy was getting measured by a grown man holding him in tight embrace, and terrified, bottomless despair at what was happening to him. His mother may have done her best to prepare him, got him to go along with it, perhaps even been frank about some of what he would be doing (beyond 'modelling', which is what many boys initially understand until experience teaches them otherwise), but still, in this moment, his little life was being turned upside down and shaken out all over the floor.

I took the opportunity, as he held the ruler against himself like a good boy, to reach for my phone with my right hand and take the proof photo. And my, what a photo it was. A bald, thin, spectral white tube, patterned with a mosaic of deep-coloured blood vessels, with the big fat trigger artery on the top, broadening out to a wider, fatter, squishier head – purple colouring just vaguely visible through the skin as I pulled it tight to hold the member in place – which then tapered down itself once more to a pouting mid-length anteater snout of foreskin, rosy and wrinkled on its lips.

"Trust me, Daniel," I said. "That's a nice one. It really is."

Of course, I knew full well that penis praise from an adult stranger was not something that in the slightest made a boy in Daniel's position feel safer or more relaxed. Still, nothing wrong with positive reinforcement, and he'd have to get used to it.

"Put the ruler down for a second," I said, taking it from his hand. "Lift your willy up for me so I can see your balls better."

Daniel limply took the end of his own penis from my grip to his, releasing a barely perceptible sigh of relief as he did so, past caring that he was now showing off his balls. That was, until I gently stroked and fondled them in his small, wrinkly sac. He stifled a yelp.

"Calm down, I just need to estimate a development stage to put down for your testes."

That probably meant nothing to him, but it sounded official. And it was true. Though its presence in the routine was always a good opportunity for a nice ball fondling. It's baffling really that some parents avoid preparing measurements for me when they surely understand that this is the alternative.

"Last thing now, then we're done, and you can get pull your briefs up again, okay, Daniel?" I sang in his ear. "You've been such a good, brave lad so far. The last thing I need for you to do is to get an erection for me, alright? Do you know what that is, Daniel?"

He shook his head roughly against me. I took his hand away from his willy with my right, then used the same hand to begin manipulating it myself, gripping and stroking up and down with a single thumb and forefinger.

"You might not know the word, but I'm sure you'll know what it is when we get there," I told him. I put a little more effort into my ministrations, using my left hand to rub sensuously across his torso. My right thumb and forefinger gripped along the crown of his glans, testing firmly whether he could yet roll back his foreskin at all. He could, at least some. He shuddered and jerked as his pee hole was exposed, releasing yet another hidden boy fragrance, this one warm and yeasty. His member had started to swell.

"This is b-bad touch," he whimpered, using both his hands to try to push mine away from his genitals, rearing up between my legs as he clenched his entire body into the effort. "It's… stranger danger…"

Poor boy didn't have the vocabulary yet, especially not in English. Cute, helpless little Daniel. He would be a good boy. It was obvious.

"Come on now Daniel; it's starting to get stiff, isn't it? It must feel good, eh? We're not strangers, are we? We're going to work together."

"I don't want you to!" he whined, before beginning to sob some more. I couldn't work out whether he was talking about working together or me diddling his little pidyn, or perhaps both at once. His body was doing the rest of the talking, though, as I was quickly rolling skin up and down the urethra of one stiff little boy.

"There we are," I said. "That's good, isn't it? Because, you know, if that hadn't worked, the only other way to get it like that is with a finger up your bum!"

That shut him up. He sniffled and sobbed uselessly some more. I passed the ruler into his hand again.

"Same again, Daniel."

He did as he was instructed. And this time, I didn't need to hold it out straight, as it was doing that nicely by itself. 82mm [3¼"]. The boy was a slender little grower!

I'd just taken the proof when there was the bump of the door opening as Mrs Thomas came through with Daniel's school uniform. He nearly jumped out of his skin, beside himself yanking his pants up so hard almost to tear them as his mother entered the room. I was sure she didn't see anything, but his stiffy was tenting his boxer briefs ridiculously as he came, red-faced and tearful, into her view.

"Mam!" He sobbed. "I don't wanna do it! I don't wanna go! I can't, Mam. Please don't make me!"

He had clung to his mother's front, gripping her with all his might as he broke down into her breast. I'm not sure his boner was even fully down by the time he'd wrapped his entire barely-clothed body around her. I picked up the papers from the table and stood up, sliding them into my leather man-bag with the ruler and measuring tape.

"I'm going to go to the toilet, then I'll wait in the front room," I said quietly. "I'll let you get him dressed and ready to say his goodbyes. I have another appointment in Holyhead yet, so it'd be good to get back on the road by half past."

And, like that, I took my leave.

I'm sure you'd like to hear all about how Daniel sobbed into his mother's arms, and she had to cradle him like a baby and reassure him that he had to be brave, and that he was a big boy, and a breadwinner, and the man of the house now, and that he was going to be doing it all so he and his siblings could have a better future and stay together, and how much she loved him, now and always and forever, and all those other things. The fact of the matter is that I know as much happened, but I never want to be there to see it. It's painful. It's nasty. It's horrible. And it's better for my relationship with the kid, let alone his later relationship with his parents, if I'm not there when any of that is happening. Plus, they were more than likely doing the whole thing in the medium of Welsh, so I wouldn't have understood any of the detail anyway.

One detail I did understand, with absolute crystal clarity, is when a boy as loved as Daniel is in the bag, and he reacts like that at the last minute, you have to get that contract the hell off the table. No way was I losing him at the last minute. Gather up, excuse yourself, get out. Spend twenty minutes browsing your phone and occasionally sniffing the slightly sweet, bready scent left behind on the tips of your thumb and finger. Lick it a little, even. Just make sure that contract is away from desperate mother and boy.

"We have another little boy your age to see before we can head home," I said to the sobbing, shivering, shaking Daniel, as he curled in his school uniform in the back seat of my car, child locks on to prevent any opening of the doors. He stared into the space between the two front seats and nodded dumbly, his newly-attached wristband identifying him as a contract boy dragging its tail against the seat as he raised his fist to roughly wipe his nose.

"Be a big, brave boy, now. Sit up and smile and wave to mom as we drive away."

Chapter 3
Section 1.b.i:Concerning Carwyn Gareth Jones

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" asked Mrs Jones. "I'm afraid I've only got instant."

"That would be great, Mrs Jones," I said. "I've got a long drive ahead, and I've been at it all morning, so I definitely need something to pick me up."

"It's Ms Jones," she corrected me, with a pointed sniff. "I'll just put the kettle on. Make yourself at home."

I leaned back into the Jones' hungry fake leather sofa in cream, struggling to balance myself upright and having to grip an oversized and over-padded arm as the seating made a farty noise that disturbed the quiet with its incongruity. Through brown wooden sliding doors inset with that awful 1970s glass with a jam-jar-bottom circular ring in the middle, the clanking of mugs and the noise of a kettle boiling joined the sound caused by my rumblings on the sofa. Looking to my left, I could see my car parked on the street below their large, rounded bay window, beneath the level of their small, steep front garden where the house sat atop a hill. Had it not been for the angle, I might have been able to keep an eye on Daniel sat glumly on the backseat, fiddling with his empty bottle.

"What's that for?" he'd asked when I handed him the empty litre water container, after quietly accepting the fact that he'd be waiting locked by himself in the car until I returned with the other boy.

"In case you need the toilet while you're waiting," I answered, watching his mouth drop open in silent mortification. "If it's more than a wee-wee, you'll just have to hold it and hope."

I saw that he wanted to roll his eyes at wee-wee, but regardless of his latest mix of defiant indignation and frustrated despair at the situation, he didn't. I liked to baby talk my boys, just as a continual reminder that I never consider them grown-ups nor remotely my equals. I could tell Daniel would be the smart sort of boy who wouldn't openly show it bothered him.

"I don't need a wee-wee or a poo-poo," was the response he came up with, just as I was about to close the door. Not bad for someone who had only managed to stop crying for the last ten of the forty minutes of driving between his village and Holyhead.

"Then you'll be plenty comfortable sitting here waiting then," I said, shooting him a respectful smirk. "Don't you dare even think about taking off that seatbelt. Your bum stays firmly where it is for as long as it takes, understood?"

With that, I closed the driver's door and locked the car. Daniel watched me with stony eyes as I climbed the steps to the 1920s detached house looming over us. This was surely a four-bedroomed place, with a separate dining room, living room, and kitchen, and surely some other room for some other function; office, utility – perhaps even a second sitting room for posh guests. I rang the doorbell (which gave a synthesised take on a traditional ring) and gazed down over the flowerbeds, just managing to look back at Daniel in time to see him sigh heavily and begin fiddling with the bottle I'd given him. His house was a stone-built two-up, two-down terrace. It only then dawned on me that Daniel had probably been sharing a small room with three siblings – conditions at the stable might actually be something of a relief for him from that. Hell, camping on the floor of the Jones' inevitable downstairs 'loo' would probably seem like welcome luxury compared to two sets of bunk beds and three younger little brats. I had visions of pink shagpile carpeting and a cushioned toilet seat lid. Though perhaps not for much longer – a For Sale sign positioned right on the corner of the Jones' front garden wall caught my eye, which seemed to have just been updated to 'SOLD!'

Ms Jones was probably in her early or mid-forties, and she had the immediate air of just the sort of frivolous middle-class woman to whom I could never warm. She and her husband must have been slightly older parents, for young Carwyn was an only child, and recently eleven – the same school year as Daniel. From what I had gathered from our communication, the marriage had ended somewhat acrimoniously, and things weren't quite so picture perfect as their family home still managed to make things seem – so long as one was willing to ignore the sale signage and the conspicuous absence of any photographs of the man of the house. The one who was older than eleven, I mean.

"Do you take milk and sugar?" she called through the sliding doors.

"No, ta, completely black," I responded. I looked again around the room at the various photos of Carwyn, some posed for school or other events, the rest of them living shots of outings and holidays. Foreign holidays. Quite a few. Carwyn Jones was from a very unusual background compared to the boys who normally crossed my path. He had lived a very fortunate life. That luck appeared to have run out.

Ms Jones brought the drinks out on a tray. She had hers in a 'World's Best Mum' mug, while mine was served in a souvenir mug from Kuşadası. Oh well. She wasn't to know that package holiday resorts in the Aegean wouldn't convince me of, nor warm me to, her cultural capital.

"There you are," she smiled. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," I said, politely raising the mug to my mouth, though only pretending to sip as it was still scalding hot. "I'll let it cool a bit."

"Just let me know if you'd like anything else."

"I will. Thanks."

She smiled again and placed her mug down on their immaculately clean glass coffee table. She used both hands to smooth out creases in her jeans on her lap, before reaching them out straight to her knees, like a cat stretching having just woken up.

"So," she said, "you're here to talk about modelling work for my Carwyn."

"Of course," I said. I paused and took in the trappings of their pretentious lifestyle again, all trinkets from souvenir tat shops and tacky plastic faux-spiritual ornaments. "Could you remind me again why it is you're considering this for Carwyn?"

"Well, me and his father split up two-and-a-half years ago," she replied, pausing momentarily for thought, "…and, it's fair to say there have been some… issues, since then."

"What sort of issues, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, I think I mentioned to you that my ex-husband moved away with his… his girlfriend" – ah, a younger woman, then – "though I'm not sure if I mentioned it was to Ireland. Of course, they live in a nice new home in the country there, while we must make do with what we have."

She gestured to the home around her with a half-smile that invited sympathy. I nodded along, but I hated her. It must have been twice the size of the house I grew up in. And how much larger than poor Daniel's home?

"And of course, as soon as he was out there, he stopped paying his child support. Said he'd given us his half of the house as part of the settlement, so that was more than enough. Of course, he still wants his son to visit him every time there's a bloody school holiday."

"How difficult," I said.

"Indeed," she nodded. "Of course, I had to let him go, for his own sake. Carwyn still loves his dad – thinks the sun shines out of his backside. Especially with all the expensive presents. A full drum kit last Christmas! Obviously he doesn't have to put up with the noise…"

"Is Carwyn good?" I asked.

"Sorry?"

"Is he good at the drums?"

"Oh. Well… I suppose so. He won some award or other at Eisteddfod this year."

"So you're putting Carwyn under contract for financial reasons?" I asked, seeking clarification. "Because of lack of support from his father?"

"I suppose you could say that," Ms Jones answered.

"Is there not any alternative?" I probed. "You understand this work is rather – well – extreme, for a boy his age?"

"Well, I told Hywel, I said: I'm going to end up having to turn your son into a contract boy if you're not careful! And he said I wouldn't dare. But this is what he's driven us to! I tell you!"

"I see," I said, carefully trying not to sound sarcastic. "Though haven't you just sold the house? I noticed the sign outside. Surely that will help your finances quite a bit?"

"You seem very interested in our financial situation," Ms Jones replied curtly. "I'm not sure it's totally necessary for you to know all the ins and outs of it."

"This is a big decision, Ms Jones, for you and for Carwyn. I wouldn't be doing my job properly if I didn't do due diligence on the situation and talk you through all your options."

"If you must know," she grunted, "there have been some other… issues – let's say – in keeping us living here in the manner to which we were accustomed."

I sighed. This was about what I'd worked out when realising Carwyn was an only child from a middle-class background. "How big's the debt?"

"Let's just say the house belongs to the bank before I see a penny to cover the rest of it," Ms Jones hissed bitterly. "That's Hywel-fucking-Jones for you."

"So this really is the only choice for Carwyn?"

"He's the only asset left with any value."

"Is he not so valuable that you'd rather see him safely under his dad's roof?"

"And leave me with nothing, housed in a mouldy B&B by the social at the age of forty-five, while he lives the life of Riley with our son and some young slut in County Cork?" she physically spat – not intentionally, but beads of spittle flew from her lips – "Ha! Not likely. Carwyn loves his mother. We're all we have left, except when Hywel remembers Carwyn exists. He doesn't mind doing what he can for us both."

For the first time in a long while at one of these rendezvous, I was spooked. This didn't seem… ethical. I know that may seem a bizarre thing for me to say, but it's true. None of my boys ever deserved what was happening to them, but at least Carwyn had a chance of a happy childhood somewhere. Even if his mother was right and his dad was a prick who didn't care enough for him to keep a roof over his head – though her role in running up such large debts, and her use of her son as a bargaining chip, was something she seemed so casual and practised in sweeping aside – surely upping sticks to Cork was better than becoming my contract boy? Boys like Daniel had families facing real destitution, separation, kids potentially ending up in our wonderful new residential care system, separated from each other if their accommodation was segregated by gender. Porn (and the rest) might be horrible, but at least… at least it offered them something, some of the time, in some of the cases. Carwyn surely had nothing to gain.

It didn't help that he wasn't quite the same sort of looker as Daniel. In fact, he wasn't close. From the pictures I'd been sent, and those around the room, it was clear Carwyn wasn't ugly, it was just… Well, he was likeable. Just goofy. Not wonderfully handsome. Big tombstone teeth with a slight gap in the middle, reddish-brown hair, pale skin, freckles, a nose on the chubby side… Lips like those gummy sweets you used to be able to get in a paper bag. The exact same lip shape as those. Chin like a washer-maid's elbow. I wouldn't call him ugly, but he wasn't going to make a great deal of money just being snapped taking his clothes off. Unless he was ridiculously hung or something, he was destined to need to work hard for his customers and their pervy payments. This wasn't a case of avoiding dad for a year by posing for pictures in girls' knickers with pink hearts on them; he'd be earning his keep with my cock up his arse, then licking it clean after on video close-up. How was this even a debatable choice?

"Ms Jones – let me be frank," I said, looking her quite seriously in the eye. She had the same green eyes as her son. "From what I've seen, Carwyn is not an ugly boy. Not at all. But I doubt he's quite the photogenic model that clients would pay big money to see posing for a few nude pics."

"I know my Carwyn," she said. "He'll work hard, whatever it takes."

"What I'm telling you, Ms Jones–"

"You can call me Rhiannon."

I sighed loudly to signal my utter exasperation.

"Right, Rhiannon…"

She regarded me with quiet determination. It almost made me shudder, though I controlled it.

"Rhiannon, your son Carwyn is only eleven years of age by a few weeks. In order to make any money doing this kind of work – especially the type of money I understand you would be hoping for – he will have to make weekly videos in which he is humiliated and anally penetrated by adults. Take a second to think whether that is really – really – what you want."

She did take a second. Ten or twenty, in fact. A heavy, stiff blanket of awkwardness had fallen across the room, and for the first time she had declined eye contact with me. Then she spoke.

"Let's at least go through the contract and discuss these options."

I closed my eyes and momentarily questioned a lifetime of atheism, wondering for half a second whether there was in fact a hell, and this was the omen that I was firmly on the journey there. Then I opened them, reached into my bag, and shuffled down the sofa to share Carwyn's contract on the table in front of Rhiannon Jones.

"First section. Carwyn will become legally my ward for the period of the contract, he'll receive appropriate schooling, not be forced to change any specific dietary or religious convictions from home, and not be subjected to any inhumane conditions, treatment, or discipline."

"That's very good," Ms Jones replied, leaning over the paper from my right side. "Is this where I sign?"

