David Clarke

The White Rat

Chapters 5-8

Chapter Five

In this chapter Fielding's sex education continues, and he takes the opportunity to put it into practice as soon as he can. Meanwhile David is still finding new ways to make Osterley's life a misery. But Osterley's friend Little Collins is still doing his best to cheer him up, and he knows something that David doesn't…

When Fielding got on the bus on Monday morning Stephens was already aboard, looking very unhappy. Fielding smiled to himself and went and sat next to him.

"Please!" begged Stephens, before Fielding had even managed to settle into his seat, "you've got to take it off! It's killing me!"

"I don't think I've 'got' to do anything," replied Fielding. "After all, if you didn't keep playing with yourself you wouldn't be wearing it, would you? So there's no point in blaming me."

"Alright, but can't you take it off? Please? I got hardly any sleep last night: it was really digging in, and I often seem to get hard in bed… in the end I had to get up and stare out of the window to try to take my mind off it."

"Sorry, Stephens, but you're going to have to keep it on until you learn to behave like a normal, decent boy instead of a pervert. Oh, and by the way: I'm not carrying the key on me – it's at home. So there's no point in grabbing me and trying to find it. I'll probably bring the spare key into school later in the week, but you won't know which day or where I'll hide it at school – because it certainly won't be in my desk or my bag. So don't get any clever ideas: if you attack me, or try to find the key, I'll chuck both keys away and you'll be stuck like that permanently – unless you want to try finding a locksmith who won't die laughing when you ask him to try getting it off for you…"

Stephens' shoulders slumped: he had indeed been thinking of grabbing Fielding and searching him until he found the key. Now he knew he couldn't do that.

In fact the key was on a chain round Fielding's neck, though he knew it would be too dangerous to keep it there: sooner or later Stephens would probably get desperate enough to attack him, and he would have to find somewhere safe to keep the key before that happened.

He decided that he was going to have fun with Stephens at the weekend, and even more fun with him during the Easter holidays, which were now only two weeks away: he wondered how long it would take Stephens to learn how to suck a nice hard thingy. Not long, Fielding supposed, if the consequence of not getting it right was going to be no release from the chain for a month or so…

But at break he discovered there were other things you could do to someone in Stephens' position, things that were even more fun that getting sucked. At the start of break he went looking for Villiers-Gore, but couldn't find him, so he went to Garrett's study to see if he was there. He wasn't, but Garrett invited him in anyway.

"I'm glad you're here," said Garrett. "This will probably interest you – I get the impression you're enjoying trying out sex punishments on our bad boys. Been having fun with Larkin, have you?"

Fielding nodded happily.

"Thought so. You don't mind if we borrow him now and again, I hope? See, there are three or four of the other prefects who I've told about our collection of girlies, and they want to join in. Of course, I had to be careful who I told: not every one of them would approve. But the ones who are interested are very interested, as you'll see in a minute.

"For some reason, Villiers-Gore doesn't seem to want to join in. Maybe he's got religious reasons for staying away from sex – I mean, he does seem very keen on punishing the evildoers among us, so he could be a religious type. Or maybe he only likes girls and doesn't want to do stuff with boys, though I've never seen a good reason not to take whatever is available, myself. Anyway, he's not interested, but I get the impression you are."

"You bet! I love making Larkin suck on it for me!"

"I thought so. So I've told the other prefects that you're allowed to watch if they're doing anything with Patty or the others – you've got to learn how somehow, haven't you? And then maybe you'll want to try for yourself, though you'll be allowed to do it without an audience – unless you want one, of course."

There was a knock at the door and one of the other prefects came in. Fielding had seen him about the school, but he didn't know his name.

"OK, Atchison, she's all yours," said Garrett, waving at Pattison, who was dusting the bookcase. "I'll leave you to it. Young Jordan's going to stay and learn from you, so give him a good lesson!" And Garrett stood up and went out.

"Come on then, Patty, over the desk," said Atchison, undoing his belt.

Reluctantly Pattison came and lay across Garrett's desk, lifting his skirt out of the way. Atchison dropped his trousers and pants, revealing an eagerly-erect organ which, though not quite as big as Garrett's, certainly looked big enough to Fielding.

The prefect pulled a jar from his blazer pocket, unscrewed it and scooped out a dollop of some cream-coloured goo.

"What's that?" asked Fielding, as Atchison started rubbing it into his erection.

"Vaseline," the prefect told him. "You have to use something to make it slippery, or you'll never get it in."

"In where?"

"In his arse, of course. Like this."

Atchison lined himself up and shoved, and Pattison squealed as he was penetrated, and then cried out again as the stiff penis was pushed further in.

"Why are you doing that?" asked Fielding.

"Because it feels fucking amazing."

"Yes, but don't you get… you know, shit on you?"

"Not really. And it cleans off easily if there is any. Now shut up and watch this."

And Atchison gave Pattison a good, hard shag, grunting as he thrust, while Pattison squealed and wriggled and begged vainly for him to stop. Fielding watched in fascination. Obviously Pattison was hating every minute, which Fielding thought was an excellent reason for doing it, and similarly Atchison gave the impression that it felt brilliant, which would be another definite plus point. Fielding decided that he was going to try this out for himself, with either Larkin or Stephens – or maybe both of them…

Atchison climaxed with a cry, and thirty seconds later he withdrew, wiped himself down with some tissues from the box on Garrett's desk, pulled up his trousers and went out, leaving Pattison sobbing over the desk.

"Are you going to do it now?" asked Pattison, trying to pull himself together.

"I don't think so," said Fielding. "There isn't time before the end of break. You can get back to work."

Pattison reached for a tissue to clean himself up with and then obediently stood up, pulled his skirt back into place, and got on with the dusting. Yes, thought Fielding, letting himself out of the study, I'm definitely going to try that…

The reason that he had been unable to find David at the start of break was because David was on a mission of his own. As soon as the bell went for the start of break he made his way straight to the second form block and found Pope.

"It wasn't me!" was Pope's greeting as soon as he saw David heading his way.

"Relax," said David. "I don't care if it was you or not, or what it was that you didn't do. I just thought you might like to hear a bit of news. It's about our friend Osterley. I think maybe you and your mates should go and see if you can find him – you'll find there's been a change to his uniform. And when you catch up with him, check his pockets, okay?"

David grinned at him and left the room, and Pope decided that this would definitely be worth checking out: humiliating the third former had been brilliant fun, and holding him down while Little Collins tossed him off had been the best entertainment he'd had for ages. So he collected his closest friends – all except Little Collins, who was missing, yet again – and they headed out into the yard to look for Osterley.

Osterley had a problem: he hadn't dared disobey David over the shorts, because he'd been stitched up once and he knew that David was perfectly capable of doing it again, and next time he could well end up being expelled. So he'd been forced to turn up for school wearing these very short shorts and long socks. This meant that he could no longer spend the breaks hiding in his own form room, because his own class-mates had been giving him a really hard time about it from the moment he appeared at the start of the day. Consequently he had to try to sneak his way to the music block without being seen, but it had taken him so long to pluck up the courage to head out into the open yard that by the time he left the third-year block Pope and his friends were already on the prowl. They saw him before he saw them, and by the time he realised they were heading his way it was almost too late.

He broke into a run, heading for the music block and hoping that he could get inside one of the practice rooms and block the door with the table, as he and Little Collins had done before, but they caught up with him just before he got there. He realised that he was now out of sight of the main school building, which meant that he was unlikely to be seen and rescued by a teacher.

"Nice shorts!" commented Pope, as two of his friends held Osterley by the arms. "They make you look really grown up… or maybe not. Let's have a closer look."

Osterley struggled and shouted, but it didn't do him any good: the second formers held him still while Pope slipped a hand into the left-hand pocket… and found that there wasn't a pocket there: the whole pocket had been cut out. And Osterley wasn't wearing any underpants either, which meant that Pope found himself holding, not the contents of Osterley's pocket, but Osterley's genitals. Pope gave a whoop of delight.

"Try the other pocket," he invited one of his friends, and the other boy slipped his hand in and found himself holding hands with Pope. They grinned at each other and set to work molesting the prisoner, groping him painfully for a minute or so and then allowing two of the others to have a go. Osterley struggled, sobbing, but there was nothing he could do, and he had to stand there and allow himself to be interfered with as much as the second years wanted.

David had been busy carrying the Good News to 1C, who he reckoned were most likely to make best use of the knowledge – certainly they had given Osterley the most hostile reception on his blackboard-washing pilgrimage – and so he only caught up with Pope's legion while the second pair of boys was at work, though when he did find them he kept his distance, not wanting to put them off. He leaned on the wall smiling and enjoying Osterley's tears and vain pleas for them to stop.

Little Collins had been waiting by the music block, but when he heard the noise he came to investigate. His heart sank when he saw Osterley surrounded by a scrum of his class-mates.

"Hey, BC, come and look at this!" shouted Pope, spotting him, and the knot of boys opened enough for Little Collins to make his way to Osterley's side. He could see that his friend was crying, but didn't know what he could do to stop this.

"Put your hand in his pocket," invited Pope, so Little Collins did so, and found himself holding Osterley's partially-erect penis. He let go smartly.

"Come on, you lot, let him go," he said.

"What the hell for?" asked Pope. "This is magic! Are you turning soft, or something?"

"No, I was just thinking with all the noise you're making, sooner or later a prefect's going to come to investigate – or maybe a teacher – and then we'd all get in trouble. I could hear you from way over there."

"Oh, I see. Sorry," said Pope. "I didn't think you'd wimped out… maybe you're right. Come on, then, you lot – we can always catch up with him again later."

The second-formers dispersed, heading back towards their own block and talking happily amongst themselves. Pope saw David and came over to speak to him.

"Thank for the tip," he said. "I like the pockets. That was a brilliant idea."

"Did you find the missing stitches in the back seam?" asked David.

"No – I was too busy checking the pockets."

"Well, next time try looking here," and David turned round and indicated the seam at the back of his own trousers. "You'll find some of the stitches have been removed, which means that if you were to push anything through the hole – a pen or a candle, something like that – you could probably shove it right up his bum without having to take his shorts off first. Give it a try next time."

"You bet!" cried Pope, excitedly. "Thanks!" And he ran off to catch up with his friends.

Meanwhile Little Collins had managed to pull Osterley into the nearest empty classroom and was trying to calm him down, hugging him and stroking his hair in a way that he would never have dared do in other circumstances. He almost kissed him, but managed to stop himself in the nick of time: he was sure Osterley would never speak to him again if he did that.

Osterley finally managed to pull himself together. "Thanks," he sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I couldn't have stood any more of that – I think I'd have gone mad, or something."

"No, you wouldn't. And I'm sorry I didn't get there quicker."

"I don't think you could have stopped them. They were too excited – it was only because almost everyone had had a go that you managed to talk then into stopping this time. But… I won't let them do that to me again, I swear. I'd sooner go to see Mr Weston and risk getting expelled."

"No, you wouldn't. I mean, it's only for another week and a half."

"No, it isn't: they're not going to leave me alone next term. I mean, why should they? This is going to go on and on for ever…"

"No, it isn't. After Easter it'll all be over."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I know something you don't. And I bet Villiers-Gore doesn't know about it, either, which means we might be able to do something about him next term."

"What are you talking about?"

"I need to talk to my brother first, just to make absolutely sure. In the meantime, you'll have to trust me, Ian. There's the bell – we'd better go. See if you can get out of class five minutes before the lunch break starts – maybe then you can get to the music block before they catch you."

And in the event this worked: Osterley was able to persuade the teacher of his last lesson of the morning to let him leave just before the bell went, on the grounds that he had been told to report to Garrett's study right at the start of break. He didn't think it would work more than once, but this time it did, and he was able to spend the lunch break happily playing cards with Little Collins. Not that hiding out with Little Collins meant that he managed to escape molestation, however…

"Let's play strip pontoon again," challenged Little Collins, shuffling his cards. "Maybe I can get revenge for last time."

"And maybe you'll just lose again," said Osterley. "Still, if you insist on looking silly, let's play."

So they played, and this time it was a close game: had it not been for the fact that Osterley didn't have any underpants on he might have won, because Little Collins was down to his own pants by the time Osterley lost his shorts. Nonetheless, he started to undo them without protest, but Little Collins stopped him.

"Let me do that," he offered, and came and stood behind his friend. But instead of undoing the shorts he slipped his hands into the pockets – or rather, where the pockets should have been – and started to play with what he found there.

This felt totally different to Osterley from what had been done to him at break: to start with, nobody was laughing at him. And Little Collins was handling him gently, instead of apparently trying to wrench it right off, as Pope had done. It felt really nice, and almost at once he started to harden in Little Collins's hand. He gave a groan and reached behind his back, slipping his hand into Little Collins's pants and fondling the stiff little item he found there.

"I knew you liked doing this," said Little Collins, finally undoing Osterley's shorts and letting them fall to his ankles. "Lie on the table, then."

"Not unless you take your pants off."

"Why? I won the game."

"Yes, but I'm older than you and so you should respect me – and you won't do that if you're covered up and I'm not."

"I should respect you, should I? Looks to me like you're the little boy wearing shorts, and I'm the big boy wearing longs. I reckon I should be allowed to put all my clothes back on, and then you should call me 'Sir'."

"Sir? I don't think so. 'Sir Bert' sounds silly, don't you think? Anyway, the shorts weren't exactly my idea, were they?"

"No, but since you're wearing them you should behave like a first year. So do what you're told, or I'll have to spank you."

"Oh, please, try it and see what happens," invited Osterley, grinning at him. But he got onto the table anyway, lying down on his back.

Little Collins immediately removed his pants and came and sat on the edge of the table next to him.

"See?" he said, taking hold once more. "I don't mind joining in, as long as you do what you're told. You still haven't called me 'Sir' yet, though. Don't you think you should?"

He squeezed hard and twisted, and Osterley squealed and cried, "Okay, okay – I'll call you 'Sir' if you really want me to!"

"I thought you might change your mind," said Little Collins, stroking it nicely once more.

"I still think 'Sir Bert' sounds silly, though," said Osterley, reaching out and taking hold in turn. "I'd prefer to call you just Bert, or Bertie."

"OK – just don't forget who's got the long trousers."

"I seem to recall you offered to turn up in shorts yourself," Osterley pointed out. "Strangely, I'm starting to think that might be a good idea…"

"Too late, I've changed my mind."

"Surprise, surprise. Maybe I should invite you to come round to my place at the weekend, then – that way I'll be back in long trousers, and you'll have to respect me."

"Would you really like me to come round?" asked Little Collins, stopping what he was doing and looking Osterley in the face. "I'd really like that."

"Okay. Saturday morning?"

"Great! Except… I really like you in those shorts, Ian: could you wear them on Saturday for me, please? I'll wear shorts myself to come and visit if you do, I promise."

"Well… okay, then – as long as we're not going anywhere in public."

"Brilliant!" Little Collins resumed work, and Osterley relaxed and enjoyed it, idly fondling his friend's tiny erection at the same time.

Slowly Osterley's excitement grew, until finally he gave a gasp and tensed up, and a couple of spurts of his almost colourless ejaculate emerged and ran down over Little Collins's fingers.

"I really hope that felt nicer than the last time I did that to you," said Little Collins, pulling out his handkerchief. He wiped his fingers and then used it to blot up the liquid on his friend's softening penis and to wipe the little hairs at the base of it.

"It was a hundred times better," said Osterley, standing up and pulling his shorts on. "You do that really well. Did your brother teach you?"

"God, no. My brother's only ever been interested in girls. No, I just sort of worked it out for myself. It's a bit different doing it to someone else, though – yours is bigger than mine, for a start."

"Yes, but I'm older than you, so it's bound to be bigger. So – lie down and I'll do it to you."

"Would you really? Thanks – it felt brilliant last time."

Little Collins positioned himself on the table and Osterley rubbed it for him, and afterwards they got dressed and waited the five minutes or so before the bell went: Osterley didn't want to risk being seen in the yard until break was over.

He got through Tuesday unmolested. One of Pope's friends spotted him as he walked into school early that morning, but he was on his own and showed no inclination to tackle the older boy unassisted, so Osterley made it to his form room safely. At break he put up with the teasing of his own classmates, which he was sure would be easier to withstand than another Pope assault would have been, and at lunchtime he took advantage of the fact that the last lesson before lunch was music, which meant that he was able to get into the usual practice room without crossing the yard. Little Collins joined him five minutes later, and they spent the break advancing Little Collins's limited understanding of the game of chess.

Things were different on Wednesday, however: the moment he set foot inside the gates on Wednesday morning he was grabbed by half a dozen second years. Too late he realised that the boy he had seen the previous morning had simply been a spy, checking on what time he arrived and which gate he used: no doubt other boys had been watching the other gates.

They dragged him into the nearest empty classroom – the second form block was on the far side of the yard, and they probably thought they'd be spotted and stopped if they tried to take him that far. Once inside they dragged him to the teacher's desk and pushed him down across it, face down. Two of the boys held him there while two others stuck their hands into his pockets and started feeling him up once more, and while they were doing that Pope came round to the other side of the table so that Osterley could see him and held up a long, thin candle.

"I've brought you a present," he announced. "Isn't that kind of me? I'm sure you'll really enjoy it, too."

Osterley hadn't even noticed the hole on the seam, so when Pope pushed the candle through it, it came as a complete shock to him, and when he realised what Pope was trying to do he started struggling wildly. Two more boys came and grabbed his arms, and with four of them holding him down there was nothing he could do. Pope probed with his candle until he found the right spot and then pushed, and Osterley screamed as it forced its way into him.

"Shut him up, someone," ordered Pope, pushing it further in, and one of the boys slapped a hand across Osterley's mouth, muffling his yells.

Osterley struggled and wriggled and tried to call for help, but he was helpless against the combined strength of his captors. And then one of the boys holding his arm squeezed his hand, and when he turned to look he saw that it was Little Collins.

Little Collins had not had any opportunity to warn his friend of what was coming. Pope had simply told his cronies, of whom Little Collins was of course one, that they should get to school early today, and only when they were all there had he explained his intentions. Little Collins knew he'd never talk him out of it, and so he didn't try; instead he went along, hoping for a chance to warn Osterley before he walked into the trap. No such chance had presented itself, so now there was nothing he could do except to try to provide moral support: there were six other second-years there, so fighting was never an option.