I moved back and let her sign the first section. I wondered just how many more we would cover before she realised the insanity of the situation and finally backed down.

"Section II: promotional material to be shared freely with potential customers. Carwyn will pose down to underwear or swimsuits for this."

"I've always said Carwyn would be a good model," Ms Jones said, picking up her pen – a personal fountain pen – to sign her name again. "He's a strong boy; you'll see. Perhaps you can encourage him to get on the weights. I can see him as macho. It'd sell."

"Section IIIa," I said, dodging her comments completely. "Permitted categories for Carwyn's solo shoots. I'll be honest: we should be signing him up to most of these if he's to get anywhere."

"Tick the boxes, then," she said. "He's just posing by himself. He likes that. It's just modelling."

"We covered underpants and swimsuits in his promo material already," I said. "The following are nudes, suggestive nudes, masturbation, insertion…"

She ticked the photo and video boxes for each in succession as I went through the list.

"Let's be honest," she said, "he's a young man; he probably does all this stuff in his bedroom anyway. Filthy beast."

I raised my eyebrows. "Insertion?"

"When he was about five, he shoved about ten Smarties up his bum at once. It looked like he had diarrhoea when all the chocolate melted and started to gush out. Even Hywel saw the funny side."

"Okay," I said. I couldn't help thinking that random things in orifices was something small children did, and hardly an indication of sexual inclination to do the same at age eleven. My brother had done the same thing with Smarties in his nose, with a similar chocolate nosebleed effect, and then later needed a trip to the hospital after a schoolfriend had decided to put a balled-up sticker from an apple in his ear. Carwyn's rectal chocolate consumption at five seemed much more in that league than my own experiments with pens and pencils up the rear at eleven or twelve, and we all know how I turned out.

"What are these next ones?" she asked. "You might have to explain the business terms to me."

"Light BDSM," I said. "That means posing for photos in handcuffs or playing tie-up games."

"He'll like that," Ms Jones replied. "I'll tick both boxes for him."

"Feminisation means dressing him up as a girl."

"It won't hurt him." Two more boxes ticked. "I know what urination is, too."

"That could mean wetting himself as well as pictures of him going normally–"

"I've already ticked it now. Just ask him before you get him to do any wetting. You never know; I've had friends into that stuff, and he might end up liking it too."

It was becoming ever more difficult to believe this was a serious conversation with a mother about setting up her son in porn. If the utter brazenness was some psychological reaction, it was one I'd not ever seen before in my time in the trade.

"Scat is…"

"I get it," she sighed, and ticked both scat boxes. "That's not a pleasant one, but if it gets him noticed and makes more money, that's what he'll have to do. I'm presuming diaper goes with these too, so there's that ticked off as well."

"Humiliation, spanking, and BDSM punishment all speak for themselves," I said. "What do you think?"

"Carwyn knows how to work hard," she said ticking all the boxes, with no less edge to her determination. "He'll do whatever it takes."

A clean sweep of solo possibilities for Carwyn, then. Perhaps the group work section would be where she'd break and step away.

"Section IIIb: group work with other children," I said.

"How does that differ from the stuff where it's just him?" she asked.

"He'll be participating with other children," I replied. "We have all the same options, plus we have to cover all the bases for sexual contact between the child actors."

"Do you think he'll have to be put down for everything to make his way?"

"If you're expecting him to make enough money to support my costs, your living costs, and debt payments every month…"

"That's a yes then." For the first time she seemed somewhat regretful. "He's a little young to be doing all that with girls. You do teach them about safety and protection and all that, don't you?"

"Of course," I said. "Plus regular health check-ups, and precautions taken with children who've reached a more advanced stage of their development."

"Better put him down for it all then," she said, sweeping her hand over the list. "You tick the boxes. I don't want to get into all the grubby details."

I set about ticking off all the options – boy, girl, video – though it didn't seem to have occurred to Ms Jones that boy had been an option. She was thinking out loud again.

"My… He'll think he's cock of the walk when he gets back. My Carwyn, doing it with young girls! His head won't fit through the front door!"

The contrast between this and the difficult conversations with Rebecca Thomas about bum-licking and oral sex couldn't have been starker. I was tempted to mention something about her signing up Carwyn for full gay BDSM intercourse with other boys – scat rim jobs included – by default with her blasé attitude, but I was warming to the idea of having a new no-holds-barred boy paired with my cute-but-vanilla moneymaking beauty waiting in the car. It crossed my mind that I hoped Daniel had been right and that he wouldn't need to resort to the bottle. It would be messy to get rid of and another traumatising episode for him within a short couple of hours, and I really didn't fancy either of those things. Still, going back to Carwyn, I was sure that the next section might yet save him, if not also the vexed question of his father's approval.

"On to Section IIIc," I announced, having ticked the last of the boxes for Carwyn's child-on-child matchups. "This section governs sexual photoshoots between him and the producer. That is to say, me."

"And you said he'll need to do this part for him to make the money we're looking for?"

"Unfortunately, I think that is a given for Carwyn, though we can revise things up or down over the phone if his material performs better or worse than expected."

"That being the case," she sighed, "I suppose we have to go ahead with it. Carwyn's a good lad. He'll do as he's told so long as he knows it's for him and his mam."

"Just to be perfectly clear, Rhiannon," I said, trying to hide my shock out of a sense of professional duty to shield her from her own utter abnormality, "you're telling me that you wish me to sign up Carwyn, your eleven-year-old son, to the full range of pornographic photo and video options available to perform with me, a thirty-seven-year-old man?"

"If it's the way we're going to make money…"

"Ms Jones, to be utterly, absolutely clear about this – and pardon how crude it might sound," I said, again regarding her with as much seriousness in my gaze, voice, and body language as possible, "by asking me to tick all these boxes for you and then signing the contract, you are giving me the legal right to sell videos of me anally penetrating your son, ejaculating in his bottom for the camera, then turning him over and urinating over his naked body while instructing him to keep his mouth wide open. Are you unequivocally certain that this is what you mean to say here?"

"Ah… Oh!" she said, visibly flustered and reddening in the face and breast. "Oh! Well… You needn't have to… It doesn't have to be… How about – what if you just leave out the weirder fetish ones then?"

"So you're still happy for me to orally and anally penetrate your son with my erect adult penis on a video to be sold worldwide?"

"Don't put words in my mouth like that!" she fussed, fidgeting on her sofa, making it reproduce the farty noises I'd experienced earlier. "It's not… I'm not happy. Just, you know – if that's what he'll have to do to keep the wolf from the door. I mean, you'll be gentle with him, won't you?"

"Uh, yes, Ms Jones," I blinked, taken completely aback. "Yes, of course I'll treat him gently."

"Good. Well, that's all I can ask as a mother, really."

All she could ask? All? I couldn't help wondering what the situation would have been had the boys been reversed, and pretty little Daniel had been in Carwyn's place. I imagined I'd have two identical contracts, simply with the names of the boys reversed. I couldn't imagine Mrs Thomas signing away Daniel's arse to me like that, even if he looked like Carwyn and she'd been told it was the only way he'd turn a profit. What was this woman thinking – other than of her own pride? Surely it would be better to take bankruptcy and lose your son to his deadbeat father over the water than to sell that same son into anal sex with an adult? Or was there something I was missing?

"Let's skip over Section IIId now," I said. For Carwyn's sake. "Likewise Section IV."

"What do they concern?" Ms Jones asked.

"Shoots with third-party adults, and private services with preferred clients," I replied.

"Which means…?"

"Interactive webcams and video calls, visits from clients, et cetera."

"I don't suppose we need to get that carried away," she nodded. Don't get carried away?! It would be selling him into prostitution! "I'm sure my Carwyn will do well enough for us to be getting on with without any of that, at least for now."

I assumed she must mean enough for herself to be getting on with, but I managed to hide my disdain enough to get her to finish the contract.

"Section V simply deals with financial arrangements," I droned tonelessly. "I keep the first £500 [$670] he makes each month for my costs in keeping him and running the business."

"Is that non-negotiable?"

"Many producers keep far more than the first five-hundred, and they would expect Carwyn to commit to more of the more strenuous work to make up the difference," I stated. "I believe it's fair."

"What's our cut of the rest?" Ms Jones asked sharply.

"Three-quarters."

"But he's the star of the show!"

"He is in his solo work," I said, "but I still have to direct him, pose him, costume him… And you'll see here that he still gets a flat 75% from videos with me in them. Revenues for collaborations with multiple children are split evenly between them and each keep their three-quarters of their share."

"I suppose if that's the deal," Ms Jones sighed, picking up her fountain pen again.

"One last thing you should be aware of," I interjected with a note of caution, just as she was about to sign. "If Carwyn fails to make £500 [$670] per month from the second month of his contract onward, the difference is recorded as debt on his part – which, him being a minor, is your part. The financial penalty for you to release him from his contract before the initial year is five-hundred times the number of months remaining. Are you sure you still wish to commit to this?"

"I know my Carwyn," she said. "He's resourceful. Between us we'll make this work, one way or another."

She signed the final part of the contract. It was done.

Still, there was one thing I had left to try. I'm not a monster. I had to give this kid every chance of escaping his nappy-filling-on-camera fate.

"What about a co-signature from his father?" I asked. "Is he going to give his permission?"

"It's nothing to do with him, is it?" Ms Jones replied haughtily.

"He is Carwyn's father," I said. "Legally he will have every right to veto this contract."

I could just imagine the scene of him hitting the roof, like a furious Popeye getting hit with a spinach rush, on hearing of the very idea of Carwyn, his son, as a contract boy – even without seeing any of the foul necessities in his contract.

"He bloody well doesn't!" she snapped back. "He's run off to Ireland. Not Crown jurisdiction. That gives me full custody rights in England & Wales, and him nothing, which is exactly what he deserves!"

I couldn't help feeling like I was sinking through the living room floor. Carwyn, a boy who ought still to have every opportunity in life, had been signed up for me to do pretty much whatever I wanted with him so long as it was on camera. She'd only vaguely ruled out 'weirder fetishism', so she'd signed a document that ticked off my right to tie his wrists and ankles together before I fucked him dry. It was awful. I couldn't help feeling I could have done more to stop her. I took a gulp of my coffee. It was lukewarm and acrid.

"Do you have his health certificate ready for me?" I asked weakly, struggling to regain some composure and control.

"Oh, the measurements and all that?" she said. "Yes, I've just left them on the side here. Give me a second."

She rose and walked over to a side table, where a piece of paper rested held in place by a large, recent photo of Carwyn posing in school uniform with his drumsticks. It must have been when he won the competition.

"Here you are."

She handed me the paper. Carwyn Gareth Jones, 29/10/17, 11 years 1 month, Height 143cm [4'8"], Weight 39kg [86lb], Foot 23.5cm [9¼"], Chest 78.5cm [31"], Waist 65cm [25½"], Inside Leg 67cm [26"], Penis Flaccid __mm, Penis Erect __mm, Testicle Development __.

"You haven't filled in his genital measurements," I observed.

"I got him to do that himself and take a photo, like you said we'd need," Ms Jones answered. "I didn't think it was… appropriate for a mother to do that stuff, especially with needing him to – you know – boost. I have the photos he sent on my phone, but I didn't like to look."

"Could you Bluetooth those to me, please?"

"Of course. Let me send them now."

I waited for the notification to appear on my phone, then accepted the transfer. Once all four were received, I opened them up in order.

The first image to expand open on my screen was a downward-looking self-shot of a naked boy. I could see his belly button, and a layer of puppy fat around a long, pale torso, deep innie bellybutton. Carwyn wasn't fat – not even what you'd call chubby – but it was clear he had some natural chunk and stock to his build. He held out a pale, hooded, flaccid penis with slightly longer and girthier fingers than Daniel's, and more erratic and shorter fingernails – though not painfully, serious-biting-problem-ly short. His pubis looked just as bare and smooth as Daniel's, though it had more of a puff to it; more of a groove between his flying-V and inside thigh, showing where his body had that bit more size and chunk to it than a boy rather smaller than him. The ruler he held against it was a fancier, shatter-resistant clear 30cm [12"] ruler, unlike the basic school pencil case ruler I'd given to Daniel. It measured the flaccid willy in at 49mm, a round 5cm [2"] or slightly more if I was being generous and including the short pout of foreskin at the end. It looked to have less shaft and more, fatter head than Daniel's, and was generally a little more rotund. It was still, however, very much a prepubescent boy's small wiener.

I decided to round to a satisfying number. I wrote 50mm in the space for his flaccid measurement. I could tell Ms Jones was trying to seem disinterested, but she clearly made sure she read the number out of the corner of her eye.

The next shot was an upward looking selfie, showing Carwyn's belly and groin from the other angle, while he held a slightly plumper looking penis up to give a clear shot of his balls. They were also slightly plumper – than Daniel's – and hung in a lower, pinker, scrotum. I'd judged Daniel as a 0.5, so I threw in a 1 for Carwyn as that seemed fair. They were largely arbitrary numbers, anyway.

The third photograph was back from above with the main cam. Carwyn was fully erect, and his thick little stiffy strained at itself as the skin withdrew around his engorged urethra and reddened dick tip, giving it the appearance of an open-mouthed fish. He had much more of a fat hammer going on than Daniel – still, of course, relative to fairly averagely-endowed ten and eleven-year-old boys – but was far less of a grower. From a more advantageous start, he'd managed to bottom out at 76mm, a pubic hair's width short of a round 3in. I wrote it down and caught Ms Jones spying again, though perhaps the metric measurements bamboozled her penis size reckoning slightly. They simply made for easier data for international use and comparison.

The final photo was proof positive that both Ms Jones had been very clear with Carwyn about what things I needed to see on the photos, and that the boy had enjoyed the naughtiness of having to photograph himself in that manner. He'd prepared for me a close-up of his hard dick, every last vein and little blemish on the skin visible, with his foreskin retracted as far as it could go, which evidently was most of the way down his glans. The skin was an angry red where it bunched, and his plump cockhead was red-purple and shiny. A band of white mucus was just about visible where the skin could go as yet no further. Perhaps I'd been harsh and Carwyn really did get a kick out of sex modelling. Then again, there's a big difference between a boy being told to play with himself until he's hard so he can measure and photograph himself for private medical purposes privy to (in his mind) a single responsible adult, and posing doing all sorts of things that would boggle an eleven-year-old mind knowing that it's for sale to strangers worldwide. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for with Carwyn. As I asked Ms Jones to call for him to get him ready to go, I took a final look at the boner close-up he'd made of himself, and, with the zoom and the light, could just about see the faintest, most miniscule beginnings of almost formless translucent baby hairs right on the lumps of skin where his scrotum joined his pubis and penis. His body may well have been pushing the near-invisible very opening boundaries of pubescence, but it would soon be pushed into far more adult action. And I had no idea how that physique, much less his mind and spirit, would cope.

"Carwyn? Come down the stairs sweetheart; it's time for you to go!" Rhiannon Jones cawed from her hallway. There was the elephantine sound of a boy racing down the stairs, and Carwyn Jones skidded down the stairs to meet me. He smiled at me, in a nervous but cheeky way, before looking away a little. He must have anticipated that I'd seen his dick pics by now and felt that his summons was a passing of that test. Maybe a little embarrassing, but plenty to be cocky about, too.

"Hey," he said. He was on the bigger side for his age, but his voice was deceptively high. "My name's Carwyn."

"Nice to meet you, Carwyn," I said. "How do you feel about moving away for a while to work for me?"

"It's good," he shrugged. "It's just modelling and that, and I wanna earn more money for me and mam."

"Good lad," I said. "It's a big step for a young boy, though. A lot to take on your shoulders at your age. Are you sure about it?"

"I think so," he piped. "Me and mam need the money, cos my dad won't give us none, so…"

"Okay, Carwyn," I said. "Just remember that this is a choice for you and your mom. No-one else."

"Hm," he squeaked. He looked around the living room awkwardly and smiled at me again. I'd warmed to him straight away. He was friendly, a little cheeky. Likeable. He was a boy I could certainly get used to fucking on a regular basis. But what if he was horrified and broken by the realisation he had to do that? Here he was, smiling at me; completely naïve.

"Is that my contract?" he said, pointing to the papers spread across the table.

"Yes," I said. I quickly gathered everything up and stuffed it into my bag, before he could get so much of a glance at a single word. "You don't need to worry about any of that now. Where did your mom get to?"

"She's just coming," Carwyn replied. "She had to get my bag from my room and said something about my uniform. Do I have to take that with me too for going to school near the studio?"

"No, you'll be given a new uniform for that," I responded with a smile. "Contract boys usually travel from their houses to their new studio in their uniforms so they're easy to pick out on a weekend."

"Why's that?" he asked.

"Dunno," I replied. "Just is."

Carwyn seemed satisfied by my non-answer. He hummed to himself a little and shuffled his feet on the carpet. He was wearing grey socks that looked suspiciously like they could be yesterday's school socks. There was the sound of his mother beginning to descend.

"Carwyn," I asked quickly. "What about having to take photographs of your privates to show to me? What did you feel about that?"

"Oh…" he giggled and blushed, looking away from me again for a couple of seconds. Then he returned with his big, uneven-toothed grin. He had a bit of white food caught between a tombstone front tooth and a large, oblong-shaped incisor immediately next to it. I wondered if maybe his goofiness would be an asset; that American viewers could get into his crooked teeth. He'd need some blowjob training to take me without earning himself a punishment, that's for sure. Presuming that he didn't snap the moment a penis was produced at his lips. At least he had lovely green eyes in person, and his smile – goofy or not – lit up his kind-of rectangular face. The combination of reds that shimmered in the light and strawberry, barley browns in his hair was also quite endearing. His hair was buzzed and faded close on the back and sides, and kept pretty short on the top, too, save for being gelled straight upright at the fringe, lifting it 180 degrees from his forehead. It was quite a typical little boy haircut, really. Daniel's was a variation on the same style. Just cuter.

"It's like my mam says," Carwyn offered, snapping me away from appraising his looks. "I'm a growing lad now, cos… Cos when you get to be a teenager, that's when your body starts to turn like a man's body, and I'm nearly there now cos I'm eleven."

"Such a chatterbox, Carwyn," his mother chided, bustling in with a grossly oversized travel bag held in both hands and a folded pile of school uniform clothing balanced on the top between the two handles. "Is he bending your ear off already?"

Carwyn grinned and chuckled at his mother's gentle attempt to embarrass him. It was as if she was intending to break my heart with her every act.

"We're getting on fine, aren't we?" I said, giving Carwyn a sad smile and sighing internally.

"Yup!" he smiled back.

"Carwyn, you've got to get changed into your school uniform before you go," Ms Jones said. "Come on now, shake a leg!"

"You've only just brought it down, mam!"

"Then get on with it! You and Mr Drake have a long way to travel!"

"Urrrgh, women!" Carwyn growled to himself comically as he began to take his tee shirt off. He'd been wearing a plain royal blue Nike tee, with the swoosh in white, and blue tracksuit bottoms. He could've been practically any boy in the country. With all the bad luck.

"You sound like your father," Rhiannon observed, unimpressed.

"No I don't," Carwyn shot back, throwing his top carelessly to the floor.

"Carwyn," I interjected, "are you sure you want to get changed in the middle of the room in front of us? You could go somewhere else."

"S'alright. I mean, I've gotta get used to changing in front of people when I'm modelling, haven't I? You know, changing outfits and stuff. It's only the same as when we have to change for PE at school, innit?"

This was horrendous. This happy, bright, outgoing boy had absolutely no idea what he was being dropped into. The concept of exactly what contract boys did wasn't even on his radar. At least with all the others whose knowledge stopped at 'modelling', they at least seemed to have some inkling that it would involve nudity and self-display in some way or other, and they wouldn't always be doing it alone. Their poverty seemed to make them aware that nobody would pay the sort of money that could help their families just to see them in clothes. Carwyn was blissfully, carelessly unaware. What happened if Daniel mentioned something on the journey home and Carwyn freaked out? I couldn't ban them from talking to each other. I could end up having to transport Carwyn to Alcester gagged and bound – though at least his contract said that was okay as long as it was on camera.

"Hold your wrist out, Carwyn," I said.

"Huh?" he replied, first feeling, then watching me slide the wristband into place around his right arm.

"This identifies you as a contract boy," I said, using special pliers to crush the metal ring holding the band together, permanently sealing the band tight around his wrist. At least until someone left him alone with scissors long enough to cut it off.

"Cool!" he grinned, watching how the pliers tightened it shut around him. "Look, mam! It's like what teenagers get from music festivals!"

"Alright, Carwyn," Ms Jones replied. "Focus on getting dressed."

Soon enough, Carwyn was dressed, in his white school shirt, black and yellow striped school tie, black school V-neck jumper, grey school trousers, a fresh pair of grey school socks ("You've been wearing those all week, you dirty little beggar – are you trying to embarrass me?" – 'No-wo-oh! Only since Tuesday!'), and his slightly scuffed, bulky, rounded, black school shoes with Velcro across the top. His mother pulled him in for a hug. She was dewy-eyed.

"You be a good boy for Mr Drake, now. Work hard and do exactly as you're told, whatever it is. Everything you do is only what I've agreed you can do to get paid, alright? So you'll get that money back for us, because you're a big, clever, hardworking boy." She kissed his head. "I'm so proud of you."

"I'll miss you, mam," said Carwyn. "It's a shame you'll be moving into the new house without me. Will you tell dadi I'll miss him too?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll make sure your dad hears all about everything you're having to do for us," Ms Jones replied warmly, giving her son one last squeeze on the shoulder. "I'll see if Mr Drake can get your dad a copy of every set of photos and videos you make!"

"Aw! Cheers, mam!"

"Carwyn," I said, staring at Rhiannon with unshrouded fury. "Come with me; it's time to go."

I led the boy down the steps and into the shadow of the valley of his childhood home behind us, as the mid-afternoon winter sun began its steady trip for the horizon.

"Bye, mam!" He called back through the porch door, as she waved from the end of their hallway. "Love you! Gonna miss you lots!"

I spotted Daniel watching us quizzically, looking exhausted with boredom. He frowned at me and waggled his empty bottle in front of the window as if he'd scored a victory. Then I realised I probably should've left the poor boy some water in a separate bottle in case he got thirsty. Oops.

"Aww! Nice! Another boy! Is he going to be working with me?" Carwyn squeaked excitedly, spotting Daniel sitting increasingly impatiently where I'd left him something like an hour before.

"Yes," I said simply, dumping Carwyn's large bag in the boot. One of his first tasks after arrival would have to be to go through it and nominate at least half of it to be recycled. I was quite clear that I intend to provide clothing, bedding, and all other essentials for all my boys. They're supposed to bring treasured possessions only.

"What's his name?" Carwyn asked. "Is he my age?"

"His name's Daniel, and he's in your school year and from over near Caernarfon," I said, before looking at Carwyn sternly. "He's much less excited about moving away than you are, and he's already missing his family, so be kind and give him his space and privacy, okay?"

"I understand," Carwyn said. "I won't make him talk if he don't want to."

"Good boy," I said. "Get in the car in the back on the opposite side from Daniel."

"Hi!" Carwyn said immediately, before he'd even slammed the car door behind him and rocked the suspension. "My name's Carwyn. I'm eleven and I'm in Year Six. Mr Drake said your name's Daniel. Wanna be mates?"

Daniel stared at Carwyn in total disbelief at his demeanour. Everything about Danny Boy's face made out just how much he was caught between believing Carwyn was a total moron or that he must be some pervert child happy to make sex videos for money. I know, because I was stood next to Daniel with his side door open at that point, holding something else from the boot in my hand, which I'd forgotten first time around as Daniel's rucksack was dumped on the passenger seat.

"Soz," Carwyn said quietly, turning away from Daniel's brilliantly judgemental open-mouthed stare, to focus on keeping to his own seat and thoughts.

"Daniel, I forgot about this when we left yours, but seeing Carwyn's measurements reminded me it was still in the boot and you need it."

Daniel turned to look at me, saw what I was holding, and immediately closed his eyes and released a nasal whine at me.

"Please, no." he said. "Please?"

"I'm sorry, mate," I replied. "I took your height earlier and the law says you're two centimetres [¾2] too small. You need a booster seat."

"But… It's not fair!" He whimpered. "Carwyn–"

"Carwyn's a whole ten centimetres [4"] bigger than you. That's a hundred millimetres."

I love using kid logic back to them. You can't argue with that. 10 cm = 100mm.

"Ohhhwwwww!" He huffed back into his seat.

"Come on, now. You've been such a good boy waiting where you were told for so long. Take your belt off, lift up, have a nice stretch. Then you won't even notice me putting the booster in behind you."

"Can't I go without? Plee-eease?"

"Daniel, if the police stop us, they'll see you're a contract boy being moved. They'll know I have an exact record of your height. Do you want to start your career in debt because of a fine?"

He stopped arguing, unbuckled his belt, and stood up to stretch as best he could in the rear footwell of the car. Carwyn watched us with interest as I leant in underneath Daniel to quickly fit his booster in place. I could see he had to fight himself not to say something. He smiled at me again.

"I can belt myself up!" Daniel snapped at me, as I went to clip him in myself to make sure he was secure.

"Maybe you should have a little nap when we get going, eh?" I said to him. I simply received a growl in return.

I closed the door and looked up at the Jones house, but Rhiannon was gone.

Chapter 4
Section 1.c.i:Concerning the transportation of Contract Children

Daniel did nod off shortly after we set off, uncomfortable and humbled as he may have been in his booster seat. Unfortunately, Carwyn did not, and was a constant source of questions about where we were going and inane commentary on where we had passed. Apparently, "you'll see" was not a satisfactory answer to sate his curiosity. But then I could hardly blame him.

He had quieted somewhat by the time I called our first rest stop, some ninety minutes into the journey. Daniel had woken from his nap and was squinting groggily from his window like a sad mole, plus I was hungry, and I imagined the boys were too. I hadn't eaten since breakfast at around seven that morning, and now the sun was setting and we were very nearly back in England.

"I need to pee," Carwyn announced as we pulled into the service station. I'd spotted it on the opposite side of the road as we passed, and I had to go a couple of miles down the road to a roundabout and U-turn to the other carriageway to get back there. That, of course, had caused Carwyn to giggle and pass comment once more. Some of the things I'd initially found endearing about him were now getting annoying, but at least soon I would have the recourse of fucking that out of him.

I carefully left my car to charge up in the car park before leading the boys into the building. Carwyn made a beeline for the men's toilets.

"No; this way," I said, herding Carwyn and Daniel toward a single disabled access and baby change toilet room with a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. Daniel was quiet and blinky; he still smelt of sleep. "You need to go too, Daniel?"

Daniel nodded.

"Why are we going in here?" Carwyn asked loudly as I pushed them through the heavy door and locked it behind us.

"Contract boys aren't allowed to use the main public toilets," I lied. My actual plan was to put Carwyn in his place a little, and hopefully shock him into shutting up for at least some of the rest of the journey.

"Who gets to go first?" Carwyn asked, looking around the small room at the single, raised toilet with its disabled access bars.

"Both at the same time," I said curtly. "Daniel, pull your pants down and sit on the toilet, please."

"Huh?" Carwyn squeaked exaggeratedly. I pushed him along after Daniel as the smaller boy dutifully went to sit on the throne.

"No, leave the seat alone," I warned Daniel, as he went to place the toilet seat down to sit on. "Contract boys don't get to use the seat when they're out and about in pairs."

Daniel sighed, closed his eyes, and – keeping his back to Carwyn – forced himself to drop his black school trousers and dark grey underpants to his ankles. He covered himself between his legs with one hand and shuffled to sit on the toilet, nearly falling straight into it as his small bottom found the difficulty of sitting on a large, tall adult toilet without a seat.

"Good boy," I said expectantly. "Sit right back so your bum is resting on the back of the toilet. Knees spread wide."

Carwyn watched wide-eyed as I instructed Daniel into place. Daniel, for his part, was obedient but for heavy sighs and pursing the lips of his small mouth.

"Hands away now, Daniel. Pull the skin a little so you have a clear aim for your wee, there's a good boy."

Daniel closed his eyes and shuddered slightly, but he did exactly as he was told.

"Carwyn, shuffle right in so your feet are between Daniel's."

Actually, because the disabled toilet was so unusually high, Daniel's feet were dangling around the base of the toilet rather than touching the floor. No matter; that would make it easier for Carwyn to squeeze right in.

"Right, pants around your ankles too now, Carwyn."

"Wha– why?" he stammered in shock and surprise.

"Because you're contracted to me and I'm telling you."

"I… I don't want to!"

"Carwyn…" I replied with menace. His eyes darted around the room desperately but kept coming back to rest on Daniel's semi-naked form, spreading and waiting for permission to urinate, a big gap between his thighs leaving the toilet mostly open as his bare knobbly knees pointed to opposite corners of the ceiling.

"Why…" Carwyn whined sadly, "why are you being mean to us…?"

It was then that Daniel's small voice interrupted to address Carwyn directly, in Welsh. As Carwyn responded, I intoned my voice seriously again and intervened.

"Boys, Welsh is only for when you're in private while you're contracted. It's not polite when you're around other people who can't understand."

"I just said it's easier if he just does as he's told," Daniel said. "Please can I wee now? I really need to go."

"That's up to Carwyn, isn't it?" I replied.

Deathly pale, watery-eyed, and stunned, wet mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, Carwyn quietly bent over and lowered his grey school trousers and underpants to his ankles, nearly headbutting Daniel in the groin in the process. He went from ghostly white to bright pink as he stood naked from the waist down in front of me and Daniel.

"Skin, remember, Carwyn," I said. "Then you may go."

Both boys were suffering a little shrinkage from their humiliating predicament, so Carwyn fumbled a little, thinking he had to withdraw his foreskin as fully as he could. He managed it, releasing the scent of his unwashed boyhood directly into Daniel's helpless face. I could smell it from where I was stood beside them. This boy would certainly require some male hygiene lessons.

"Go on," I said. "I thought you needed it?"

Daniel's stream stuttered into life first, before he was able to force himself to begin expelling properly. Perhaps it was easier for him being the one sat down, or perhaps it was just that he understood he was going to be doing things that embarrassed him intimately for the foreseeable future. Carwyn struggled a little more. He managed a dribble that narrowly missed splattering Daniel's balls before petering out on the rim of the seat.

"Mind your aim!" I interjected sharply. "If you wet any part of yourself or Daniel, it's big trouble!"

"I'm try-ing!" Carwyn whimpered. "It's hard!"

That was funny because it seemed runtishly shrunken and floppy to me.

"No more warnings, Carwyn," I said. "You're holding everyone up."

Pulling his face into a pathetic, brink-of-tears grimace, and moaning to himself audibly, Carwyn was finally able to work up a forced stream between Daniel's thighs and splashing into the water below. Daniel was finished, and he sat in place looking thoroughly fed up. He was undoubtedly suffering severe splashback underneath his thighs, not-so-privates, and bottom as Carwyn heavily watered the bowl below.

"Good boy, Daniel," I said quite deliberately as Carwyn piddled away. "You're setting an excellent example."

Daniel didn't seem pleased. He just continued sitting there with his knees obediently spread, trying not to watch the bigger boy peeing directly in front of his face.

"Done?" I said, as Carwyn awkwardly dripped out the last few dribbles from his bladder. He nodded and let out a crocodile whimper. "Shake off. Carefully."

While Carwyn followed my instruction to the best of his meagre ability, I rolled off a length of the scratchy cheap toilet paper.

"Wipe up the mess you've made," I said to Carwyn, handing him the bog roll. "On the toilet rim and on Daniel's underneath. Only then may you both pull up and tuck in."

Carwyn miserably wiped up the puddle of his urine on the rim of the toilet from his initial false start. With a grim shudder, he dropped the damp wad into the bowl between Daniel's legs and took the fresh length I handed him. Extremely awkwardly, he leant in and reached beneath Daniel to dab at his bare legs and remove droplets of piss and toilet water.

"I'm telling my mam on you," Carwyn hissed quietly, head twisted ninety degrees so as not to look directly into Daniel's willy.

"Really, Carwyn?" I said nonchalantly. "And what did she tell you before you left?"

"I-unno," he grunted, dabbing half-heartedly at Daniel's lower bum cheeks with the toilet paper.

"She said you were to do as you were told, because everything I tell you is in your contract," I said. "So get on with it. Dry Daniel's balls and then you can both get up."

Carwyn and Daniel both shuddered, the former twisting his face in disgust as he dabbed comically gently and quickly at the latter's soggy nut sack.

"Properly, Carwyn," I said. "I'm getting tired of your pathetic behaviour."

"It's not fair," Carwyn murmured to himself, indulging me in a rather firm wipe to Daniel's balls, which caused the poor lamb to gasp and jump involuntarily on top of the toilet.

"Daniel, are you dry?" I asked. He nodded quickly. I think he probably would have said yes even if he were dripping wet, just to bring the humiliating experience to a close. "Alright. Both of you stand up and sort your clothes out, then go and wash your hands. I need to use the toilet too."

I let them get on with it and started my piss as soon as they were sufficiently out of my way. Both boys quite deliberately made sure they faced entirely the opposite direction from my exposed dick the entire time. They trotted along in sullen silence once we'd all washed our hands and exited the toilet. If anyone noticed us leave, I didn't notice them. I guided the boys before me to McDonald's with a hand between each of their shoulder blades.

"Which Happy Meal would you like to eat?" I asked.

Daniel babbled silently for a few seconds in surprise, obviously convinced by this point that I was simply an awful monster who intended to torment him for the next twelve months until he could return to his family.

"Could I have a cheeseburger, please?" he eventually managed in a squeak.

"Of course, Daniel," I said. "Carwyn?"

"Big Mac," he growled rudely.

"You'll have a hamburger Happy Meal, and you'll remember your manners, Carwyn Jones," I responded sternly.

"Why carn' I 'ave a cheeseburger like 'im?" grumbled Carwyn, in full tantrum mode.

"You can have whichever Happy Meal you like, as long as you ask for it properly like a good boy."

"Cheeseburger," Carwyn grunted, before adding a supremely sarcastic, "Plee-eeze."