Osterley looked at him, barely biting back a cry of "Do something!" – he knew there was nothing Little Collins could do. So he simply squeezed his hand in return, and was shocked – though comforted, too – when he saw a tear trickling down his friend's cheek.

But he soon had other things to think about: Pope kept pushing his candle until only a small amount remained, and then he reached round, undid the shorts and pulled them down, so that his friends could see that about five inches [13 cm] of candle were now inside their victim. They laughed and cheered, encouraging Pope to push the rest in, but instead he took hold of the end of the candle and started to move it in and out.

Osterley found this desperately humiliating, and what made it worse was that it was doing something to his insides: he could feel that he was starting to get an erection. And then one of the other boys grabbed his penis again, and now there was nothing he could do to stop it. Soon he was fully erect.

"Hey, poof boy likes it," said the boy who was holding it. "He's gone all hard again."

"I knew he was queer," said Pope, shoving the candle in once more. "He probably wishes this was his boyfriend."

"Let's strip him naked!" cried one of the others, excitedly, and a chorus of agreement greeted him.

They flipped Osterley over, laughing at his excited state, and pulled the rest of his clothes off, and then held him on his back across the teacher's desk while they took it in turns to play with his genitals and to push the candle in and out.

"Go on, then, BC," said Pope, "See if you can make him spurt again."

"Oh… well… doesn't anyone else want a go?" asked Little Collins, who had managed to wipe the tear away before anyone else saw it.

"What's the matter?" asked Osterley, doing his best to sound scornful. "Scared you won't be able to do it again?"

Little Collins took that, rightly, as a message that his friend didn't want anyone else doing it to him, so he pushed his way to the side of the table, took hold of Osterley's erection, and started to rub.

"I'll make you wet in no time," he said. "You're going to look so funny…"

He didn't dare smile or even look at his friend in case he gave himself away, so he concentrated on what he was doing, trying to get it done as quickly as possible so that Osterley wouldn't have to suffer for longer than necessary.

Osterley closed his eyes, trying to shut out the audience, but it was almost impossible: they kept taunting him, and one of them was working on him with the candle (which felt strange, but it didn't hurt any more and in a way it was almost nice) while another was pinching his nipples (which didn't feel nice at all). Nonetheless, he could feel the moment rushing towards him, and although he tried to hold it back he found that he couldn't. He begged and pleaded for them to leave him alone, but they just mocked and taunted him, and then the moment arrived. He bucked and spurted into the air, and the second-years jeered and laughed. Little Collins held on until the ejaculation had finished and then let go, pulling his handkerchief out once more, and Pope scooped up most of what was left on his index finger.

"Dirty boy!" he said, sticking it in front of Osterley's face. "Only total queers let their stuff come out in front of other boys. You're disgusting, Osterley."

He forced the finger between Osterley's lips, smearing the liquid onto them.

"Okay," he said, pulling the candle from Osterley's bottom and wiping it on a tissue, "let the queer go. For now, anyway. Maybe we'll come and see you again at lunchtime, bender-boy."

The second formers went, and Little Collins had to go with them: he knew if Pope found out how he felt about Osterley, he'd be on the receiving end too next time. Osterley was left lying on the desk, naked, his bottom feeling sore, a strange taste in his mouth and his penis limp, spent and wet, too. He pulled himself to his feet and somehow managed to get dressed, though he stayed in the room until two minutes before registration, just in case there was a second-year ambush outside.

He didn't dare leave his form room at break, and at lunch time Little Collins waited for him at the music block in vain. Instead he hung about outside the third form block at the end of school, when he was able to intercept his friend as he made a beeline for the school gates.

"Are you OK?" he asked. "I'm really sorry, Ian. I couldn't stop them – Pope said that the Rat had told him about the shorts, and there's no way I could talk him out of making the most of it."

"It's not your fault. And if anyone's going to do that to me, I'd prefer it to be you rather than anyone else. But… I really don't think I can handle another session like that. I'm going to see if my mum will let me stay at home tomorrow. Bet she won't, though: both my parents work, and they won't let me stay at home on my own. One of them would have to take the day off, and I'd have to be dying before I could convince them to do that."

"Use a different gate tomorrow – and see if you can get here even earlier," advised Little Collins. "That way they won't be able to ambush you. Or wait in town as long as you can and only get to school just before the bell goes."

"I'll probably try that. I'll have to stay in my own room at break and lunchtime, too – sorry, Bertie, but I don't think I can risk trying to get to the music block again, except on Tuesdays, when we have music."

"That's okay. We'll have to play at the weekend instead…"

On Tuesday Fielding had been able to watch another of the prefects giving Patty a really good seeing to, and he was determined to try that for himself. He'd said as much to Garrett, too, and as a result Garrett had found him on the Wednesday morning before the start of lessons and handed him a small jar of Vaseline.

"Here's a little present," he said. "Go and have fun with it – and I'd like to hear about it afterwards, if it all goes well."

"Thanks," said Fielding. "I'll try it out on Larkin."

"Go for it," encouraged Garrett, grinning at him.

Fielding decided to wait until lunchtime to try putting it into Larkin's bum: the mid-morning break wasn't really long enough. But he didn't want Larkin to think he was being ignored, so at the start of morning break he collared the unfortunate fourth-former and ordered him to report to 1C's form room.

As Fielding had hoped, the appearance in their form room of a fourth-former in shorts drew an enthusiastic reception. Fielding let them laugh and jeer for a couple of minutes and then held his hands up for silence.

"I thought it would be nice if we didn't have to waste half the break queuing up for the tuck shop in future," he said, "so I've found us a slave. Larkin's going to go for us. So, tell him what you want and he'll go and get it for you. You'll have to pay, I'm afraid: I don't suppose he can afford to buy stuff for everyone every day… Okay, if you want anything, come and give him the money. Larkin, you'd better not mess this up, or you'll be in big trouble. You can start with me: I want a Mars Bar. Here's the money. Who's next?"

Several of his classmates crowded round, thrusting money and orders at the slave, and Larkin stuck the money in his pocket and tried to remember what had been ordered. Belatedly he thought of writing it down, but by then most of the orders had been given, and the first-formers refused to tell him their requirements twice.

He ran off to the school tuck shop. He'd been avoiding it this week because he had been afraid of what would happen in a boy of his age went somewhere as public as the shop in shorts, and he'd been right: he was taunted and teased, and his legs were stroked and his bum squeezed and a couple of kids tried groping his balls. Eventually he got to the front of the queue and asked for what he hoped was the right collection of confectionary, and then he stuffed everything in his pockets and ran back to the first form block, trying to close his ears to the comments that chased him all the way.

Of course the order was not as it should have been: three-quarters of the boys got what they had asked for, but the remaining four were dissatisfied: he had forgotten two items altogether, and the other two didn't get what they had ordered. And there were problems with the change, too: by the time he had given everyone back what they said he owed them he had used up most of his own money as well.

"You're useless," Fielding told him. "You'll have to be punished, and then maybe next time you'll be more careful. Take off your blazer and… no, let's do it properly: take everything off."

"No! Not here, Fielding, please!" begged Larkin, looking at him in horror.

"You know the rules: you have to do what I tell you. If you hadn't messed up at the shop you'd be walking out of here by now, so it's your own fault. Now strip, or I'll go and talk to Garrett."

Larkin looked around at the circle of grinning faces and almost started crying: this was the most humiliating thing he had ever been asked to do. What Fielding did to him in the drama store was at least totally private, and what he and Baker had been forced to do in Garrett's study was at least in front of a small audience. But now he was going to be beaten, stark naked, in front of at least twenty eleven-year-old boys.

Slowly he stripped, hoping that the bell would save him. But the end of break was a good five minutes away, and he had to take his pants off (he and Baker were still wearing pants, mainly because David's attention was entirely on Osterley at the moment, and he hadn't yet thought to alter the shorts of his other victims) long before the end of break.

"Show them, then," ordered Fielding. "Stand on the desk and put your hands on your head."

Stifling a sob Larkin climbed onto the desk, put his hands on his head and closed his eyes, but he could still hear the taunts, the dirty comments and the laughter. Fielding made him stand there for a minute or so and then ordered him to get down and bend over the desk, which he did. Fielding picked up Larkin's own belt, doubled it over and hit the older boy's bum as hard as he could. Larkin squealed and tried to cover his bum with his hand, so Fielding told a couple of his classmates to hold him down, and then hit him twice more.

"OK, now whose orders did he get wrong?" he asked. "Derek, I know he forgot yours – give him a couple of good ones."

So Derek took the belt and used it happily, and then passed it on. All four boys whose orders had been wrong leathered the older boy happily, and Larkin was crying openly by the time they had finished. Fielding forced him to stand up and put his hands on his head again, and the whole class stared happily at this fourteen-year-old with a red bum and tears and snot all over his face.

"Okay, get dressed and get lost," ordered Fielding, when he judged that everyone had been able to get a really good look. "But from now until the end of term you have to come here every morning break and do our shopping for us. And every time you mess up you'll get beaten, okay? Oh, and I want to see you at lunchtime. You know where."

Larkin pulled his clothes back on and ran off, still crying, as much from shame as from the pain in his buttocks. And things didn't get any better for him at lunchtime; either.

He met Fielding at the drama store at the start of the lunch break and as usual he was ordered to strip. But then, instead of being told to kneel down and open his mouth, he was told to bend over the scenery.

"Please don't beat me again," he begged.

"Don't worry, I won't," Fielding assured him. "Or not yet, anyway. Keep still."

He pulled his shorts and pants down, rubbed some Vaseline into his already stiff cock and tried to line up, but he couldn't reach. He had to remove some of the scenery to lower the pile and then try again, and this time he found he was at the correct level.

"What are you doing?" asked Larkin when he felt something pressing at his bum.

"Keep still and you'll find out," ordered Fielding, pressing forward, but instead of going in it slipped up and into the cleft between Larkin's buttocks. Fielding swore under his breath and tried again, with the same result.

By now, of course, Larkin had realised what he was trying to do, and he stood up and backed away.

"No!" he said, shaking his head. "You can't do that – it's disgusting!"

"If you'd prefer, we can do it in the form room with a nice big audience," offered Fielding. "But it's going to happen somewhere. And you'd probably better let me do it first, because I'm pretty sure Garrett and some of the other prefects will be doing it to you later, and they're a lot bigger than me."

"They wouldn't!"

"They would – I've already watched two of them doing it to Patty, so you'd better get used to the idea."

"But… it's horrible, Fielding!"

"I don't think so – I think it's probably fun. So bend over and we'll find out – or get dressed and we'll go and talk to Garrett. It's your choice."

Larkin thought about it. The problem was that he believed Fielding when he said that Garrett would want to do it to him – and Fielding was right: if this had to happen, it would be better if a smaller boy did it to him first. So he took a deep breath and bent over the scenery once more.

"Okay, now you know what we're doing you can help me a bit," said Fielding. "Spread your legs and hold your bum open."

Reluctantly Larkin did as he was told, taking hold of his buttocks and pulling them outwards; and now that Fielding could see the target properly he was able to line up and push it in fairly easily. Larkin gave a gasp: it felt strange, but not really painful, because Fielding's penis, though quite long, wasn't very thick. Fielding pushed it in as far as he could and told Larkin to let go of his bum and relax, and then he did his best to imitate what Atchison had done to Patty.

He quickly discovered that this felt really nice. He wondered if he would be able to do this if Larkin was fighting against it – if, for example, he was being held down in this position over the teacher's desk on 1C's form room – so he told Larkin to try to force it out of his bum, but without moving his hands or feet. Larkin squeezed and pushed, and Fielding gave a gasp, and then started to push back. And this felt amazing: the pressure on his penis made him feel incredible.

"Okay," he said, "you're allowed to keep doing that, and if you manage to make it come right out, I'll stop and let you go."

Larkin rose to the challenge, doing his best to expel the younger boy, and Fielding thrust against him, his penis squeezed to perfection, and in no time at all he felt the big moment approaching. He shoved forward as hard as he could and cried out as he finally lost control.

"Okay, you can stop pushing," he said, as soon as he could speak normally. "I'll take it out now. Stay where you are – no, go and find that old shirt: I'm going to need something to wipe myself with."

He pulled out and Larkin went and retrieved the shirt, which didn't smell too good by now. Fielding told him to tear off one of the sleeves which, with a lot of effort, Larkin did. Fielding cleaned himself up and handed the sleeve to Larkin.

"Wipe your bum, then you can get dressed and go. You'd better take the shirt with you and stick it in a bin. I'll see you tomorrow morning at break in our form room. Don't be late."

Fielding got dressed and left Larkin to do the tidying up. There was still ten minutes left before the bell, so he headed over to Garrett's study to see if he could find David: he wanted to tell him how much fun he had been having with Larkin.

The door was shut when he arrived, so he knocked. A voice from inside asked "Who is it?" and he replied, "It's Jordan Fielding."

"Are you on your own?"

"Yes – why?"

"Hold on a minute."

Ten seconds later the door was unlocked and Garrett beckoned him inside.

"We're just having a bit of fun with Patty," he said. "Come and watch."

Fielding saw that Pattison was once more laying across the desk, and Atchison was once more fucking him, but this time the chambermaid was doubly occupied: Garrett dropped his trousers once more and stood in front of Pattison's head, and Patty obediently started sucking him.

"Wow!" breathed Fielding. "Two at once – that's a brilliant idea!"

"You can take over from me, if you like," invited Garrett.

"No, thanks – I've just… you know, done it the other way with Larkin, and I don't feel like doing it again right now."

Garrett laughed. "Well done, young Jordan!" he said. "Did you enjoy it?"

"It was brilliant – I'm definitely going to do it again!"

"Good. Okay, just make yourself comfortable and watch – Patty's getting really good at this. We'll have to see if we can get Larkin and Baker to do it this well."

Fielding plonked himself down in the school captain's swivel chair and swung back and forth, watching happily. He'd certainly want to put his willy inside Larkin again, he thought; and he was definitely going to do it to Stephens, too. He'd been letting Stephens get used to his chain for the past couple of days: the older boy had whinged about it again on the bus on Tuesday, but this morning he'd admitted to having slept better. Fielding decided that they were going to spend a big chunk of Saturday together. And he'd been neglecting Baker, too: it wouldn't do to let him think he was getting away with it, he thought. Maybe he'd give Larkin a lunch break off tomorrow and use Baker instead – or maybe he could do stuff to both of them at once…

So Fielding is still having the time of his life, which is more than can be said for Larkin or Osterley, and in the next chapter both of them will find an already unhappy situation getting a lot worse…

Chapter Six

In this chapter, life gets a lot worse for Larkin and Osterley, though Osterley does at least have a friend to try to help him a little…

Of all the boys he had managed to catch so far, David disliked Osterley the most. He didn't like any of them much, of course: Larkin and Baker were perverts: Dhif was the wrong colour; and Sherwood, like Osterley, had disrespected him. The difference was that Sherwood had not done so to his face, whereas Osterley had. And David was honest enough to recognise that he was jealous of Osterley: the boy was extremely good looking, and although he was a year younger than David he was substantially larger in the trouser department. Of course, Sherwood, McMillan and Fielding were also larger than David, and they were only eleven, but that was beside the point. Osterley was the one he wanted to suffer. I'll keep him in shorts all next term, and then at the end of the school year I'll find a way to get him expelled, he decided.

Pope had given him a detailed report of the Wednesday morning ambush, and David had enjoyed every second of it. He was hoping it had worked again this Thursday morning, and he was on his way to look for Pope at the start of morning break when Fielding appeared beside him.

"What are you doing at lunch time?" the first-former asked him.

"I don't know yet. Why?"

"Well… would you like to come and do stuff to Larkin with me? See, Garrett's being showing me some stuff, and I'd like to try it with you."

"What sort of stuff?"

"We take him to the drama store and make him strip and lie across a pile of old scenery, and then you put your willy up his bum and I put mine in his mouth, and we make him give us both good feelings at the same time. What do you think?"

"I don't think so. I don't fancy getting shit all over my knob."

"You don't, not really: it wipes off with the Vaseline. But you can put yours in his mouth if you prefer. I just thought 'cos you're older you might like to do it the best way, that's all."

"No, thanks. I'll leave him to you."

"Oh," said Fielding, looking dismayed. "It's just… well, I really like you, V-G, and I know how brilliant it feels when I do the sex stuff with him, and I'd like to share it. I really like the idea of us both getting that brilliant feeling at the same time – it'd be like we were sharing something really special. Please?"

"Jordan, I can't. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Garrett said he thought maybe you were religious, and that's why you don't like doing sex stuff. Is that it?"

"Religious? Me?! God, no!!"

"Well, is it that you only like girls, then? Do you just not want to do stuff with other boys?"

David was on the point of saying yes – after all, basically it was true: he certainly wasn't a pervert like Larkin. But he was really starting to like Fielding and didn't want to lie to him. It was strange: David didn't really do friendship – he was perfectly happy on his own. And furthermore, Fielding hadn't even been to a prep school – he was just one of the ordinary boys who had passed the eleven plus, so David wouldn't have considered him a social equal. All the same, he liked the boy's enthusiasm for their shared aim of punishing rule-breakers. He had no experience of being brought to orgasm in another person's mouth, or other orifice – his only sexual experience was through masturbation – but he got the impression from Garrett that it felt a lot better than a simple DIY job, and that made this offer something special.

"Can I trust you, Jordan?" he asked.

"Of course you can!"

"Well… I'd really like to try doing it with you, but… see, I haven't reached puberty yet, and my cock is small – I mean really small. Stiff, it's about half the size of yours. So I never let anyone else see it, or they'd take the piss for ever. So I can't let any of them see it, and especially not Larkin, because he's in my form. No matter what I threatened him with, he'd be sure to make sure the rest of the class found out about it, and I can't risk that. So thanks for asking me, but I can't. Okay?"

"Yes. I can understand that, V-G – and I swear I won't tell anyone. It's a pity, though – I'd really like to watch you finding out how nice it feels. Oh, well… You can still come and watch me doing stuff to him, if you want."