"Two cheeseburgers it is," I said, tactically ignoring Carwyn's attention-seeking attitude. I pushed in the order on the automated screen. "You can both have Sprite to drink. No Coke or Pepsi after sundown is one of our rules."

"Thanks," Daniel said quietly. I saw Carwyn scowl.

"Sit at this table here," I instructed. I stood to wait for the order to be called by one of the anonymous young people preparing burgers behind the counter.

"Just watch," I heard Carwyn mumble darkly to Daniel. "I'm going to tell someone what he just made us do."

"Shut up!" Daniel whispered in return. "You'll just get us in trouble!"

"Kiss-arse," Carwyn spat back.

"Carwyn," I said levelly, waiting until he looked up and met my eye. "If I hear any more swearing from you, you'll be riding the rest of the way home on a very uncomfortable smacked bum. Understood?"

Carwyn huffed to himself and sat with his head on the table. Shortly after, my order number was called, and I collected our sweaty-smelling fast food. I trotted back to our table with the tray, taking advantage of the opportunity to look around. The service station wasn't packed, but it was busy enough for there to be plenty of people around, some with kids. I'd not yet had anyone make a direct comment when transporting contract boys, obvious to everyone from their enforced school uniform on a Saturday. There had certainly been dirty looks in abundance, but mostly people wanted to go actively out of their way to ignore us, knowing the implications of what we were doing. It was only ever other kids who tended to stare, usually because they didn't understand what was going on rather than because they did. Suffice to say, I was fairly sure that Carwyn's complaints wouldn't get him very far even if he stood on the table and shouted that he'd just been made to expose himself and share a toilet with another boy. He was just another contract kid, after all. Two-thirds of people might feel sorry for him but not brave enough to intervene, the other third would think that he was deserving feral kid scum.

"Head up," I told him, sitting opposite the boys across the table.

"Did you get me a Big Mac?" Carwyn said, eyes widening greedily as he saw what was on the tray.

"No," I said, "That's mine. Pick one of the Happy Meals with Daniel; they're both the same."

Carwyn huffed again and roughly yanked a Happy Meal box away from the tray, almost certainly turning the inside into an avalanche of fries as he did. Daniel took his own box with thankful eyes, though he still looked a thoroughly sad boy. He opened his meal and ate pensively, gnawing absent-mindedly on his fries like a squirrel feeding itself acorns. Daniel looked more than just a few months younger than Carwyn, especially as his uniform was the more casual of the two, his consisting of a navy-blue jumper, pale yellow polo shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. His maturity was shining through, though – and it was clearly more than just a case of him knowing more about what the next year might have in store for him than Carwyn did.

Still, we managed to get back to the car without Carwyn following through on his threat to make a scene. Thankfully, he fell asleep some time soon after we'd made it into England, so dealing with his petulance was postponed for at least a little while. Daniel remained quiet, only occasionally breaking his silence with a suckle on his Sprite, which he'd evidently chosen to ration out for the rest of the journey. He was sensible and stoic. That would serve him well.

In fact, nobody spoke at all until we approached the edge of the West Midlands on the M54. It was at this point that Daniel – quietly, nervously, apologetically – announced that he needed to go again. I thanked him for being sensible and telling me and told him that was fine and that we could make a stop very soon. He had informed me just in time that I could turn off the motorway early and loop up to the M6 a junction north of where the M54 merged into it, allowing us to take in the outstanding natural beauty of Hilton Park services. Carwyn remained in blissless slumber, snoozing with his head against the window.

"What about Carwyn?" Daniel asked as I let him hop free of the car.

"Let him sleep," I shrugged, closing Daniel's door and locking up. I walked inside with Daniel and took him over to the nearest disabled toilet.

"In you go," I said.

He stood inside the door and turned around, confused that I'd made no attempt to follow him.

"Go on," I repeated with a smile.

"But… aren't you… don't you need to come in after me?"

"You've been a very good boy today," I said. "And I want you to know that good boys get rewards."

"Oh," he said, and – for the first time all day – I saw his face radiate very briefly with the smallest of smiles before he closed and locked the door.

Carwyn hadn't woken up when we returned to the car, and only eventually came back around as we were leaving the motorway for good, heading to Alcester by way of Portway and Mappleborough Green.

"Where are we? What time is it?" Carwyn groaned, rubbing sleepy eyes.

"It'll be about six-thirty by the time we get home," I said.

"Are you taking us back to our mams?" squeaked Carwyn, suddenly excited.

"No, Carwyn," I chuckled. "I mean your new home. For the next year. So, start thinking of it as home now."

He grumbled to himself in renewed embarrassment at getting caught out by his wishful thinking.

"Which way is the sea from here?" Daniel piped. Poor lamb. He'd lived his entire life near the coast and here I was, whisking him away about as far inland as you can get.

"We're a long way from the sea in all directions," I said.

"Where's closest?"

"Well, we're pointing south now," I said. "So look straight ahead, then a little bit to the right. That's southwest. That's where the Bristol Channel is."

"Where are we?" Carwyn repeated. The accurate answer was 'just outside Redditch', but I interpreted his question as more along the lines of 'where am I going to be living now?' and answered accordingly. "Alcester is a very small town where the River Alne meets the River Arrow, and not far from where the Arrow meets the Avon, just as that one comes out of Stratford. Warwickshire. Shakespeare country."

"I don't like Shakespeare," Carwyn answered simply.

Tough tits, I thought, cos you're stuck in the Bard's backyard now, kid.

"Where does the Avon go after that?" Daniel asked.

"It goes to a place called Evesham, then it flows into the River Severn at a place called Tewkesbury."

"That's the biggest river, innit?" Daniel said. "It runs all the way between Wales and England."

"Clever lad," I said brightly. "Then it reaches the sea at the Bristol Channel, and that's why that's the closest sea to here."

"I like geography," Daniel stated.

"Me too," I agreed. Carwyn muttered something to himself again and silence fell.

Not too long later, I pulled into the driveway down the side of the boys' new home: a converted barn on Cold Comfort Lane, just outside Alcester. Being outside the town suited me nicely, as I think Alcester is full of hillbillies – but the kind of rural English people who think they're posh – and it's better to be a little out of the way of everyone else. Being based rurally was more economical for an operation of my scale in terms of getting a customised space of appropriate size – I had converted an old barn to serve as my pad, studio, and a home for a stable of eight contract boys at any time.

Chapter 5
Section 2.a.i:Concerning accommodation for contract boys

"The Boys' Zone is upstairs, through this back door," I explained, leading both new recruits through the door – Daniel with his modest rucksack on his back, me lugging Carwyn's big, heavy bag. The light flicked on to reveal a small area housing a number of kid-sized shoes and coats, and a set of stairs. "Straight up we go," I said, pushing them on ahead of me and hearing the door automatically lock behind us as it clicked shut.

The initial entrance at the top of the stairs was not so impressive, as it was the wall of the first of the row of eight bedrooms straight in front of us, a utility area next to the stairs with a couple of small vacuum cleaners, a sink, and shelves stacked with a few cleaning products, and the wall of the bathroom closing it off on the other side. It was when we went through the entry space between the corners of the near bedroom and the bathroom, and into the main space, that the boys could be impressed. They didn't say anything, nor make any noise, but I could tell they were. Along two thirds of the roof space of the thirty-metre barn, ran a haven for my little money-makers. There was an area to eat, a play area with sofas and beanbags and a wall-mounted screen with a PS7 attached, and beyond that a chillout area with comfy chairs, books, more beanbags, and headphones that the boys could stream music on. The side of the building to our left was lined with eight identical doors. Well, almost identical. Six of them had whiteboards decorated with differently-styled boys' names and doodles. Two were blank.

"I'll show you to your rooms," I said. I opened the two blank doors, rooms three and four respectively from left to right. "Here, Daniel, you take the room to the left."

Daniel walked in and looked around. That little smile returned, however momentarily, before he turned back to me and stood awkwardly awaiting instruction.

"Take your things out of your bag and make yourself at home, silly!" I said. I turned to Carwyn and manoeuvred him into the next room. He looked around it dismissively and scowled. The boys' bedrooms were well-maintained and comfortable, but deliberately basic. Around three-by-two metres [10 by 6½ft], they had enough space for a single bed, a bedside table in front of the small window, a desk and fold-out chair, and a chest of drawers for their clothes. That was all. I dumped Carwyn's bag on the soft cream carpet. "Your first job is to go through this and pile up any clothes, shoes, gadgets – whatever – to be sent back to your mother. The cost is counting against your first month's pay. I told her quite clearly: personal effects only."

He unzipped the bag and pulled out a teddy bear, some hair gel, a framed picture of himself with his parents as a much younger boy, and a used set of wooden drumsticks.

"Everything else is clothes," he grunted, pushing the bag fractionally in my direction with his toe.

"If you promise to buck your ideas up," I said, "I'll just shove the bag in storage under the stairs rather than sending it back. What do you reckon?"

Carwyn shrugged. I took the bag from him ready to put it under the stairs.

"Get settled in."

I walked back past Daniel's room. He had set out a few things: his own teddy bear (a Gengar plush toy – obviously an old-school Pokémon fan beyond his choice of socks), which was seemingly a must for every boy who ever set foot in the building, a photo of his family, some other personal nick-nacks to sit on the desk, a book he was halfway through reading, and – funnily enough – a set of used wooden drumsticks.

"I didn't know you played the drums too," I smiled.

"I play… I mean, played, in my school band," he shrugged. He looked a little lost and teary-eyed at realising this empty space was his new bedroom, far from home, and he was already as moved in as could be.

"You should talk to Carwyn about that. He plays the drums too."

Daniel nodded and rubbed aggressively at his right eye with a fist.

"I just have to put this bag away. I'll be back in a second."

I was. I returned from the space under the stairs with two empty plastic trays, like kids might have as their personal drawers at primary school, and left them on the table. I stood outside the two open doors and called the boys to me.

"Time for the tour and a rundown of the important rules," I said. "Follow me."

The two boys plodded after me as I marched them back towards the stairs in the corner of the room.

"This is your entrance to and from the Boys' Zone. Usually, you leave your shoes and coats put neatly in their place at the bottom, by the front door. This area here in front of the stairs is called the utility room. You'll have some basic chores to help keep your room and the rest of the zone clean and tidy. Understood?"

They nodded quietly. I hoped they were listening, else they'd be getting in trouble unnecessarily later on.

"Here we have the bathroom," I said, walking along a little and stepping inside the room for them to follow. "You'll see it has all the usual bathroom stuff. Two toilets, since there are eight of you, two sinks, which means four of you can brush your teeth at once, and two showers. At shower time, four boys will come in here at once and share showers in pairs. You two are new at the same time, so for now you can be a pair. Understood?"

"Why do I have to take a shower with another boy next to me?" Carwyn whined.

"Because that's what contract boys do if they're told to," I replied. "This is a very nice place compared to where some other contract kids live, believe me. All you have to do to be able to enjoy it is follow the rules."

Carwyn muttered something about stupid rules, but I ignored him.

"Do we get to go to the toilet by ourselves?" Daniel asked, clearly worried by the earlier ritual I'd put them through.

"Of course, Daniel," I said. "The two toilets are there just for bedtimes and mornings, really, when it might be busy with lots of boys needing to go at once. You're free to come here on your own to do your business whenever you need to."

"Okay," he said. Clearly he was relieved.

"You'll notice there's no lock on the door. That's because the bathroom is shared for everyone, so nobody can take it just for themselves. You can shut the door if you're doing a poo, but that's all. No lock, and otherwise the door stays open. Got it? Good."

I marched them back into the main room.

"Right here you'll see the eating area with your dining table. You're free to take the fruit and other healthy snacks whenever you want, but you mustn't eat outside this area. See the different floor? You stay inside that part when you're eating. Nowhere with a carpet. But you're also free to use the plastic cups and take yourself a drink to the other areas or to your room. Just no food."

They shuffled behind me as we came to the main centrepiece of the room.

"This is the play area. You can see there are some toys and a PS7. Any new games you want are fine as long as they're appropriate, and you can spend your own money on them as you earn it. I'm sure you'll spend a lot of time here, but the PS7 goes off an hour before bedtime. No exceptions. No 'I need to finish one more match'. It goes off and stays off until the next day."

I led them along to the final section of the room.

"This is the chillout area," I said. "You can come here to have some quiet time with a book or listening to music. You can also take the books back to your room and even take them as bedtime books."

"Where does that door go?" asked Carwyn, pointing at the door at the end of the room.

"That leads down to the studio where you'll be working, but it only opens when there's an adult who needs to get up and down that way."

"How come?"

"Because boys have to stay in the Boys' Zone unless they're with an adult."

"Why?"

"Carwyn."

"Soz. I was just asking."

"Come back to your rooms for now," I said. "The other boys will be back soon, and they'll be looking forward to meeting you. You need to get ready."

"Get ready how?" Carwyn asked, narrowing his eyes. He seemed to be anticipating some new trick or humiliation.

"You need to change out of your uniforms so they can go into storage," I said. "I'll give you a tray and a pack of fresh underpants and socks. You'll find some basic clothes in your drawers. You can choose more to buy out of your own money if you like later on. You'll also see your new pyjamas on the bed. I'll explain about lights out and bedtime in a second. Start undressing now and put your uniforms in the trays, shoes on the bottom, okay? One rule I forgot: you're not to fully close your bedroom doors when you're inside unless it's bedtime."

I left them dumbly stood outside their bedrooms with their empty trays in their hands, having given them far too much information in one go at rapid speed. I took the quick stairway down to the studio, grabbed what I needed, and returned to the boys. By now both were in their rooms with the doors barely ajar, stripping off.

"These are for you, Carwyn," I said, opening his door and dropping five plastic packages on the floor. "Your pants and socks. What you're wearing now gets taken off and put into storage with the rest."

I could hear him beginning to ask another set of questions, so I moved quickly to Daniel's room and handed over the same to him. First, a six-pack of boys' briefs, age 9, one in each of the colours of the rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. Two four-packs of briefs in the same size: a black set and a white set. Finally, two ten-packs of boys' black socks, like they'd wear for school. I liked to put my boys in briefs – preferably a size smaller than their age, though in Daniel's case, it would make little difference – as it was rare to come across a boy of the age range I targeted who'd wear them voluntarily, so it was yet another little reminder of to whom they belonged for the duration of their contract. The problem was, all the boys were given the same, so while the socks were interchangeable and could be cycled around after they were washed, the undies needed iron-on name labels on the outside.

"This my new underwear?" Daniel asked, naked but for his current boxers and socks and squatting next to his full tray to look at the packages on the floor. He opened up the colourful undies. "Wait… These are little boy's pants!"

"They're Daniel's pants now," I said. "Put on that pair you've just pulled out and put the rest neatly in a drawer. I'll need to have your name put on them, so they don't get mixed up with others your size. You wouldn't want to share your pants with other boys, would you, even if they've been washed."

Daniel wrinkled his nose at the thought of ending up wearing pants previously used by another boy, and set about finishing his change of clothing, looking at me pointedly in the hope that I left the room. That I did. I'd just received the expected text that the rest of the boys were on their way back, and so I needed to order pizza. It was a treat day for the other six boys, as always was the case on days when I was busy acquiring new boys. I opened the app to order what we needed, did the business, then waited patiently for Daniel and Carwyn to emerge from their rooms with their full trays for storage.

Daniel emerged first, having opted to put on plain black fleecy jogging bottoms, and a plain white tee-shirt. I always made sure the barn was plenty warm enough for the boys to be comfortable whatever they wore. It was only fair; their 'efforts' were paying for the upkeep of the premises. I took his tray and waited for Carwyn to emerge. Hearing us moving, he soon appeared, wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a white tee-shirt, similar to how he'd been dressed in his own home just a few hours before.

"These little kid pants are too tight," he complained. "Can't I have something else?"

"You're wearing exactly the same as every other boy here gets," I said, "so get used to it."

I took their trays down to keep under the stairs, thus avoiding any further engagement with Carwyn's moaning. When I returned a couple of minutes later, they were still standing awkwardly around in their bedroom doorways, though standing far enough outside to read some of the other doors.

"What are the other boys like?" Carwyn asked. "Are they the same age as us?"

"You'll meet them soon," I said. "And yes, you're all roughly the same age. Dillon is the youngest boy; he's nine-and-a-half. Raheem and Harry down at the far end are the eldest. They were twelve in September and October. Everyone else is somewhere in the middle."

"Do they like it here?" Carwyn asked again.

"Ask them when you meet them," I responded. "First of all, some rules about bedtime. Let's step into Daniel's room."

"Which Pokémon is that?" Carwyn asked, pointing at Daniel's plushie on the bed.

"Gengar," I said, provoking surprised looks from both boys that I would know anything about Pokémon. "Now, you'll see Daniel's pyjamas on the bed. Lights out on school nights is nine. Lights out on Fridays and Saturdays is half ten. Your doors lock themselves at lights out and all the electrics in your room automatically go off, so rather than lights out being bedtime, lights out is absolutely the latest point at which you should be getting into bed."

"We get locked in all night?" Carwyn said with surprise.

"Yes," I said. "The doors only unlock at wake-up time or if the fire alarm goes off. That means you have some facilities in here to keep you covered during the night. Daniel, take a look under your bed and pull out what you find."

Daniel obediently trotted over to his bed and got down on hands and knees to root around underneath it, lifting the overhanging duvet with his free arm. He pulled something clear.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It… It's a…"

"It's a potty!" Carwyn exclaimed loudly.

"It's your best friend if you need a wee in the night," I said. "So leave it where you can find it, because the lights will be out. You only get out of bed after lights out to use the potty, and that's that. Any accidents and, well, you'll just have to lie there and bear it until I come help you in the morning, because there's no getting out of bed for any reason but to use your potty."

"What happens to it?" Daniel asked, pushing the red plastic toddler toilet away at arms' length as if it were infectious.

"What happens to what?" I said.

"The… stuff we do… in there."

"You empty it into the toilet in the morning like a good boy, and give your potty a wipe clean with a cleaning wipe from the utility."

"Yuck!" said Carwyn, sticking his tongue out involuntarily. Daniel wrinkled his face again.

"You'll have to get used to it, because if you have an accident instead, it's seven days of wearing pull-ups. No exceptions."

The boys blinked with disbelief. I ploughed on.

"An hour before bedtime, you should all start thinking about preparing for bed. That means showering in your pairs, going to the toilet, brushing your teeth, and getting changed into your pyjamas. Your pyjamas are just plain black boys' pyjamas in your correct size. You're to strip naked and put your used underwear in your laundry bags on the back of your door. Pyjamas are worn without socks or pants. If you don't have a full set of dirty underwear for every day of the week when it comes to laundry, you'll be in trouble for poor hygiene. The responsibility is yours. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Daniel said sadly. I did a satisfied somersault in my stomach. I loved it the first time any of them called me 'sir'. Another first to etch away for posterity.

"Carwyn?"

"Yes, Mr Drake," he enunciated sarcastically.

"Good," I said. "The other boys will be here any second. One last thing I need to do is grab you your inside pumps to wear around the barn. They're exactly the same as the pumps you wear for PE at school; just something simple to protect your feet if you want to."

I headed down the back stairs and left the boys to each other and their thoughts again. As I reached the bottom and looked through the spare basic clothing cupboard, I heard the car pull up outside and the sounds of some of my other boys' voices as a door slid open. I found pumps in each of Daniel's and Carwyn's sizes and rushed back up the stairs so as to be there with them as the other boys came in.

"Take your pumps, boys," I said, handing over the plimsolls to them. I wasn't sure, in hindsight, whether they would've understood what I meant by 'pumps'; it's a very regional word.

"Is that the other boys coming?" Carwyn said, nervous excitement betrayed in his squeaky voice, as the sound of chattering grew louder, along with the sound of the side door opening.

"Where have they been today?" Daniel asked.

"This morning they did their chores, then went out to do some work for a studio run by a friend of mine, then our helper, Alex – you'll meet him soon – took them to a football match and bowling as a treat."

I heard the discussion of two adult voices downstairs, plus some excited cheers as Alex evidently took delivery of the pizzas. Soon, one by one, six boys had climbed the stairs, each armed with a pizza box.

"Thanks, Alex!" I shouted. He probably heard me, but the door closed shortly after just the same. He's only young, so I limit his permission to enter the Boys' Zone, especially when I'm around anyway. Foxes and hen houses and all that.

The pizza boxes were each abandoned on the table as the other boys sought to come and appraise Daniel and Carwyn. Harry and Raheem, the two eldest, were first, and they stood a respectful distance away to say hi and exchange names and ages. Harry was a stocky boy of twelve with a bit of a bulldog look to him. He was a lovely boy, but not a looker, the poor mite. He was well-developed for his age, though – early-ish bloomer – and was one of only three spunkers in my stable. Wispy beginnings of pubes, too. Still, with a potato head and his… agricultural looks, he was no-holds-barred on the solo work, kids vids, and pairings with me. It was the best compromise to avoid having to make up the extra money from third-party adults, on video or privately. Raheem was a pale, round-and-rosy-faced boy of Pakistani heritage, the third son of a difficult, large, and poor family in Bradford, who'd been something of a handful at school. The reasons behind him being contracted were complicated, for sure, but he'd been a good, worthy boy since he'd arrived in May. My only cut boy, and another spunker, he was naturally very popular with our Arab customers. He, alongside Harry, had matured into one of the calmer influences of the group as the eldest.

The next boys to follow were quite the opposite. First Ashley, ten, turning eleven in January. He was a small, skinny, mixed-race boy, with a silly streak and plenty of energy to share around. He immediately pushed his way through to greet the new boys up close and personal, offering them fist bumps and pats on the back. Little Dillon, ever Ashley's shadow, soon followed behind, squeaking with excitement about how cool it was to be meeting the new boys, and offering his own fist bumps and greetings. He was by far the smallest and youngest boy, having turned nine only three weeks before he was contracted out in mid-August, and his messy brown hair, big brown eyes, and smattering of freckles made him a delightfully cute little asset.

The final two were Jensen, a lanky, quiet, but bright and pretty eleven-and-three-quarter-year-old. He stood back and said hello and his name from a distance, appreciating that the new boys were currently being overwhelmed. Last of all, but certainly not least, was ten-year-old blond beauty Evan. He was the most interesting piece of them all, and he knew all about it. He smirked at the new boys from a distance.

"Pizza's getting cold!" Evan announced. "Let's go, people!"

"Pizza can wait, fatboy!" Ashley shot back. "Gotta meet our new stars, ennit!"

"Fine," Evan smirked. "All the more pizza for me."

"Everyone gets their fair share, and we all know that rule, don't we?" I interjected with firm warmth.

"Whatever!" Evan cheeked, stuffing a first slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth.

"Maybe the new boys should come and get some pizza first," Jensen suggested. "I know on my first day, I was mega-hungry when I got here."

"Yeah, man!" Ashley chirped in assent. "Let's do this around the table."

Ashley pulled Daniel and Carwyn along with him, beginning to give his lowdown on who each of the boys were. Dillon came sidling up to me as we headed for the table, pushing his side into mine and holding onto my wrist with both hands.

"Sir…?" he said.

"What is it, Dill?" I asked, stroking the back of his head and his rakish ears with my hand.

"You know Mr Smith made me go with Alfie again…?"

"Yes," I said. "I did know. Why?"

"I don't like it with Alfie," Dillon complained, wheedling with his voice and rubbing his side against mine. "He's really tall, like a grown-up tall, and he's hairy. He squishes me and stuff and he tastes nasty."

Alfie was a fifteen-year-old contracted to my friend Tim's studio, where the boys had been today. Dillon, being a cute little squirt, wasn't contracted to do any of the nasty stuff in solo or group work, just like Daniel, and was even more limited in what I could do with him on camera. However, getting paired with a teen of almost adult proportions was still legally within the realms of child group work, and it's no exaggeration to say clients of both studios were enormous fans of seeing a cute little nine-year-old getting stripped and spanked by a horny teen, then forced to suck and fuck when he clearly enjoyed neither. Dillon might think he could sweet-talk me, but he'd undoubtedly find himself servicing Alfie again in future.

"It's done now, Dill," I said gently. "Eat your pizza and get to know the new boys, and you'll soon have forgotten all about it."

"But my bum hurts!" Dillon whined, in a last attempt to try to guilt trip some anti-Alfie guarantee from me. I gave him none. Instead, I focused back on what Ashley was telling the two new boys.

"…and that gimp boy there is Evan. We don't have to talk about him if you know what I mean…"

Evan wrinkled his nose and grinned with smug satisfaction. And why not? He wasn't even having to do anything to ensure he still managed to pull attention away from the new boys.

"Have you ever seen that Christmas film…" Carwyn began. The entire room was suddenly overtaken by the atonal giggling of the six established boys.

Evan turned to Carwyn, gave another smug grin, and pulled the Kevin MacAllister scream face pose.

"Yeah," he said. "Why else do you think it's me who makes all the real money around here?"

Carwyn looked a little offended, but Ashley came quickly to the rescue.

"Yeah, Evan can make all the money. Y'alright. I'd rather keep my bum tight, ta."

Daniel's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, as clearly he understood enough to at least hazard a vague guess at what that might mean. Carwyn simply looked confused, though, watching him closely, I thought he was perhaps slowly beginning to get it. Much more rambunctious talk from these seasoned pros and the penny would surely drop once and for all. Then we might have a Carwyn in denial, or a nervous breakdown Carwyn. I hoped for the third way, a Carwyn brazening it out amongst boys who were now his sex-trading peers, at least until he could see me in private and beg to find out exactly what he would be doing to make his money.

I looked up again to see that Daniel had drifted into a shy opening conversation with the three older boys, Raheem, Harry, and Jensen. Good for him. Calmly settling in was exactly what he needed to do. In two minds about whether to stay and supervise further, I decided to get up from the table and leave the new boys to their fate. They were part of the stable now.

"Remember, PlayStation goes off at nine-thirty sharp," I said, standing to make my way downstairs to my own home. "Bedtime routine starts then. Everyone showers except Carwyn and Daniel, since it's their first night. I'll be back up to check on you in a bit."

I did check on them, periodically enough that I was on hand if a disaster had occurred, but not so much that it seemed like I was helicoptering. When I collected their empty pizza boxes for recycling, all was fine. When I checked in at nearly nine, everything was fine. Daniel was still sat amongst the calmer boys, and Carwyn seemed fine. I called in just after ten, and I could see and hear through the open bathroom door that four boys were in the shower. I peeked through Daniel's door to see that he was in with just the bedside lamp on. He lay back spread-eagled on the bed in his new black pyjamas, staring at the ceiling.

"Everything alright?" I asked. I sat on the bed beside him and squeezed him gently on a warm ankle.

"Yeah," he squeaked quietly. He tried to smile, but I could see how tearful he was when he looked at me.

"It's tough in the beginning," I said quietly, rubbing his clothed shin up and down.

"I miss home."

"I know, Dan," I said. "That's going to be hard for a little while. How about everything else, though? The barn good? The other boys good?"

"Mmm," he nodded weakly. He'd lost the fight with his tears, causing one to roll down his cheek into his ear.

"And you like your new room?"

"That's–" he coughed a falsetto little boy cough, "it's really nice."

"Then you make yourself comfortable and try to think happy thoughts, okay?" I rubbed his thigh. "And make sure you do a wee-wee before bed. That way you might not need to use potty in the middle of the night, okay?"

"Mm," Daniel grunted weakly. I left him to it.

"Night-night. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

I turned to Carwyn's room. He was also in. Surprisingly, he was in bed, in fact. He turned huffily onto his side to face away from me when I came in.

"Not in a good mood, then?" I said.

"Go away," he grunted, his pillow muffling it into a generic pout.

"Carwyn, I'm sorry your mom wasn't honest with you about what working would really involve," I said.

"Shut up," he growled into his pillow. "Perv!" He added. I could hear he'd started to cry.

"Carwyn, I know it's a big shock now, but you'll only make this whole year worse for yourself if you convince yourself I'm your enemy. I'm not. I want to help you."

"You want…" he sniffed against his pillow, "you want to… you're going to do… dirty to me. S-E-X. You want… you're gonna… rape me."

"What does rape mean, Carwyn?"

There was a pause. He grunted non-committally.

"What does it mean?"

Silence, except for his sniffling.

"You don't know, do you?"

"It… It's when– when you, like, tear a girl's ffwff off and chuck it in a bush!"

"Carwyn," I chuckled, stroking the back of his head and feeling him flinch, "you're a boy. You don't have a foof."

"You're gonna do things to my willy. And my bum. You already started."

"I am going to do things to your willy and bum," I said, trying my best to be soothing to the face-down eleven-year-old while also being frank about what he had coming to him. "Your mom signed a contract that said I can shoot you doing anything I tell you to yourself and doing anything I tell you to do with other boys and girls. Things with your willy. Things with your bum. Embarrassing things. Nasty things involving wee-wee and poo-poo. Smacking your bum. Tying you up. Putting you in girl clothes. And your contract does also say that I can make you have sex with me."

Carwyn was openly bawling like a baby, pushing as far into the corner of the bed as possible, against the wall, trying to make himself as small as he could and defend himself from the touch of my caress.

"The thing is, Carwyn, you can't do anything about that contract now. You're stuck here. And the things you've been signed-up to do aren't even as bad as what some of the other boys here do. It's true. And you can ask them if Mr Drake is ever nasty to them? And they'll say: he's strict if we break the rules, but he tries to keep us happy as long as we keep to our contract and make money. And it might seem insane now, but really, Carwyn, thinking like that is how you're going to stay sane. Eh, big boy?"

He was pressed pathetically as far into the meeting point of bed and wall as was possible, sobbing hopelessly. He looked ridiculous, diagonally on to the wall, face-down in his pyjamas, mostly out of the bedcovers. There was no point going any further tonight. It had already been far too heavy a conversation for a distressed eleven-year-old to take, and more than he could begin to register in one sitting. I patted his ample bottom twice.

"Night-night. Make sure you get a toilet wee-wee in before lights out."

Half an hour later, I settled myself in for the night. My bedroom was directly below those of Daniel and Carwyn. After a long day of driving, boy procurement, and the beginnings of boy training, the comfort of my own bed was overwhelming to the touch. I sighed with pleasure and began to drift to sleep almost instantly. As I floated in the silence, I was sure I could still hear muffled crying from high above me, in Carwyn's voice.

Chapter 6
Section 2.a.ii:Concerning the homestead of Mr M Drake

On weekends, the boys' doors unlock and the electric turns itself back on at normal wake-up time, but without an adult there forcing them up for school. I had a little lie-in and mentally planned the day ahead of me. Daniel and Carwyn would be left well alone to settle in. Now I was armed with their full body measurements, Alex had been dispatched to purchase their correct school uniform for Monday. I need not concern myself any more with them for one weekend. Sunday was always a good day to get in a few boy-fucking videos instead.

Well, I say 'boy-fucking videos'. Sunday was rather a good day to fuck boys with the camera rolling so it was legal, and decide later on whether the video evidence was marketable or not. Other than Carwyn – who was obviously off the menu for today – I had three boys whom I was free to fuck up the arse for profit: Raheem, Harry, and Evan. Carwyn would bring my fuckable stable nicely back up to 50%, while Ashley was also contracted as far as blowjobs for the producer. Which – let me tell you in no uncertain terms – he hated.

I figured Raheem could go first, as I was fairly sure I'd poked Harry for breakfast last time. Ashley could go in between with a bit of mouth and hand work. He was owed some sort of mild reminder that belittling other boys' work is always unacceptable, following his jibe about Evan. I'd not wash after I finished with Raheem, and I'd make sure Ashley knew it and why. He'd be apologetic, he'd cry, he'd be ashamed of crying, he'd be ashamed of having to suck dick, he'd be ashamed of crying more because he was ashamed of sucking dick… I knew exactly how it went with all the established boys by now. It was always exciting to have fresh meat to mix things up a little. Then I could finish with Harry, who'd grimace like a shitting baby while I gave it to him but refuse to cry out.

Evan had his own busy day ahead. No less than three private clients visiting him on the premises and a private video chat scheduled for the evening with a client in Bucharest. It was no exageration that he was a little money-maker, and that his arse was no longer quite the pink wrinkle we inherited back on 19th February. I could confirm from experience he was still tight – he was ten, after all – but his body was loose enough to accept a six-inch [15cm] cock alright, like a grown woman's cunt. His ring and cleft were also red, chafed, and puffy pretty much constantly. It was a badly-kept secret from the other boys that Evan came down to the office before school each morning to get a liberal fingering with steroid cream, just to prevent worse complications.

You may think you've picked up on some hypocrisy here, given how I reacted to Carwyn's mother being seemingly so willing to push her boy to a similar extreme. You might well think I'm a bit unhinged. Lots of people do, and there's definitely merit in that. I mean, maintaining all the contradictions of this job is a difficult thing to do without splintering into pretty distinct and separate selves for every different facet. But what you have to understand about the difference between Carwyn and Evan, is that Evan was so far down shit creek when we got hold of him, he was practically in the perv spunk ocean anyway. His pushy mom had done everything to get him into legit acting and modelling from an early age, then went and died when he was nine. His dad was a gambling addict, and the stress of his wife's illness and loss pushed him over the edge. He'd lost everything and their darling son was to be taken into residential care the same day the bank formally retook possession of the house. Luckily a perv friend of mine, Vince, was a senior at Evan's talent agency, and tipped me off.

Getting full custody of Evan was remarkably easy. Dad could pretty much just sign him over. It's not as if the authorities need more kids like him in the homes. They're more overcrowded than the prisons as it is, and more Victorian to boot. Maybe Vince and I were vultures, but a pretty, soft boy like Evan, whose mom had made the most of his natural looks and styled him to act and dress and do his hair just like Macaulay Culkin from a young age, being sent to another one of those homes for poor boys…? He'd have been serving every frustrated, sad, humiliated older boy in that place within days of him arriving, if not hours. At least being mine for good, I can look after him while he whores himself out in every direction. He'll see some reward beyond not getting beaten up in the bathroom every day. He doesn't know it yet, but he in fact, along with the others, is already benefiting from his share of the profits. What doesn't go into his account is spent on keeping all the boys in comfort.