"Thanks, but I'd rather go and watch Osterley being dealt with by Pope and his friends – or perhaps I'll try keeping an eye on Dhif, just in case he steps out of line. Somehow I'm going to find something I can pin on him by the end of term: this is a decent school, Jordan, and it shouldn't be polluted by having a nigger in it."

He turned and walked off, which was just as well because it meant he didn't see the shocked expression on Fielding's face: he hadn't realised that David was a racist. For his own part, Fielding wasn't really bothered about race – after all, there were only a couple of non-white boys in the school, and neither was in his year, so he had no contact with them. But David obviously felt strongly about it – strongly enough to go looking for "something to pin on him."

Fielding wondered about that bottle of cider. Dhif had sworn he was innocent: was it possible that David had actually planted it on him to try to get him expelled? Fielding wasn't sure he liked that idea: he had no problem with punishing bad boys – in fact he loved being allowed to beat them and do sex punishments on them. But what if they really hadn't done anything wrong? Well, again on one level it was okay with him, if it gave him another boy to punish; but it was worrying, too, because if it could happen to Dhif, it could happen to anyone – including himself, if he and David fell out in the future – and that was a scary thought. He wandered back to his form room, thinking about it.

By the time he got there Larkin had already been and collected the tuck shop order. Today he had brought a small notebook and had carefully written down everybody's order, noting how much money they had given him, so when he came back ten minutes later nobody could complain that they had been short-changed or given the wrong chocolate.

"I suppose we can't beat you today, then," said Fielding. "I'm not sure we should allow you to use that book, though: you should learn to remember stuff. Anyway, instead of getting beaten you can just go and stand in the corner facing the room for the rest of break – oh, and with your shorts and pants round your ankles, too, so we can all see what a big boy you are."

Larkin went and stood in the corner and pulled his shorts and pants down, and then he put his hands on his head in the approved manner and stood trying to ignore the mockery (much of it on the subject of his pink ribbon) until the bell went.

"Lunch time in the usual place," Fielding told him. "I might be a bit late – just wait for me."

"Okay. Look, Fielding – could you please let me have a day off from all this tomorrow? See, it's my birthday…"

"Is it? How old are you going to be?"

"Fifteen."

"Really? Then we'll have to find a good way to celebrate, won't we? Come here at the start of break as usual and I'll tell you what I've decided. Now you'd better run. See you at lunchtime."

Once David had turned his invitation down Fielding had thought of getting Baker to come along at lunch time as well as Larkin, with a view to punishing them both. But the news that the next day would be Larkin's birthday led him to put that idea on hold. Instead he simply met Larkin on his own, stripped him, beat him with his belt and made him suck. It was fun, but Fielding had an idea that the following day would be ten times as entertaining.

By now David had found out that Pope's ambush had failed, but he wasn't too badly put out because he had some more plans up his sleeve.

"Grab him after school," he advised Pope. "The third years have games this afternoon, so you should be able to grab him on his way out of the sports block – by the time he's got changed you'll have had loads of time to get in position. And I don't suppose he'll have too many friends with him: they're all giving him a rough ride about the shorts, and he's trying to steer clear. Besides, I think I can get you some reinforcements."

Next he went to 1C's form room. Fielding wasn't there, because he was busy with Larkin in the drama store, but David spoke to the boy who had led the tormenting of Osterley on his first board-cleaning expedition. His name was Harwood, and he was to 1C what Pope was to 2C.

David explained what Pope was intending to do after school and advised Harwood to get some friends together and tag along – "it should be entertaining," was how he put it. He was unhappy that he wouldn't be able to stay and watch for himself because his taxi was booked, but he was confident that there would be plenty of other opportunities to watch Osterley being utterly humiliated.

Of course, not everyone could stay behind after school: some, like David, had to be home at a certain time, and others had buses to catch. But some had cycled to school, and some lived in walking distance, and some lived on bus routes with buses at regular intervals; so although some boys had to nip out and phone home to say they were going to be late, by the time the third-years started to emerge from the sports block Pope and Harwood had a good sized army between them.

This time Little Collins had managed to warn Osterley what was happening: five minutes before the end of the lunch break he had told Pope he needed a pee and had run off towards the toilet block, but once out of sight of the second year block he had changed direction and run to Osterley's form room. He had warned his friend that Pope was intending to ambush him after games and advised him to try to get away early.

And Osterley had tried, but the games teacher had spotted him sneaking off with dry hair and had ordered him to go and have a shower like everyone else. By the time he had finished a glimpse out of the window revealed a number of junior boys hanging around outside the games block.

He turned around, checked that the teacher wasn't watching and slipped out of the teachers' entrance on the other side of the building. But Pope had thought of that and stationed four boys to watch the back entrance, just in case, and as soon as Osterley appeared they grabbed him. Three of them pinned him to the ground while the fourth went round the other side of the building to collect the rest of Pope's mob.

Pope led them round to the back of the building, thinking that this was perfect: there were no other third years round here, so nobody would try to rescue the prisoner. They frog-marched him round the edge of the playing fields and down to the old rifle range, and once they were behind that they were out of sight and out of earshot of the rest of the school. Osterley struggled all the way, but there was nothing he could do: there were six second-years and five first-years milling round him.

They got to the back of the rifle range, pushed him face first against the wall of the range and held him there.

"Check his pockets," Pope told Harwood, straight-faced. Harwood did that and burst out laughing, which surprised his form-mates until he invited them to have a try. Fielding was there, of course: Harwood wouldn't have let him miss the fun after the way he had recruited Larkin to be the form slave – but even he didn't know what had been done to the shorts until he stuck his hand into a pocket. He tugged at Osterley's little pubes again, grinning when it made his victim yell.

"Okay, strip him off," said Pope, and although Osterley struggled, he didn't have a hope. Within a couple of minutes he was stark naked. They pinned him down on his back, and all eleven boys took a turn at fiddling with his private parts until he was thoroughly stiff once more.

"Time to get wet," said Little Collins, grabbing the erection and starting to rub: he hoped that once Osterley had been made to spurt everyone would leave him alone.

Osterley struggled vainly, while everyone stared at what was being done to him, especially the first-year boys who hadn't seen this before.

"What are you doing?" asked the smallest of them, a little weed of a kid called Barnett.

"He's wanking him off," Pope told him, which left Barnett none the wiser: he'd never heard that word before.

"What does that mean?" he whispered to his friend Sadler, not wanting to look ignorant in front of the second-years; but Sadler didn't know either and just shrugged at him.

Little Collins rubbed away steadily, wishing it was just him and Osterley doing this in the safety of the music practice room instead of in front of an audience of jeering juniors. He did his best to finish his friend off as quickly as he could, but Osterley really wasn't in the mood for this at all and it took longer than it had in the classroom the previous morning.

Eventually, however, Osterley's back arched and he gave a despairing cry as he lost control, and the usual two or three spurts jetted out of him. There were gasps from the first-years, and a whispered "What on earth is that? Has he peed on himself?" from Barnett to Sadler that simply drew another shrug.

Pope pushed Little Collins aside and scooped up as much of the liquid as he could, forcing it into Osterley's mouth again.

"You dirty pervert!" he jeered. "Fancy letting first-year boys see you do that! Now we're really going to have to punish you. Bring him over here, lads."

They dragged him to his feet and pulled him to the old assault course. At one point on it there were two poles, the first about four feet [1.2 m] up (which those running the course had to go over) and the second about two feet [60 cm] up (which they had to go under). On Pope's instructions they bent him across the lower pole and tied his hands and feet to the supports using some string that Pope had been carrying about for a couple of days now in case just such an opportunity presented itself. Osterley was now immobilised, his arms and, more importantly, his legs spread wide: his bum was open and unprotected, and his balls were visible from behind as they dangled down.

"How many should we give him?" mused Pope, idly swinging Osterley's belt. "Let's see: there's eleven of us, so six each might be overdoing it a little… let's say three each. Who wants to go first?"

"Hang on a minute," said Fielding. "While we've got him like this, there's something else we could do to him first…"

"Right!" said Pope, pulling the candle from his inside pocket. "I'd forgotten about this. Watch this, you lot…"

He positioned the candle carefully against Osterley's undefended anus and pushed, and it started to slide in. Osterley gave a cry of pain, and the first year boys uttered a chorus of disgusted noises. Barnett thought he'd never seen anything so dirty, or so exciting, in his life; the candle was slowly disappearing inside the older boy's bottom, and there was nothing he could do about it! He was aware that his own little winkle was as hard as it had ever been – in fact it was really quite painful. He stuck his hand into his shorts pocket to try to ease it, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sadler doing the same thing.

"Who wants a go?" asked Pope, and was almost swept off his feet in the rush to be first.

For ten or fifteen minutes the boys buggered Osterley with the candle, making him writhe about and beg for mercy. After about five minutes he was horrified to discover that, even though his penis was still wet and sore from his climax, it was starting to harden again as the candle pressed against something sensitive inside him. Fortunately his tormentors didn't notice – or not straight away, anyway.

Eventually everyone had had a turn, and Pope was reaching for the belt once more, but Fielding interrupted him.