I drove Evan's dad to the train station in Stratford, once Evan had been dropped off and everything crossed and dotted legally. I even gave him the train fare back to Derby and watched him buy the ticket, not that he'd have a house there to go to for much longer. He must have hopped off at one of the small village stations along the line, where the local train from Stratford might stop, but the intercity trains just blast through. Decided he'd rather take his chances with the 13:40 from London Marylebone to Birmingham Snow Hill. It was one of the fancy ones, too, with the diesel engine in front and the big, long, heavy carriages with the tables and leather seats. I got the call from the clean up crew, of course, once they found his ID, since Evan is next of kin. I have never quite found the right time or way to tell him. Not that he ever speaks about his parents these days anyway.

No use in dwelling on it anymore. Legally I'm Evan's guardian forever, which means his contract to do everything the industry allows is set to roll on and on, month after month, year after year. He'll still be my brat five cycles down the line from Daniel and Carwyn. Which means less profitable boys still get to enjoy us not worrying about the cost of having their meals delivered by caterers every day of the week, or their laundry being done by a local woman who runs a home service, or the cleaner who comes twice a week for my pad and the studio, also cleaning their bathroom so they don't have to, and tidying around the communal areas when their chores haven't quite been up to scratch. We could probably afford it with another no-holds-barred video boy in Evan's place, but Evan's bum money made it a no-brainer.

So, lavish Sunday breakfast was essentially on Evan, and it was a meal I always took with the boys in the Zone. I went up just after nine, knowing it was due to be delivered at nine-thirty. Evan was in the bathroom emptying and wiping down his potty, while Harry sat on the other toilet, by now used to the rule that other boys could enter the bathroom while he was shitting, and if they did, the door must remain open. Dillon was up, pyjamas, bare feet, and fluffy morning hair, lounging on the sofa in the play area watching cartoons. Jensen was with him, playing a handheld game, also in his pyjamas. The two boys' feet met in the middle and touched as they curled in opposite directions. Daniel was also up and in the play area, but lounging alone on a beanbag, half an eye in the book he'd brought from home, half an eye on Dillon's cartoon show. Ashley's door was ajar, so he was awake, but evidently having some time alone. No sign yet of Carwyn or Raheem.

"Evan," I said as he walked past to replace his clean potty in his bedroom, "quick word downstairs in the office?"

Evan nodded and got on with quickly putting his night-time toilet back in its place.

"Can I come too?" Dillon piped up, not taking his eyes from the television. As I said, even using code, Evan's daily butt maintenance was an open secret.

"I need to speak to Evan, Dillon, not you."

"But it's sor-ore!" Dillon whined.

"Fine, Dillon, I can take you downstairs too," I sighed. "But I'm warning you: if you're just being melodramatic, you're going to be given some real soreness to complain about. Understood?"

"It is sore, though," Dillon said, bouncing down from his seat in a single movement and wondering around to press to my side, all without breaking eye contact with the television screen.

"Come on, then," I took Dillon's hand in mine, seeing Evan was ready. Dillon took it enthusiastically. He'd been very obviously only just nine when he arrived, but wanting to be babied by me whenever I was around was a trait he'd developed over his time here. "Let's have a look at you."

In the office, Evan immediately stripped and bent over the desk. It was a well-practised routine for him. Seeing that was the score, Dillon copied the slightly older boy, looking around for a place to park his bare body.

"You're a little small to use the desk, Dill," I said. "Why don't you wait over one of the chairs while I sort Evan's bum?"

Dillon did as he was told while I reached for the latest tube of cream. I didn't need to do much beyond unscrewing it and moving closer in behind Evan for him to raise his hips and reach back to spread his cheeks automatically, using both hands.

"Not too bad today," I said. It showed that Evan hadn't been used in a few days; his crack was as chafed and bruised as ever, but the anus itself was simply a little swollen and puckered, not fissured or weeping as it could be on some occasions.

"It's gonna proper sting tomorra," Evan predicted, probably correctly, as he sucked in his breath at the touch of the cold cream on his devilishly warm orifice. I made sure to rub plenty into the skin all around his hole, coating him up to the coccyx and down to the base of his baby balls, then forced another large dollop onto my middle finger for his internal treatment.

"In we go," I said to warn him. I placed a hand on the small of his back to steady him, then pushed my steroid-coated middle finger slowly but firmly and unrelentingly past his external sphincter. Evan, as always, gasped at the intrusion. My middle finger is at least four inches, so every morning he was getting at least as much as he'd take in a kiddy-fuck video. I always made sure to get in as deep as I could and coat his sensitive walls nicely, pushing against his silken tunnel all the way around. I paid particular attention to pushing hard on his tiny, immature prostate gland, just like every day. It was a little game we played to see whether I could give him an involuntary boner to take with him on the school bus. Well, it was a game I played, and Evan went along with presumably because it felt good and made him gasp.

I dragged my finger out of Evan. It gave a small pop and a wet smack, which Evan followed with an involuntary wet fart, as always. It made Dillon, a first-time witness, giggle from his chair across the office. I looked at my finger. Some of the traces of cream around my nail were stained yellow.

"Pyjamas on as soon as I'm done with Dillon," I instructed Evan, noticing as he obediently remained in spread position that I had given him a stiff little pin. According to Evan's official record, he was 75mm erect – pretty much exactly three inches. "We'll get you prepared for your first visitor after breakfast."

Both boys knew what that meant. Evan would be taking two enemas in succession in the main bathroom, lain naked on the floor with the door open. Evan brazened it out with his cockiness, but it was clear every time that those backdoor clear-outs were a big humiliation to bear before the other boys. After all, they never actually got to see what he did with the men who bought their photos and videos, but they did get to see Evan's bowels being cleaned out in preparation for a pumping.

"Dillon!" I exclaimed, changing the subject before there could be any comment. Dillon – to his credit – wouldn't have been the kind of boy to do that anyway. If he was to upset a boy about their duties, it'd be some innocent unthinking remark in conversation. He was a toe-treader rather than a teaser. "Spread them out, then. Let's see where it hurts."

Dillon had sensibly bent himself over the rather uncomfortable-looking plastic arm of a static chair, rather than going for the swivel office chair. He dutifully pulled his buttocks apart.

"It burns and itches right inside my bum," he complained in his boyish treble. "When I did a poo last night and wiped my bum, there was bleeding right there on the paper."

"Oh dear," I said. "Poor Dill. Let me have a close look. Don't fart!"

Dillon giggled again as I squatted alongside him and placed a hand over his left to splay his bum cheeks further. I had seen it looked sore from a distance, but sure enough, it was clear up close that he'd taken quite an uncomfortable pounding yesterday.

"Alfie's nasty to me and it hurts my bum every time!" Dillon chattered on. "I don't like Alfie. If I have to do bum stuff with someone, I want to do it with someone else. Not someone so big or mean to me."

"Alright, Dillon, I heard you the first time and the hundredth time," I said, preparing my fingers with another globule of cream.

"How come I never get to be the one who puts it in– ow! Ahh! Owowowow!"

"Stop wriggling, Dillon!"

"But it hu-uurts!"

"It stings because it's making you better. I thought you wanted the itching to go away?"

"I h-hate Alfie," Dillon sniffled, waving his rear end around in circles in a vain attempt to deal with the stinging of the cream. "I wish I could hurt his bum and make it bleed. Then he'd see how he likes it when that happens to him. Oooo! Ah! Ah! Then he'd cry even though he's big and nearly g-grown-up."

"Don't talk, Dill. Just breathe. You're being a very big boy now taking the bum cream, aren't you, eh?"

"Hm," he sniffled. "Oooh! Owwww!"

I ignored him and went about the business of applying the salve to his sore bottom. Any more chat would simply be indulging his attention seeking. I had to admit, his hole was looking pretty rough, though. The anus was completely swollen and puckered up like Thatcher sucking on a sourball, and had clearly sustained cuts in places that Dillon had irritated when he wiped himself clean the prior night. Or mostly clean. He was nine and had gone very gingerly, clearly, as there were a couple of flakes of dried shit around his chafed crack and throbbing arsehole.

"I'm going to put my finger inside now, Dill. Keep being brave for me."

"Owww-uuuuu!" Dillon whined, shifting through the pitches. I sighed and made sure his insides were well-coated. He was surely sore in there too, and given he'd said he was itchy, I didn't want him irritating it with his own fingers and/or getting an infection. I would probably have to have a word with Tim about not letting Alfie go to town on Dillon to quite this extent. It helped nobody if the boy was hurt and rendered unfit to perform, or indeed made to be terrified of acting with bigger boys. Little and large was Dillon's whole thing. His parent had only signed him up to be stripped, spanked, and masturbated in shoots with me.

Thinking of the spanking, I withdrew my finger (Dill was in no mood to get a stiffy) and instructed the nine-year-old to release his cheeks so I could look at them too. He let go and they jiggled back into place. There were a couple of small yellow bruises on each cheek.

"Did Alfie give your bum a hard smacking, too?"

"Yeah…" Dillon sniffled pathetically, now able to use one of his hands to roughly wipe his nose. "He smacked me really hard and… and… it was really red and– it made me cry. A lot."

"Oh, poor Dillon," I said gently, stroking his left buttock with the crook of my finger. "I'll make sure Alfie doesn't hurt you next time, okay?"

"N-next time?" Dillon pouted pitifully with another exaggerated mouth sob. "C-can… can you at least get him punished?"

"I'll speak to Mr Smith about it," I said. "Right, up and dressed, boys. Breakfast will be here any minute."

Raheem had managed to rouse himself before breakfast arrived, but it was the smell of sausage and bacon and eggs and beans and lots else besides that finally drew Carwyn from his room. He still wasn't in a friendly mood, though. He perched himself on the slimmest corner of the table, next to Daniel and only Daniel, and made himself a sausage and bacon sandwich. His eyes were very pink, and he didn't speak at all other than grunting to Daniel when he said hello. I was curious about how he'd take to witnessing Evan's enema session, but he returned straight to his room – despite his greasy fingers and ketchup around his mouth – forgetting that he wasn't allowed to close the door between wake-up and bedtime. I gently opened his door and gave him a quick reminder, once I'd finished my own breakfast, that the door must stay open, then I moved on to administering Evan's preparations.

He was used to the drill. He stood in the bathroom and stripped naked for me for the second time in an hour. He looked unhappy, but he laid down a towel for himself on the floor and arranged himself on it, on his side, knees up to his tits. I went ahead and shoved the tube in, leaving him to lie in the open bathroom for ten minutes – one for each year of his age – while the solution did its work.

The other boys tend to be so used to it by now that they pay no attention to what's happening. Daniel was roped into video games with them, so all he knew was that Evan had gone into the bathroom with me to go through some process or other. I watched the six boys enjoying their game, still all in pyjamas, and glanced occasionally back through the bathroom door at Evan. The blond boy was on his side, face slightly pink from the discomfort, but otherwise fine. After ten minutes, I told him to expel and left him to his work in order to stick all the dishes and cutlery in the washer. By the time the load was on, Evan was back in position waiting for his sweep-up enema. I called it that because its only function was to clean out any dregs the first one had missed. The routine was that he flushed the toilet after his first expulsion, but didn't wipe, since he'd only be fouling again. This meant he was wet, sticky, and grimy whenever the sweeper went in, but it was little matter. When you organise shoots involving piss, shit, and nappies, a little dirt around a boy's hole is hardly worth noticing. Plus the embarrassment and discomfort is all theirs. Why should I be concerned?

Evan's enema routine was always completed by a gentle baby-wiping of his precious money-maker by his favourite producer. The buck stops with me in making sure he's spotless for Johns, after all. After that he can take his time styling his hair and getting dressed. For psychological reasons, I don't actually allow clients to call him Macauley (on pain of blacklisting), but that being his prime attraction, it doesn't hurt for him to make sure he looks the part. I remember that first night of breaking him in with Vince, and the funny conversation we'd had afterwards about how far I was willing to go with the whole Macaulay Culkin thing. Let me tell you: I never thought I'd be Googling 'is Macaulay Culkin circumcised'! Luckily for Evan, the one clunky old webpage we found with an opinion on the matter suggested that Culkin was intact. I guess it makes sense, right? He was raised in a big Catholic family, after all. Can't see them thinking the snip to be Godly. Though in fairness, Evan had less to lose than some. He has one of those foreskins that just barely folds around the end to cover the piss slit. No pinch, no dongle, no puff, and definitely no tail.

That first night with Evan was incredible beyond description. He was sad and confused, and humiliated and shamed to be naked before us. Unrecognisable from the experienced boy he is today. He was pale, and slim, and had those beautiful dainty fingers, and big red lips, and big blue eyes, and styled blond hair. And, man, what a cute package. Bald and pale and pretty and clean. Not a hung boy, but not a tiddler either. He shivered and coughed when we touched it. Shuddered and sobbed and grimaced when we made him touch us, and told him this was what he did now. This was how he had to live, forever. He hissed and clenched like a gymnast the first time he was tasted. He retched and gagged the first time he tasted us. We made him lick man cunt while we took it in turns to open him up with metal dildoes. He was so firm and pink back then. So much grip he could snap your little finger off with it. I had the honour of being first in, and he screeched and clawed at the bed. Little by little, I sawed the resistance out of him. Then Vince did. Then I did again. In the end, Evan was so exhausted and overwhelmed that we had to hold him up cowboy and bounce him like a ragdoll, strength completely gone and body plastered with sweat, snot, saliva, and tears. He pissed all over Vince's chest and stomach on his last run. Not maliciously; he just had no muscle control left. He couldn't even speak.

What a night!

Evan cried for days after that. Messed himself like a baby rather than daring step out of bed and face reality. He was terrified of me. But eventually, little by little, he got up to speed. Learned his trade. Learned who he truly is.

It was a few months in, when the first set of new boys – Raheem and Harry – came, that Evan got cocky. Suddenly he didn't want to be skittish and silent anymore. Seeing two new, older boys go through the breaking-in process, and suffer their own tears and shame, Evan decided he wanted to be the big man. Because he knew he was popular. He knew he made lots of money. He knew all the men (and some women) who paid to view the other boys really wanted to spend all their money meeting him. That's when I got him into live cams. Home visits soon followed. He's been taking it like a trooper ever since.

Evan's first visitor, a slightly overweight man in his fifties with a short, grey beard, arrived shortly before his allotted time of eleven-thirty. He'd paid for two hours, so it made sense to arrange for him to go first while Evan was still fresh. I had left Evan in the visitor bedroom ready, so all I needed to do was delay the man a little with some shop talk in the office – a few sample photos that Tim had sent through from yesterday as a promo for what we had lined up, a description of the two new boys coming in; sales patter – until eleven-thirty sharp when his time with Evan began. Once they were safely in the bedroom together, I could set up some fun of my own.

Raheem wasn't delighted to have been called down to my boudoir. What twelve-year-old boy would be? But he knew his place, he knew what was in his contract, and he knew how to perform. I brought in some small cameras from the studio and set them rolling, even while knowing there was little chance I'd use any of today's boy-fucking footage. Raheem was still in his pyjamas, which made unwrapping the stocky ball of creamy-brown boy flesh a simple task once he'd plopped himself on the bed. Raheem was pale South Asian with a rounded face and stocky build. Definite Central Asian mix in this boy's ancestry. 140cm [4'7"] according to his latest check-up and 39kg [86lb] of muscle and bone with a comfy layer of remaining puppy fat just rounding out his edges enough to make him streamlined, formless, rather than chiselled and brawny.

I pushed him onto his back on the bed and held him down roughly with as much strength as he could take, roughly kissing his full pink lips. He showed no emotion but reciprocated immediately, eyes open but seemingly bored. I pressed myself to him to let him feel I was rock hard, and for perhaps the twenty-fourth time (I'd lost count), over six inches [15cm] of hard man meat would be plumbing his rectum. I wondered if he could taste the pork from my breakfast on my breath, or whether he even cared anymore. Whatever the case, he surely appreciated that sausage was still on his menu for this Sunday brunchtime. I yanked his pyjama top over his arms and head; forced him to shuck it while I bit at his neck and pinched at his big, brown nipples. He looked uncomfortable when I next glanced up at his face. By that point I was removing his bottoms to his ankles in a single fluid motion, for him to kick away obediently at the first opportunity.

I rolled him onto his side, directly facing one of the cameras. Still fully clothed, I spooned the naked twelve-year-old from behind, forcing him to twist his neck and receive more tongue wrestles. I figured that I might get lucky and get some hot stills to use as webpage headers or something. I reached for Raheem's cock. He was soft and rubbery and small. He was a developing boy; the top of his cock and balls was home to a thin line of black fuzz, tapering into shiny blond for a centimetre or so north of his cut dick, but he was more naturally thick and short in his penis proportions. Both his knob and his balls had clearly seen some growth over the past year or so, and I was sure I had witnessed at least some of it whilst he was under my contract, but his latest measure-in figures had him at 45mm [1¾"] in his current sad mushroom flaccid state, and a fat 77mm [3"] when erect. So in both states his pubescent tool made him shorter than new Danny Boy, but I reckoned I knew which one of them would feel it more when I made them top each other. Raheem was hardly packing a coke can, but erect he had begun to look very much like an adult in miniature, just with some growing ahead of him. He might never reach 5 inches [127mm], bless him, but he'd make some poor village virgin scream if his family decided to contract him off in the marital way in future as they'd contracted him to me.

Still, these sexy thoughts of Raheem's burgeoning boyhood aside, the boy would not get stiff. Sometimes, especially if I wanted to use the video as a steamy shoot for keeps, I'd make sure to give the boys a bit of pep talk beforehand and tell them to pretend they liked everything that was happening. Since I was having a day of pleasure fucks under the façade of film work, that was entirely unnecessary. Though the boys knew I might invoke some of their more degrading clauses if they failed to get themselves hard by the time I was naked with them. After all, a movie of an excited boy getting fucked had a much wider viewer base than a movie of a boy not enjoying it. Rape fetishists would still watch a movie of a hard boy; those with more moral qualms over their choice of boy porn, conversely, balk at seeing the reality of their favourite star being forced to perform. That was why I'd go to the small effort and expense of giving the boys a chemical boner when we were making those sorts of movies. In other circumstances, well, there still had to be some consequence for a boy failing to live up to on-screen expectations.

I knelt on the bed. This was Raheem's signal to help me undress. I had kept things simple with just a light jumper that morning, nothing underneath, so all Raheem had to do was reach under the hem with his thumbs hooked at the bottom, and run his palms and fingers up my hairy torso until the time came to lift the garment from my head. Topless, I took Raheem's head in both hands, kissed him roughly a little more, then directed his mouth down my body, making him kiss down to my waist. He did wet circles around my bellybutton while his fingers fumbled at my fly. Eventually, he had the button and zipper open, and reached in dutifully to rub my boner through my boxer briefs for a while before pushing my jeans down and off. He still looked bored. He wasn't hard. Running out of time.

Raheem yanked off my socks without any ceremony, and now down to only my own underpants, I hauled the naked tween back up the bed by his ankles and into a 69 position with me. I tried to give him a fighting chance, massaging the back of his balls and putting external pressure on the inner root of his boyhood through his taint, then taking his soft pink-brown acorn head into my mouth as he got to the business of helping my boxers down. Despite everything, the boy simply was not in the mood. I resolved to give him a good blow anyway, both because he'd be encouraged to reciprocate well in his own work, and because he'd been a good boy lately and was worthy of some pleasure from a keen adult mouth. Unfortunately, he had the same problem I always found with cut boys: unless they're super-sweaty, they just taste like skin and piss. Notwithstanding, I used that as grounds instead to focus on tonguing his urethra and crown, searching for any nook that may yet conceal some of his lost natural Raheem flavour. He reciprocated with a professional job on me, using his hand and tongue to good effect on the shaft, and bobbing on the head with alternating depth and pressure. I make sure my boys get plenty of blowjob training if that box is ticked for me. I will not tolerate a sloppy or lazy cocksucker.

It had got to the point where I wanted to get my first fuck of the weekend underway, and ride some frustration at speed into the Raheem highway. I pushed him up by the hips.

"On your back. Legs up. Prep time."

Raheem did as he was asked quickly, rolling over like a dog. Perhaps, for a happy moment, he believed he'd got away without punishment for sporting only a semi even after I'd just spent precious minutes sucking him. I grabbed a tube of lube from across the bed and straddled Raheem's face, pulling his knees back to rest on my thighs, fully exposing his hole to the bed base camera and to my fingers to be probed and slickened. I pressed my ass down, holding it to his nose and mouth with firm but fair contact.

"You didn't get a boner. Eat it."

Raheem groaned and clenched his fists. All the boys who were contracted to perform anilingus on me hated it. Detested it. But of all of the current crop, it was Raheem who still couldn't even begin to hide his disgust and – frankly – terror at a smelly, slippery arse knot being presented to his olfactory organs. He gagged and balled his fists on the bed until they were white, exerting admirable willpower to force his dextrous pink tongue up and down my fragrant pink rosebud. As I slickened his clenching, flittering boy-tunnel with increasing finger depth and numbers, I was treated to the added anal pleasure caused by his attempts to suppress the urge to spit, heave, or cry out, all giving the impression he was trying his best to probe for my prostate between my anal lips or blow raspberries in my crack, when in fact he was just extremely distressed. I have to say, the Arab punters love seeing Raheem like this. I think it ticks a nice taboo box in their culture about sissy Muslim boys eating arse, especially given Raheem's clockwork visceral response.

He had been punished enough. I didn't want to torture him, much as I was enjoying his work, so I lifted myself away from Raheem hopping around the bed to sit against the headboard, and pulling Raheem with me on his back by his ankle. He was sobbing gently. I pulled him up into a kneeling straddle over me and roughly dabbed at his tears with my thumbs.

"Come on, don't be silly now," I said. "You'll remember now to try harder to get into it next time. You're a good boy, Raheem. Let's finish with some fun."

He nodded and sniffled, looking utterly unconvinced. I lined up my prong against his slot and pushed down on his hips with both hands. Raheem hissed as he was impaled most of the way down my length at mid-pace and force.

"Good lad," I said, wrapping my arms around his back. "Now bounce, bitch. Up and down. Touch the pubes then back up to the head. That's it. Not slow. C'mon…"

It was exquisite, this tight boy tunnel, virgin but for my intervention and that of a few pencil-dicked tweens who barely counted, enveloping and blasting my engorged manhood with full-furnace heat and pressure, all the way up and down its length. This was what all the work was for.

"Uh. Uh. Uh." Raheem panted.

"Good boy. Wrap your arms around me as well. Good. That's my lover boy."

We embraced closely again, his arms and hands running mechanically over the sparse, rattish hairs of my back, now light and moist with sex perspiration – the best, warmest, saltiest, stinkiest kind – as Raheem rode and bucked and pumped his stuffed butthole on my daddy dick. I'd subtly adjusted our position and begun to stab in on his down thrusts, causing him to grind his prostate against my steel with every revolution. He had begun to let out squeaks and mewls against my face, panting his bum-breath into my nostrils. Finally, he was rock hard, and a pearl of clear fluid was even forming at the very bottom of his long, thin pissing eye.

I was getting close. His ride was becoming ragged as he strummed himself to ecstasy on my blunt instrument. I forced my tongue into his mouth once more as I crunched his body close and he clung to mine, revelling in how the child's mouth tasted so completely of my own funk. How my every act possessed this boy so completely.

"Nngh! Uh. Uh. Ahhha! Ahhhhh! Oooooh!"

Raheem had quickly pushed further than his twelve-year-old resolve could take, and he came noisily and violently on my cock, the build-up of fluid in his urethra expelling and dribbling down the underside of his short, fat, vascular cock and all over his plumpening, ripening brown nuts. His stubby fingers pinched into my shoulder blades. He squeaked and caterwauled like a feral street kitten getting fucked by a stray tom for the first time, feeling the dig of her first barb. Declining to continue in his arse, I pushed Raheem over onto his back while his genitals spasmed their last, and jerked myself for twenty seconds or so at full pace to the scenes and smells until I ejaculated ropes of opaque, white, viscous adult semen all over his tensed, damp torso, finishing by wiping off any excess over his inner thighs and already sodden willy and balls. With the last of the fluid from the tip of my dick rubbed off over his package of less than half my size, marking it as my property, came also sticky traces of the depths of his insides for him to wear until I said otherwise. I recovered, sat back with my buttocks to my feet, and panted for the end of a marvellous sprint. Raheem didn't move.

After thirty seconds had passed, I rolled alongside the boy and stroked the cum-free parts of his upper body, thanking and praising him on a good fuck. I asked if he wanted a cuddle for a while. He declined. Shook his head. Quickly followed that up by inching himself away and beginning to curl into a ball on his side. His face was red with more than physical exertion now, and the bored, resigned look in his eye from earlier had been replaced with a glassy, mournful, bitter stare. Such is life at the Drake's Nest. Six months in and most of the time they're still ashamed when it's all done and dusted, no matter how good they are or what they get out of it. There's no reasoning with kids sometimes.

Since Raheem had decided to be like that, I made him roll onto his back with his knees up again for a quick few close-up after snaps, documenting the post-action condition of his cunt, the mess I'd made of his body, and – of course – close-ups of his now shrivelled boy parts bearing the mess of his own ejaculate mixed with mine, as well as streaks of brown and orange goop to prove how deeply I'd possessed him. I was still undecided about the full video, but with some stills, maybe a few short clips of the noisier parts, gifs of the nastier parts, and these close-up photos, there was definitely a handy, attractive set here to package and sell.

"Well done again, Raheem," I smiled. "You were excellent. You're one of my best boys, you know that?"

Raheem simply shrugged quietly. I could see he valued the praise, but was still hating himself for what he'd had to do to earn it.

"I think you've earned a bubble bath in my bathroom. What do you say?"

"Thanks, sir."

There was a little smile at getting special private bath treatment, at least.

And, of course, a perfect excuse for why I couldn't clean my cock off before setting a remedial date with little Ashley.

Chapter 7
Section 2.a.iii:Concerning punishments for rulebreakers

I got dressed rather reluctantly after running Raheem his bath and leaving him to the luxury of my personal bathroom. I'd much rather have put on my heavy cotton dressing gown to wander up and collect Ashley, but it didn't seem professional with a client on the premises, even if he did have over half of his time with Evan still to go.

As soon as I emerged into the Zone via the studio door, Dillon came galloping over to me to pull at my wrists and talk at me very urgently.

"Sir! Sir! The new kid came out of his bedroom… and– and he left his potty on the table! Look, it's there, and… and… and it's stinky, and then the new boy went back into his bedroom and… and he closed the door! And that's not allowed, is it, sir?"

"Okay, Dill, calm down a little," I said, making my way across the room to where the rest of the boys were gathered around the PlayStation. "Let's go slowly and talk together about what's happened, hm?"

"But look!" Dillon said, stretching his eyes wide and pointing at the table. "He left his potty there, and it… it's full up! With wee-wee! And it's yellow and… and smelly!"

"Okay, Dill," I said, ruffling his hair. "Thank you for telling me. Sit down now."

I could see the protest offering on the dining table, and I was 95% sure the boy responsible was Carwyn before doing a check of the boys sat around the PlayStation, part playing video games, part gossiping nervously about what the new boy had done, why he'd done it, and how he'd be punished for it. Sure enough, the boys there were Dillon, Ashley, Harry, Jensen, and Daniel. Carwyn's bedroom door was closed as if slamming itself in the face of the rest of the room.

"That Carwyn boy came out of his room with his potty and stuck it on the table," Jensen said.

"It were proper rank, like," Harry nodded in assent. "It were really full, and he spilt dribbles all over before he put it down."

"Alright," I said. "What happened before he came out of his room."

"Nothing!" Ashley squeaked. "We never did nothing to make him do it. He just came out of his room all angry and he slapped his potty down on the table."

"He was stomping!" Dillon interjected. "He was having a strop and… and he slammed his door!"

"Is that all true, boys?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, amongst the chorus of assent and nodding from the other boys. "It was about a quarter of an hour ago."

"What about you, Daniel? Did you see all this too?"

"Yeah," Daniel said quietly. "That's how it happened. Just like how everyone said."

"We wouldn't make it up just to be nasty to a new boy," Jensen added.

"I know you wouldn't," I said. "But I have to be sure, because now Carwyn is going to be in big trouble."

"Are we gonna get to use the cameras, sir?" Ashley asked with a crooked grin.

"I'll take you down to sensibly pick out some cameras in a second," I said.

"Yessss!" Ashley celebrated, pumping his fist. Dillon offered him a hi-five.

"I said sensibly, boys," I warned them. "Boys getting punished for bad behaviour is serious stuff. It isn't a game, and the cameras aren't toys."

"We'll be good, promise!" Dillon chirped, though he gave Ashley a conspiratorial grin and jiggled his legs excitedly. I guess it was fun for the boys, getting to turn cameramen and masters when they were so used to being the ones being ordered around on film. I liked the idea of punishments for breaking house rules – crimes against the other boys, if you will – being administered in part by the other boys and recorded by them. This was both from a sort of restorative justice point of view, and because the presence of cameras made it perfectly legally acceptable for the punishments to be humiliating and painful. Not to mention, plenty of punters loved the chance to watch what seemed like a boys' own home-made video.

I took Ashley downstairs with me to collect a couple of handheld cameras to pass around (perhaps the one instance in which I regretted that the boys were not allowed phones) and used the opportunity to remind him that we needed to have a chat about his conduct in private very soon. He might not think he'd done anything to incite Carwyn's behaviour, but jibes about the elasticity of Evan's ass hardly helped. Carwyn would have picked up on that sort of talk quickly without fully understanding, and naturally feared the worst. Ashley looked worried and visibly gulped when I told him we were having a private meeting once Carwyn's punishment was underway. That would give him something to think about while he was getting to play the punisher.

"Carwyn?" I opened his bedroom door to find him lying face down in his pyjamas on top of the bed. He'd ransacked the bedroom floor, obviously on purpose, emptying the contents of his dresser in a crumpled mess across the entire bedroom. Somebody was asking for big, big trouble. "Carwyn?"

Not content simply to ignore me, Carwyn forced out a loud, foul-smelling fart in my direction, deliberately angling his rear to do so. I imagined he probably needed a shit but hadn't yet been brave or desperate enough to check out his new shared bathroom. Here was hoping he didn't shit himself during the punishment, either as a deliberate dirty protest or involuntarily.

"Carwyn Jones, stand up and face me. I'm talking to you."

Nothing.

I hadn't wanted it to come to it, but it looked like it would have to be a wrestling match. I stood purposefully over him in his bed.

"Carwyn, you have five seconds to stand. Four. Three. Two. One."

Carwyn flinched and twitched on 'one', probably out of knowledge that he was being dangerously disobedient as well as in anticipation of being manhandled. He was right on both counts, if that's what was going through his immature head. I pressed my knee down across the backs of his thighs to keep him pinned. He cried out and reared his back. I yanked at the hem of his pyjama top.

"Strip!" I spat angrily.

"No! Ngh! Gerroffme! Ngg-ah! Grrrr!"

He wriggled like a grounded eel, but he was no match for my determined adult strength. I didn't care if it ruined his pyjamas; I had a plentiful supply of them. In short order, I had Carwyn's top removed, then, as he wailed and struggled still, caught both his wrists and clicked them together in tight restraints.

"Owwww!" he whined, shaking his arms with limp futility as they were pulled uncomfortably behind his back by their fetters.

"You've been an extremely bad boy, Carwyn," I grunted. "Time to face your punishment."

I yanked his pyjama bottoms off easily, despite his flopping and kicking, rendering him naked face-down on his bed, hands bound behind his back. His next humiliation was the feel of a collar and lead being clipped around his neck. All the while, he bawled and screeched and spat and kicked and cried and panted. His torso was slick with sweat and spittle when I lifted him to his feet. I was thankful he seemed to have decided that supporting his own weight was preferable to melting to the floor in further protest.

"Lemme go! Lemme go!" he raged. "Give back my clothes! You're a pervert! Perv! I wanna go home!"

"Come on, you pathetic lump," I growled, yanking him along by his leash. "You've broken the house rules badly, which means you have to face the other boys for your punishment."

"No-ohh-ho-ho-ho!" Carwyn whined, fighting against my pull but stumbling along behind me, bound and nude, until he fell through his bedroom doorway and face-first into the side of my body with a grunt. He looked up to immediately realise that he was surrounded by the other five boys present, all still comfortably in their pyjamas, and two holding cameras filming his predicament.

"Anything to say for yourself, Carwyn?" I said with a pull on his lead.

As Carwyn stood there sobbing, I could see his penis and testicles slowly attempting their tactical withdrawal into his body. "Stop it…" he grumbled pathetically through his tears. "I wanna… go… home!"

I dragged Carwyn to the far side of the room, next to the door to the studio. There was a hook in the wall there specifically for the purpose of attaching punishment leashes.

"What are you being punished for, Carwyn?" I asked the blubbering eleven-year-old boy. "Well?"

"I didn't mean it!" he hacked through his despair-soaked mouth. "I just wanna go back home! It's not fai-aiiir! Gimme my clothes back! Gimme my clohh-ohhhhthes!"

"What did you do, Carwyn?"

"I…"

"Carwyn!"

"I did two wees in my potty and it got full so I put it on the table because I wanted to show you I don't like it here and I want to go back home to my mam! Now please lemme go-ohh! I promise I woan do it no more! I promise; I promise! Plii-he-he-heeease!"

"Is it fair to the other boys to have to sit in a room with your wee-wee and have it in the way of them being able to get food and drink?"

"No… but–!"

"He's yours for eleven minutes, boys," I said, and walked through the studio door to leave them to it.

I knew I could trust these boys never to take punishments too far when they were left on their own. Daniel looked a picture of shock the whole time, so he would surely just go along with it doing the absolute bare minimum to play his part. Ashley and Dillon were exuberant, but they were nine and ten and nice kids, so I wasn't concerned that they'd do anything that would seriously hurt Carwyn. Jensen and Harry were sensible heads. Harry was probably more likely to see that Carwyn was adequately punished, while Jensen would surely call time for all of them long before anything got out of hand. He'd probably try to talk Carwyn round into seeing how silly his behaviour had been, if anything. Time would tell, and I'd be bound to have some hilarious footage to package up.