"I wasn't actually thinking about the candle earlier," he said. "Okay, that's good fun, but why use a candle when you could do it yourself?"

"Huh? You mean… no! What, you think we should actually… well, fuck him?"

"Why not? He can't exactly argue, can he? I'll go first, if you like."

"Go on, then," challenged Pope, convinced the first-year boy would never dare actually do it. But Fielding pulled his shorts and pants down, took the jar of Vaseline from his blazer pocket and started to rub it onto his erection.

"What's that for?" asked Harwood.

"It's to help it slide in. Watch."

He positioned himself between Osterley's legs and lined up. As soon as Osterley realized that he was actually going to do it he started yelling blue murder, but Pope stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth and used Osterley's own tie to tie it into place, and that muffled the cries a bit.

Fielding shoved, and it slipped in quite easily: Osterley's legs were spread wide, and the candle had prepared the passage for him. He pushed it all the way in, waited for a few seconds to allow the audience to see that it really was inside their victim, and then withdrew and shoved it in once more. Somehow, doing this in front of an audience felt really exciting, and very soon he felt his orgasm approaching. He made no attempt to delay it, just thrusting steadily until he climaxed with a gasp. Then he pulled out, took a roll of toilet paper (he'd pinched it from home) out of his bag and cleaned himself up.

"Who's next?" he asked, pulling his shorts back up.

Pope couldn't turn down an invitation like that and quickly pulled his trousers and pants down. Fielding obligingly rubbed a little Vaseline onto his erection, taking the opportunity to have a good look at the second-former: Pope's might have been slightly thicker, and maybe his balls were slightly larger, but he was equally hairless and his shaft was definitely a bit shorter than Fielding's.

Fielding helped him line up and told him to push, and this one too slipped in easily enough, though Osterley uttered a muffled shriek as it went in. Pope had never done this before, and so it slipped out four times before he finally worked out how much he could move, but after that he quickly got into a rhythm, and once he was in the swing of it he quickly reached orgasm, crying out as he came.

"What's it like?" asked Harwood as Pope pulled out and tore off some of the toilet roll.

"Brilliant! You wouldn't believe how good that felt. Try it for yourself and find out."

"Well… okay, then," said Harwood, a little uncertainly.

Fielding told him where to stand, got him to lower his shorts and pants and looked at what was on offer, which to be fair was not much: Harwood was nervous and didn't have an erection.

"You'll need to make it hard first," Fielding pointed out. "Why don't you let someone else go first, and you can get yourself stiff ready to go afterwards."

"Okay," said Harwood, pulling up his shorts once more.

"So – who's next?" asked Fielding.

One of the other second-years came and lowered his trousers. He didn't have a very big one, either, but at least it was stiff, so Fielding anointed it for him and lined him up, and after a few false starts he was able to keep going long enough to finish. Harwood then came back with a semi-hard one, and Fielding was able to get it harder by playing with it a bit while he was rubbing the Vaseline in; but Harwood's was even shorter, and in the end he had to give up: it slipped out on almost every stroke.

"Anyone else?" asked Pope.

There were no takers: the rest of the boys were either too nervous, or too shy, or found the idea too disgusting, or knew they were too small to be able to do it properly.

"Okay, let's give him a good thrashing, then," said Pope, taking up the belt yet again. "Three each – I'll go first. Ready, Osterley? No? Too bad."

Pope delivered a cracking blow, followed by two more, each leaving a red mark on Osterley's bum. The third-former writhed and struggled and shouted into his gag, but it did him no good at all: one by one the second-years beat him, some just hard, and some very hard. Little Collins had to take his turn, though he tried to pull each blow just before it landed; the belt still made a loud 'crack' each time, so he didn't think anyone had noticed that he wasn't hitting as hard as he could.

Then the first-years took over, and if anything they beat him even harder. Little Barnett wasn't sure if he should be doing this – in fact he was virtually certain that he shouldn't. But he still took his turn and delivered his three blows, each of which drew a muffled shriek from the prisoner. Fielding went last, making sure that each of his blows landed on the point where the red marks were clustered most closely together.

"Okay, we'd better go," said Pope, once Fielding had finished. "But I bet his bum's really hot and sore just now, and it wouldn't be fair to leave him like that. I'm going to cool him down a bit."

He took up a position between the prisoner's legs, took out his penis and urinated all over Osterley's bum. The audience cheered and laughed and then queued up for a chance to have a go themselves.

By the time they had finished, eight boys had urinated on him. Little Collins had taken up the position but then apologized, saying that he couldn't go, and the two first-formers Barnett and Sadler also said that they were unable to go. Osterley's bum and legs were soaked, and a couple of the boys had aimed high so that it ran down his back, round his sides and as far as his neck, too.

"Let's leave him here and come back early tomorrow and do it all again!" suggested one of the first-years.

"I think his parents might call the police if we did that," Little Collins pointed out. "I think we'd better just let him go. Look, he's likely to be pretty mad when we untie him, so it might be a good idea if you all go now, just in case he goes berserk and tried to kill someone. I'll stay and untie him in a couple of minutes – he won't touch me unless he wants my big brother and all his mates to come and sort him out afterwards. Has anyone got a knife?"

Pope had, so Little Collins borrowed it to cut the string, promising to give it back next day. The rest of the first and second-years headed away, laughing and chattering excitedly, and Little Collins waited until they had left, stuck his head around the corner of the range to make sure that had all really gone, and then came and cut Osterley free.

Osterley could barely move – he'd been tied in that position for almost an hour. There were angry red marks round his wrists where he had pulled vainly at the string, his bottom was killing him – and when he finally managed to straighten up it felt even worse – and he was itching from the pee that was drying all over his body. And he was crying steadily, and that was more than enough for Little Collins, who threw his arms around him and hugged him hard.

"Y… y… you'll g… get p… p… pee all over you," stammered Osterley.

"So what? Look, come over here and lie down, and I'll see if your bum's okay."

Osterley collapsed onto his front and Little Collins came and sat beside him. Gently he spread Osterley's legs and then started to stroke his bottom, even though it felt clammy and cold. Carefully he rubbed his middle finger against Osterley's hole and then checked for blood. Like the rest of his bum it was wet, but there was no sign of blood.

"I think you're okay," he said. "Do you want to try getting dressed now?"

"Not really, but I suppose I'll have to," said Osterley, who was starting to recover a little.

"I don't mind waiting with you if you'd prefer to hang on for ten minutes before you try putting your clothes on." Little Collins had started gently stroking Osterley's bum once more.

"That feels nice, but… I'm starting to feel a bit cold. I ought to get home so I can have a bath."

"Okay," said Little Collins, masking his disappointment. He helped Osterley to his feet, and Osterley dried himself down using the shorts and then pulled his long trousers and pants from his bag. To avoid difficult questions at home he left the house in his usual uniform and changed into the shorts in an alley a hundred yards down the road. He decided that tonight he was going to change here, and if the Rat or anyone else wanted to make something of it he would bloody well kill them.

With Little Collins' help he finally got dressed, though his bottom still really hurt, and he had to lean on his friend's shoulder to make it as far as the bus stop.

"I'm not coming to school tomorrow," he said. "I don't care what my mum says, I'm staying at home. Come round to see me on Saturday morning about ten – I've arranged for you to stay for lunch if you want."

"Yes, please. And then I'll tell you what my brother told me."

Next morning at break David went to 2C's room and sat and listened enthralled to Pope's description of what had been done to Osterley the previous evening. He was delighted to hear that the pretty boy had been fucked several times, and his only regret was that he hadn't been there at the end of the evening to witness the sobbing boy, dripping with piss, his arse bright red and his hole no doubt aching, once everyone had finished with him. He decided that next time he was going to make sure he was there to watch.

Meanwhile Fielding, who had been shopping the previous evening, was preparing to wish Larkin an unhappy birthday, and when the fourth-former arrived in their form room at the start of break everyone knew what to do.

"Come on in," said Fielding. "We've decided that as it's your birthday we're not going to make you go to the shop for us today."

"Thanks," said Larkin, turning to go.

"Hang on, I didn't say you could go. We've got a couple of presents for you, but before we give them to you we'll have to give you the bumps, like everyone gets on their birthday. Only because it's you, you're going to get them without any clothes on. Get undressed."

"Oh, come on, please?" begged Larkin.

"Or if you prefer you can get undressed and then go to the shop for us in the altogether. It's up to you."

That was no choice at all, so Larkin started to strip, and they watched him happily. When he was naked, apart of course from the little pink ribbon round his cock, they told him to lie on the floor, which he did, and then they picked him up and bumped him fifteen times. But after the sixteenth one (one for luck, as usual) they dropped to the floor with him, stretching him out and pinning him down, two boys to each limb, and Fielding came and knelt next to him.

"See, the problem is, Larkin, you don't act like you're fifteen," he said. "All that bawling and howling all the time – anyone would think you were about five, not fifteen. So we've bought you a couple of presents to help you look like how you act. Okay, hold him tight…"

And Fielding pulled a small pair of scissors from his pocket and snipped away at Larkin's pubic hair. As soon as he realized what was happening Larkin protested loudly and tried to get free, but everyone hung on tight and he was unable to move.