Sure enough, eleven minutes later, I re-entered the Zone to find a very contrite-looking Carwyn slumped naked against the wall, body covered with slogans in boyish handwriting in black Sharpie, and Harry on his knees collecting the last of the Sharpies needing to go back in the art box, from Carwyn's anus.

"Learning a lesson, Carwyn?" I asked. He squeaked noncommittally without looking up. I freed his leash from the wall and walked him across to the dining area, Carwyn trotting obediently in time with me until we reached the destination. "Turn to everyone else now and apologise."

"I… I-I'm s-sorry," Carwyn began. He anticipated me prompting him to explain what for, quickly adding, "I-I'm sorry I left my p-potty with my wee-wee on the table."

Someone had given him a Sharpie monobrow and curly moustache, but even despite that, Carwyn managed to appear genuinely sincere and remorseful. There's never quite anything I could do that's anything like as effective as getting the other boys to help break in raw recruits.

"I'm going to release your hands now, Carwyn."

"Thank you."

"What I expect from you now is, without being asked or directed, you will carefully and thoroughly clean up after yourself. You know where to empty the potty, you know how you're expected to clean it, and Harry or Jensen can help you find the stuff you'll need to clean the dining area. The other boys will keep an eye on you and keep filming until you're done. That includes tidying your bedroom back up, too. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy, Carwyn."

I released his wrists and let him slowly begin to go about the restorative part of his punishment. When he turned his back to me, I saw that someone had written above his bum, with an arrow pointing to his cleft, 'insert 50p', which was slightly better childish wit than whomever had written 'baby dick' just above his penis, and 'I shag my mum' on his breast above one of his big, pink nipples.

As I turned without looking to head back through the studio door, I bumped straight into Daniel. I caught him before he was knocked over.

"Are you okay, Dan?" I asked.

"Hm," he nodded.

"You sure? You look a bit tearful."

"I'm fine," he said, before shuffling out of my way.

"Ashley," I said, letting Daniel go. "With me, thanks."

"Where we goin?" Ashley asked nervously, as I led him down the hallway past the muffled sounds of bedsprings, adult groans, and childish panting that gave away Evan's presence with the client in the special bedroom.

"We're going to my bedroom to have a little chat," I said to Ashley.

"Where's Raheem?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

"He put on a good session, so he's being rewarded with a nice bubble bath."

"Are we gonna have a session?" Ashley's voice died as he asked the question. He looked at the floor and his bottom lip and chin wobbled as I held open the bedroom door for him. I set the cameras running again.

Ashley sat on the bed facing the main bedroom door. There were doors on three sides: the main one to the hallway, the one to the east wall which connected to the bathroom, and the one to the west wall which connected to the living room. I sat adjacent to Ashley on the east side, at ninety degrees to his angle. I made sure the very tips of our fingers touched as we supported our backs sitting up on the bed.

"What happened with Carwyn to make him play up like that?" I asked.

"I din' do nuffin!" Ashley whined quietly.

"I didn't say you did," I responded calmly. "But, now you mention it, is there anything you might've done to upset Carwyn?"

Ashley made an I dunno noise and shrugged his shoulders defensively.

"Is it easy for new boys when they first get here, Ashley?"

"No…"

"Was it easy for you?"

Ashley made a nuh-uh noise and shook his head a little, digging his chin into his chest. It emphasised the caramel golden-brown of the beautiful smooth skin of his collarbones, just showing at the base of the neck of his pyjamas.

"What happened to you on your first night?"

"…got scared…"

"Then what happened when you got scared, Ashley?"

I didn't need to lean back and look around to know Ashley was red-faced. He let out the involuntary grunt of someone trying to hold a breath. I waited through the silence until it became uncomfortable. Ashley didn't relent, so I asked again.

"What happened after lights out on your first night when you were upset and scared?"

"…had an accident…" he whispered.

"What kind of accident did you have, Ashley?" I prompted.

Ashley let out a little crocodile sob and groan, just to let me know he wasn't happy about having this indignity dragged from him. I pressed again.

"Ashley?"

"…crapped my bed…" Ashley murmured.

"What's the proper language?"

"I went poo-poo in my beddy-byes," Ashley growled with an exasperated sigh.

"And that wasn't nice, was it?"

"No."

"You had a bad dream, didn't you Ashley, because you were in a new and strange place. You'd been too shy to go to the toilet in the shared bathroom before bed, and so during your nightmare you wet and messed your new pyjama bottoms and your bed, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," Ashley whispered.

"Was there anything that made things worse that night?"

"Mason Archer."

Mason Archer was a short, underdeveloped thirteen-year-old I'd picked up from a struggling single mother in an old north-eastern pit village. He was cute, in a cheeky-streak-of-piss-you-want-to-fuck-some-manners-into sort of way, and he was no-holds-barred for solo, group, and producer work, as well as available to do most things with third-party adults. He also had a real vile streak sometimes when it came to the younger kids. He was already fourteen by the time Ashley and Dillon arrived, and, while he was still as skinny and smooth and semen-less then as the day he arrived, I was glad to see the back of him when his contract expired in November. On Dillon and Ashley's first night, unbeknownst to me, he'd told them both horror stories about how there were even cameras in the bathroom (there aren't – not all boys are signed up to urination and scat contracts, for a start), and been particularly devious in singling out Ashley to tell him he'd never make enough money with his contract as it was, and he'd soon be taking adult cock the size of his arm and fist up the arse.

The very young new boys had been terrified. Thankfully, I'd been on hand to take Dillon to the toilet before bed and reassure him – though he wouldn't initially tell why he was so upset – but Ashley was already hiding away in his room and pretended to be asleep when I checked in prior to lights out. He must've spent hours lying in his own cold urine puddle and shit caked all over his midriff and legs, obeying out of sheer terror. When I discovered him and he told the truth, not only did Mason serve his punishment before the boys (and even mild-mannered Jensen got a kick out of making sure Mason got punished), but I made sure he was subjected to the most humiliating scat sessions possible for the remainder of his contract, plus several ass-fuck shoots per week. And he took it. And he still tried his best to laugh it off, even when I could see the fury in his eyes; the powerlessness that just makes you want to scream into the darkness until your throat is raw, your eyeballs boil, and your fingernails tear through your palms. I was glad to be rid of him in the end. Carwyn would be a much nicer no-holds-barred boy.

"Mason wasn't a good boy, was he?"

"I hate him," Ashley hissed.

"He scared and intimidated you on purpose," I agreed. "And he was punished for it."

"Am I gettin' punished?" Ashley asked, turning to look at me with big, sad, innocent brown eyes, his lip wobbling again.

"I don't think you meant to scare Carwyn last night," I said gently, "but can you think of anything you said that might not have been helpful, or might have been against the rules?"

"I was just joking…" Ashley squeaked.

"About Evan's bum hanging open?"

"I never said that!"

"Not exactly," I admitted, "but what was Carwyn supposed to think? His mom hadn't even told him he would be taking his clothes off."

"But… but I never knew that!"

"But you did let yourself get a little overexcited," I said. "Didn't you?"

"Spose…"

"What else did you say? Be honest."

"You're gonna punish me…"

"I'm just going to teach the lesson you deserve, Ashley," I reassured him. "Just a little punishment. Because you're a good boy who just needs to remember when to calm down."

"He asked about showers, and I said partners have to look out for how clean each other's bums an' willies are, an' stuff… An'… an' then we went onto how it's nasty to do a shoot wiv' anyone with a dirty willy cos it tastes bad an' that… An'…"

"Alright; I get it," I said. "Thanks for being honest."

"What's my punishment?" Ashley asked tearfully. "Cos I swear I never meant to scare Carwyn, an' I'm sorry an' I'll tell him I am an' all that…"

"Take your jamas off."

Ashley sighed and did as he was told. The cameras were a giveaway anyway, but his enforced nudity confirmed that he'd be performing with me. And for Ashley, performing with me and punishment could mean only one thing.

"Good boy," I said, admiring his toned ten-year-old body as he stood bare between me and the camera. He was perfect, utterly unblemished but for occasional scars of boyhood scrapes on his knees, shins, and elbows. His nipples were small, brown, and sensitive as natural goosebumps. His penis was perfectly formed, curved beautifully down over his floaty little boy balls into a teardrop head, with a pinch of cauliflower-pucker foreskin that thinned gloriously to withdraw over his entire glans to the rim when he was erect. Latest 'health' check-ups had him measure in at 45mm [1¾"] in his curved flaccid state, 8cm dead [3"] with a thick base tapering and sticking out almost straight to meet the flare of an engorged version of that beautiful teardrop tip. Sadly, for now, and throughout this quick punishment shoot, he would remain floppy. Not that he wasn't utterly perfect however he was. Certainly one of my favourite boys to look at, though Daniel would now match him.

"Sir…?" Ashley asked uncertainly, staring between my legs and holding his right elbow in his left hand. I nodded. He slid into a kneel between my knees and set about freeing my now rock-hard and throbbing cock. It was almost easy to forget I'd had Raheem barely half-an-hour earlier.

"Good boy, Ashley. Fish it all out. Your punishment is to suck a dirty willy."

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes again, as if to plead for any other punishment. I felt my heart flutter with compassion, but I nodded for him to pull out my cock and balls and continue. After all, rules are rules, and a little punishment reminder wasn't going to hurt him. Maybe he'd remember to think a little before getting too worked up and showing off around the next set of new boys to join the stable.

"Who was just in here for a session, Ashley?" I asked.

"Raheem," he squeaked, fisting my erection free and grimacing as he found it slippy and sticky on his hand.

"So where has Willy Wonka just been?"

Ashley had pulled my dick down to point at his nose and mouth as his slightly rough little hand worked it slowly back and forth. He immediately began to heave and cough at the scent.

"That's right, Ashley, you know, don't you," I said, stroking his short, black hair. "Willy Wonka has been in Raheem's chocolate factory. And since Raheem is in the bath, it looks like it's up to Ashley to clean him."

Ashley had his eyes squeezed closed. He braced himself with little fake sobs as he pointed the stinky penis back down under his nose, bravely and tentatively sticking out the very tip of his pink tongue to give the tip of my pink-purple glans a taste. He heaved and gagged again, dropping my dick from his hand and bending and curling almost low enough to inhale his own, had he been remotely hard.

"Shh, take it easy, my special boy," I reassured him, stroking his hair again. "Start with the balls. Then lick Mr Willy starting at the bottom. He's not as dirty there and you can get used to the taste easier."

Ashley whined and sobbed to himself again. Screwing his face shut once more, he determinedly set back to work again. He started with my balls, as suggested, bathing them with broad strokes of his tongue, but regularly stopping to stick the whole thing out involuntarily and smack his lips at the unpleasantness of their long, spindly hairs filling his mouth.

"C'mon Ash," I said jovially, trying to chivvy him along, "we've not got all day!"

"Mmnph!" he whined, sticking out his bottom lip in disapproval at the idea of sucking foul cock all day.

"You're right," I smiled. "You wouldn't want to be here all day. That's why you need to start on the shaft."

Ashley groaned, but he got his lips around one side of the base of my dick in gripping and nipping position, and went about working it with his mouth and tongue. He was far from perfect yet, only having been here a few months, but he'd learned a lot so far. He cleaned a fair patch of the grease – and, in fairness, the worst of the taste was the frothed-up lube mixed with vague rectum tang, rather than shit – but suddenly reared clear for air, coughing and letting a huge string of thick spit begin to dribble from his bottom lip.

"Eat that right back up," I said. "You know the rule. No spitting. Swallow unless you're specifically told not to."

"Uuu-oooh," he groaned, forcing the viscous saliva back into his mouth with an index finger.

"Suck on the end now," I said. "Just try the head for a little bit."

Ashley etched a portrait of miserable, reluctant, disgusted resignation across his cute, cheeky little face, and took my dick in his opposite hand this time, eyes closed again. He opened wide and engulfed the tip. He immediately began to gag and heave on it, even as it barely touched the middle of his tongue. This was the worst part. My foreskin had caught and trapped all sorts of goop and flavour. My stale ejaculate, congealed lumps of lube, boy ass slime, and undoubtedly lumps of sticky, honeylike rectal shit.

Ashley couldn't take much before he fought his reflexes no more and pulled clear, heaves and retches threatening to expel his breakfast. He panted, his body carrying a sheen of sweat, and sobbed heavily to himself.

"Good boy, Ash," I cooed. "That's my boy. You did so well! You took your punishment just like a big boy! Come on, hop up on the bed."

I think we both knew I was calling it early. Ashley had more than earned a break.

"Wait there a sec, mate."

I got up and barged into the bathroom. Raheem was just standing up to get out. I motioned to him to carry on and ignore me, grabbing a clean flannel and quickly soaping it up before returning to my bedroom. Ashley was sat on the bed, panting and rubbing his eyes with one fist and his lips with the back of the other.

"Show me your face," I said. He moved his hands and lifted his face to me, closing his eyes again. I washed it for him with the soapy flannel, then handed the cloth over to him. "Clean Willy Wonka," I said. "Make it feel nice for him."

Ashley did. Slowly. Sensuously. After everything, he rewarded me in return for cutting short his awfully harsh punishment, giving the best soapy flannel hand job a ten-year-old boy could rise to. He even let out a weak smile as I began to rub and tickle at his belly, then play with his limp little brown worm.

"Willy Junior doesn't want to come out and play," I pouted. Ashley gave another weak smirk, despite himself. I tickled around his belly button and abs, where a little perfect crease had formed, circumnavigating the pivot where he leaned in to work my dick with his warm, moist cloth.

"Stop!" he giggled, showing his teeth. Success! "I can't do it right when you do that!"

"Wriggle up," I instructed, beginning to manhandle and drag him into position for a sixty-nine. "I'll give you a thank-you suck while you finish washing. Do the balls and inside my legs, then even do the crack if you're finished with that, okay?"

Ashley didn't answer. He got on with his sensuous task and allowed me to inhale his floppy little dink from underneath and behind while he worked. I soon had him hard at last. I practise a lot, after all.

Ashley was wiping my arse with the soapy flannel with reverent thanks as I pushed him to his crashing dry cum, taking in every last tiny spark of flavour from his pink-red glans I'd worked to fully expose to my tongue. When he dropped his rag and began to wriggle and fidget with post-orgasmic discomfort, I spat it out and feathered his genitals with little kisses a while before hoisting him with fatherly ease into the air and then down onto the bed on his naked bottom with a little bounce. I was still furiously hard.

"Wank it into your mouth," I ordered, pointing at my now spotless penis.

"Do you haff to shoot off in me," Ashley whined.

"Ashley," I warned. "Do as you're told, or we'll be back to punishment."

"Fine," he sighed heavily, hopping and bouncing into place between my legs. I lasted about two minutes of his two-handed jacking against his velvet-soft bottom lip, my foreskin tapping against it and rolling over it occasionally, his tongue-tip darting and teasing at my cock hole. When I came with an "uh!" Ashley didn't have to be held down or told what to do. He just sighed heavily to himself again, letting his shoulders slump, and surrounded the end of my dick with his lips, allowing my volleys of brinewater semen to inundate every surface of his mouth: teeth, palette, tongue, the backs of his lips, the corners of his throat…

"Aaaaaa!" he said, mouth wide, as he'd been trained to do in this scenario.

I took my dick clear, causing a dribble to stick to his chin.

"Go right to the camera and open wide," I instructed. He did as he was told. "Swirl your tongue around, touching your teeth. Right…? Good. Now swallow. Same again twice for the camera until you can show it's all gone. Very good boy, Ashley."

Chapter 8
Section 2.b.i: Concerning Sunday habits

There's always some initial trauma that boys have to face before truly being broken in. Carwyn, to his credit, seemed to have recovered quickly from his little outburst, and was agreeably contrite in the aftermath of his punishment. The other boys seemed to have gotten over it pretty quickly too, though I was still convinced that Daniel would take a long time to fully adjust and having Carwyn behaving stupidly and receiving punishments was unlikely to help matters.

Carwyn was fairly sweaty after all the tidying he'd done as the restorative part of his punishment, and I was minded to send him for a shower. Of course, that would require sending Daniel for a shower too, since they were paired. It was a bridge the two of them would have to cross at some point this evening, but pushing Daniel in particular early was hardly ideal. Realising that I needed to sort out Evan and turn out his first client gave me time to consider the matter a little longer. Carwyn instead took the opportunity to have a shit, which was probably also a good thing all round.

I sent Evan's first client away with his digital copy of the raw video footage from the bedroom, which of course made the whole liaison all legal and above-board. It was obvious that Evan was also in dire need of a wash after two hours of hard work. His next client wasn't due until mid-afternoon, so I sent him to shower in my bathroom in the meantime, knowing of course that a second enema would follow to help clean out his pussy of anything left behind from session one. He didn't seem particularly perturbed by the work he'd just done – he was a professional by now, after all – but he was still sweaty, dirty, and sex-smelly.

To Be Continued