Fielding snipped off as much as he could using the scissors, carefully storing the little curls of cut hair in an empty matchbox, and then he produced a disposable razor from his pocket and used it to dry-shave what little hair was left. He shaved the balls, too, and the little tuft under each arm, until Larkin was hairless.

"Now," said Fielding, standing up, "here are your first two presents: a packet of disposable razors, and this tube of Immac. It's a special cream ladies use to dissolve the hairs on their legs, and you'd better make sure you read the instructions carefully, because it won't do you any good if you leave it on too long. See, from now on we expect you to stay hairless, like the little boy you are, so you'll have to make sure you don't let anything grow back, because if you do we'll whip you till you bleed. We'll check every time we see you, and if we find a single hair you'll get thrashed, understand? If you're a really good boy we might let you grow your hair again in the end, but not until every boy in this class has got some. Okay, stand up and we'll give you your other presents."

Larkin got to his feet, fingering his smooth groin: there was a small nick on his ball bag that had bled a little, but it had already almost stopped.

"The trouble is," Fielding went on, "not only do you not act like a fifteen-year-old boy, most of the time you don't act like a boy at all. So we got you these – and you'll never believe the fun I had buying them last night. Put them on."

"No!" cried Larkin in horror: Fielding was holding out a pair of pink girls' knickers and a white training bra.

"Yes," insisted Fielding, "unless you want to get whipped and then dragged to Garrett's study dressed like you are now. We're only going to make you wear the bra until the end of term; we'll decide how long you have to wear the knickers later, depending how you behave. But if you don't put them on now you'll end up wearing the bra all through next term as well."

Blushing all over, Larkin took the knickers and pulled them on, finding that they were the right size. At least, the waist was the right size, but Larkin was carrying things that girls don't, and the material was very tight. His balls and penis were uncomfortably squashed.

They had to put the bra on for him, because he couldn't manage to do it up behind his back, and once it was on they shrieked with laughter at him. The shame was too much, and he started crying again, which just made them mock him all the more.

Finally they let him put the rest of his clothes on. Fortunately his shirt was fairly thick, so you couldn't tell he was wearing a bra underneath it unless you looked really closely, but that was little comfort to him.

"Off you go, now," said Fielding. "But remember to meet me in the usual place at lunchtime. Oh, one more thing…"

And he led the class in a giggly performance of "Happy Birthday to you," substituting the word "girly" where the birthday boy's name would usually go. Larkin fled, his face bright red with shame.

Fielding had deliberately let him go with five minutes left till the end of the break so that he would have time to go and visit the third form block, and when he got there he went to 3A's room and spoke to Baker, instructing him to report to the drama store room at the start of the lunch break. Baker wasn't happy: so far he'd been able to keep his head down fairly well. Okay, he'd been teased about his shorts by the juniors, and consequently he kept his time in the yard to a minimum, but he was lucky in that he wasn't very tall – unlike Larkin and Osterley – and from a distance he just looked like another first-year boy.

His own classmates had teased him, of course, but he had been sensible enough not to rise to their taunts, and so fairly quickly they got tired of it and more or less left him alone, apart from the odd comment from the class humorists. And so far he had kept the nature of his offence hidden: he had led the rest of the form to believe he'd been caught smoking (he'd actually just said that he'd been caught in the old toilet block doing something he shouldn't, and he had mimed smoking at the same time, and of course they'd leapt to the wrong conclusion without him actually lying to them).

But it was because he was afraid that Garrett or one of his associates would spill the beans that he didn't argue when Fielding told him to come to the drama store at lunchtime. Instead he turned up as instructed, and found Larkin already there.

He and Larkin had barely spoken since they had been caught. Baker's feelings were complicated: on one level he felt guilty, because it was his insistence that had led to their being caught. But at the same time he felt slightly resentful that the older boy had not made a better attempt to shelter him from punishment – a single mumbled sentence to Villiers-Gore was hardly the same as making a principled stand in front of Garrett, which might have got him off.

Fielding turned up a minute later and ushered them into the store room, shutting the door behind them.

"I thought it was about time you came and joined in our games," he said to Baker. "You seem to have more or less got away with it so far, so now you can get undressed. Well, go on, then, get on with it."

Reluctantly Baker started to strip, and Fielding was delighted to see that he was obediently wearing his little cock ribbon.

"Good boy," he said. "We wondered if you'd still have that on, seeing that we haven't bothered checking so far. Okay, well, I've been talking to Villiers-Gore about you two, and he agrees with me that we ought to treat you differently. Baker, you've been behaving in a more mature way since we caught you: you won the tug-of-war, and you didn't howl and bleat half as much when you were caned, so we're going to ease up on you a bit. You can take that ribbon off now and you don't have to put it on again, and next term you can wear long trousers again like a normal third-year. V-G wasn't completely happy about that because he doesn't like homos, but I talked him into agreeing. Of course, there are one or two conditions…"

"Go on," said Baker, cautiously.

"Well, first of all you'll still have to help out at the end of term prefects' meal, like Garrett said. I can't get you out of that, I'm afraid. And second, you have to go on doing what I tell you to until the end of next term. But I won't do anything too bad, and I'll only beat you if you're disobedient. And third, you have to help me to punish Larkin, who's acted like a baby since you got caught."

"Well… I'm not sure about that," said Baker. "It seems a bit unfair…"

"Well, it's up to you, of course: if you'd prefer things to go on like they are now, I'm sure we won't mind too much…"

"No, I think I'd prefer to do what you said. So, what do I have to do?"

"First of all, you'll probably have to help Larkin get dressed in the mornings."

"Huh?"

"Go on, Larkin, show him: strip to your underwear."

"Oh, no, please don't make me do that!" begged Larkin, pointlessly. Fielding just looked at him, and slowly the older boy began to undress.

When Baker saw what he was wearing under his shirt he couldn't help laughing, and then when he saw the knickers he laughed even more. Any lingering respect he might have had for the older boy vanished at that moment.

"See, he can't manage to do up his bra yet," said Fielding, "so you'll have to help him on the bus, or somewhere, because he has to be wearing it when he walks through the school gates. OK, go and take it off for him."

Baker went and unhooked the bra, and Larkin removed it gratefully.

"Now pull his knickers down," instructed Fielding, and Baker complied.

"What's happened to the hair?" he asked.

"Only big boys have hair," Fielding pointed out. "Larkin doesn't act like a big boy, so he isn't allowed to have hair."

Baker unsuccessfully tried to suppress a snort of laughter.

"So now you're the big boy round here," Fielding went on, "because you're the one with hair. Okay, you've hardly got any, but you've got more than him, so when we do stuff with him, you'll be the boy and he'll be the girl. Agreed?"

"That's fine by me," said Baker, grinning. After all, he was quite a small boy for thirteen, only a couple of inches taller than Fielding, and the idea of being superior to Larkin, who was a good six inches [15 cm] taller, appealed to him.

"Right. Now, I don't suppose you've had a chance to try sucking yet, but you watched Patty doing it, so you know how it goes. Most of the time it'll be Larkin doing the sucking, of course: that's what girls are for. But I don't want you thinking you've completely got away with it, so you're going to have a go at doing it to me now. Kneel down – oh, I'd find something to kneel on first, if I were you: the floor gets a bit hard after a bit."

Baker wasn't very happy about this, but there didn't seem to be any point in annoying Fielding just when the younger boy seemed to be making life easier for him, so he went and found a blanket in one of the storage racks, folded it up and knelt on it. Fielding came and stood in front of him and lowered his shorts and pants.

"Gosh, yours is big, isn't it?" commented Baker. "For a first-year, I mean. I thought it looked big that time in Garrett's study when you made Pattison suck on it, but it looks even bigger close to. You're probably almost as big as I am."

"We'll find out later, if you like. Now put it in your mouth and squeeze it with your lips – and keep your teeth out of the way."

Reluctantly Baker did as he was told. It felt strange having the warm organ in his mouth, but not especially unpleasant, and it didn't taste bad. He relaxed a little.

"Okay, now slide it in and out of your mouth and lick it, like it was an ice lolly."

He did that, too, and it still didn't taste bad, and in fact it was sort of interesting, feeling the hardness with his tongue.

"Now hold my bum and stroke it, and if you want you can play with my balls, too."

Baker did that, fascinated by the feeling of Fielding's small testicles. He found that he didn't mind doing this at all, and in fact he was almost enjoying it: his own penis was starting to stiffen. He didn't think he'd want to do it with an older boy, though: Garrett's big cock had looked horrible, and he was sure it would be too big to get in his mouth. But Fielding's fit really easily.

"Okay, you can stop," said Fielding, after a couple of minutes, and reluctantly Baker took it out of his mouth.

"Oh, look, you've gone all hard," Fielding went on. "You must like the taste of my willy. Okay, stand up and we'll compare."

Baker stood up and they held their erections alongside each other. Baker's was a bit thicker but only fractionally longer, though his balls were larger and of course he had that small amount of sparse pubic hair.

"And now you can find out what it feels like from the other side," said Fielding. "Larkin, come here and give him a suck."

Larkin dropped to his knees on the blanket without arguing, and Baker stood in front of him and allowed himself to be sucked. It felt weird at first, but soon he decided that it felt nice, too. He was disappointed when Fielding told Larkin to stop.

"And now we both get to feel good at the same time," said Fielding. "Larkin, lay across the scenery like you did before."

Slowly Larkin complied, and Fielding got his Vaseline out and rubbed it onto himself. Baker watched as he lined up and shoved it in.

"You can have a go at this end next time," said Fielding. "It feels amazing. This time you can just get sucked: go and stand in front of his head."

So Baker did that, and Larkin started sucking him again while Fielding fucked him. The two smaller boys looked at each and grinned: by now Baker was positively enjoying himself.

"Something's happening," Baker reported, after a bit. "I feel a bit strange."

"Good," said Fielding. "Hold it in if you can." And he watched with interest as Baker went through his first orgasm. A minute or so later he experienced one of his own and then pulled out and hopped over to his bag to get the toilet roll out.

"That was amazing," said Baker, staring down at himself. "It felt… well, I can't really explain how it felt, but it was really good."

"That's what boys feel like when they have sex," said Fielding, pulling his pants up. "Of course, she'll never know…"

Baker grinned at him, and Fielding told him to get dressed.

"Next week you can fuck him while he sucks me," he added. "Then you can see which way you like doing it most."

"Thanks, Fielding," said Baker, pulling his own pants back on. "That was fun. What else do you usually do to him?"

"Normally I beat him, but I don't think I'm going to this time: he did what we told him without arguing, and he didn't burst into tears like a little baby, either, so I'm going to let him off. You can get dressed, Larkin – but start with the bra and see if you can do it up for yourself."

Fielding and Baker finished dressing and then they stood and watched Larkin struggling with his bra. He got one of the hooks in the wrong eye and then couldn't undo it again, and in the end they had to come and do it for him. After that they left him to it and went out.

"Every lunch time unless I tell you otherwise you should come here," said Fielding as they started down the stairs. "At least until the end of term. We'll see about next term after the holidays."

"Okay," agreed Baker. "But I don't mind carrying on doing that sort of stuff next term as well, if you want me to."

"Good. Anyway, we'll sort it out after Easter. See you on Monday."

Fielding headed back to his form room. There was a low wall running around the edge of a flower bed outside the block, and when he reached it he found Barnett and Sadler sitting on it. They had apparently been waiting for him, because as soon as he appeared Barnett jumped up and ran to meet him, with Sadler close behind.

"We wanted to talk to you on your own, outside the classroom," said Barnett. "You don't mind, do you?"

"What about?"

"Well… about last night, mainly. You see, we didn't really understand some of the stuff that happened, and it made us feel a bit funny, and… you see, Fielding, you obviously know a lot more than we do about…" he blushed and looked at the ground, and continued in a whisper, "well, sex and stuff. And we were wondering…"

"What?"

"Well… could you teach us? You see, I haven't got any brothers or sisters, and Jeremy's only got a big sister who's seven years older than him, so neither of us has got anyone to tell us stuff. I mean, we can't exactly ask our parents about rude things like last night… and we thought that if you'd help us it would be a bit like having an older brother, a really nice one who'd help us and teach us things like… well, you know. So… would you? Please?"

"What, you want me to be like your older brother?"

They both nodded eagerly.

"What, even though I'm only the same age as you are?"

"That doesn't matter. You seem more grown up than us, anyway: Harwood says you're friends with big boys, even prefects and stuff; and you obviously know loads more about… well, lots of things, than Jeremy and I do."

"Well, I suppose I could…"

"Wow, thanks, Fielding!" cried Barnett, happily.

"Yes, that'd be brilliant!" agreed Sadler.

"…but only if you really mean that's what you want. Because if I'm going to be your big brother, you'd have to be good little boys and do what I told you, wouldn't you?"

He thought they'd baulk at that, but instead they both nodded agreement straight away.

"I wouldn't mind that," said Barnett. "Maybe you could come and stay the night one weekend, or perhaps during the holidays. I've always wanted an older brother to look after me – and of course to teach me stuff – and we both think you're really nice, and that we can trust you to be a good big brother and to be kind to us…"

"And you'd promise to do what I told you?"

They both nodded again.

"Are you allowed to have friends round to visit?"

They looked at each other. "I am," said Sadler, "but I haven't asked about staying for the night. I should think my parents would say yes, though, now I'm nearly twelve."

"I'm not sure," said Barnett. "But I'll ask Mummy tonight if I can invite a friend round for the night during the holidays. And I'm sure she won't mind if you come and see me during the day, as long as you dress nicely and act really politely. Jeremy came over a few weeks ago, and she didn't mind that, so I'm sure she'll say yes."

"Okay, then. And perhaps once I've stayed with both of you a couple of times we can arrange for all of us to spend the night together at someone's house – than you can be twins and I'll have two little brothers to look after."

They looked at each other happily. "That would be brilliant!" said Sadler. "I mean, we don't exactly look like twins, but still…"

"Not all twins look the same," Fielding pointed out. "It won't matter that you're taller than he is, or that your hair is a different colour. I'll treat you both the same, and you'll have to go to bed at the same time as if you really were twins, otherwise you'd probably argue about who's the oldest, or something."

"Okay," agreed Barnett, without hesitation. "Can I have your phone number? I'll ask Mummy when I get home tonight and then I'll call and tell you what she says. And… thanks, Fielding. You're really nice. I can't wait to be your little brother…"

They ran off together and Fielding watched them go. Two more boys he could order about, he thought, though this time they had actually volunteered. He thought it might be fun having a little brother: like Barnett he was an only child, and sometimes he'd wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister. He wondered what sort of a big brother he would be – after all, they'd both promised to do what he told them, so he could probably make them do sex punishments if he wanted to. He didn't think he would, though: he found it much more fun to beat and humiliate older boys, the older the better, which was why he was going to talk to Stephens on the bus home this evening. But maybe it would be interesting to make boys of his own age do what he wanted, too…

Life keeps getting better and better for Fielding, and worse and worse for Osterley and Larkin, and that trend will continue in the next chapter. But we'll also get further hints that things are likely to change after the Easter holidays, so maybe the boot will be on the other foot before too long.

Chapter Seven

In this chapter Stephens and Larkin will both discover that even when you think things are bad already, they can always get worse; Fielding (who once again has virtually hijacked the story – maybe I should re-title it 'The Blind Mouse'?) starts to line up some more victims, as well as enjoying himself with the ones he's already got; and Osterley tries to survive the last week of term unscathed. Fat chance…

After school Fielding made his way to the bus stop as usual and checked that Stephens was there, and when the bus arrived he followed the older boy on board and plonked himself down in the seat next to him.

"Would you like to have the chain off for a bit this weekend?" he asked.

"Yes, of c… yes, please," said Stephens, realising that if he was sarcastic the first-year would probably not let him take the chain off after all.

"Okay. Be at the usual place at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I'll expect to find you the same as last time, naked and lying on the ground. I won't have the key with me: I'm going to hide it somewhere before I get to you – and I'll probably do it tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning, so there's no point in trying to ambush me on the way tomorrow, because I won't have the key on me. I'll chain you to the tree with a different chain and then go and get the key for the important one, and if you're good I'll take the chain off you for five minutes or so. If you're disobedient, or if you turn up late, I won't, understand?"

Stephens mumbled that he understood: once again Fielding had anticipated his plan – he had intended waylaying the younger boy before he reached the wood, searching him thoroughly and taking the key. His week had been so uncomfortable that he had decided to take a chance on being reported to Garrett. But now he couldn't risk it: if he attacked Fielding and didn't find the key he was sure the boy would carry out his threat to throw the key away, and then he would have to go to a professional to get the chain removed, and he simply couldn't face having to do that.

He'd tried to find a way to remove it himself, of course, but no matter how he manipulated himself he simply couldn't get the chain to pass over his genitals. Obviously Fielding's suggestion of using a blowtorch was a complete non-starter, and he didn't think his other suggestion, using a hacksaw, would work, either, because he'd have to cut right next to his most sensitive parts, and a single slip of the blade… well, it didn't bear thinking about.

He'd tried using wire cutters – not actually on the loop, because it was too tight and he couldn't get the jaws of the cutters round the chain – but on the last link of the bit that swung uselessly below his balls, but the cutters weren't strong enough and barely marked the toughened steel of the chain.

He had finally managed to break that link by using a sharpened chisel and a hammer, but it had taken several blows to do it and he had damaged the chisel in the process. Of course, he'd been able to put that link on the surface of the workbench, where he could hit it in safety: the links that mattered were all nestling right against his flesh, where a chisel would be out of the question.

The best solution would obviously be to break the padlock, but he didn't dare try: first, it was right next to his balls, and second, if he damaged it but couldn't open it he was sure Fielding would both lose the keys and take him to Garrett, giving him the worst of both worlds. So he had abandoned his attempts for the time being, in favour of trying to catch Fielding at a vulnerable moment at take the key from him. He had hoped that this weekend would give him a chance to do so, now it seemed unlikely.

After tea that evening Fielding got a phone call from Barnett: his mother had given permission for him to come and visit over the weekend.

"It'll have to be Sunday," Fielding told him. "I'm going to be busy tomorrow. What about Sunday morning?"

"You can't come in the morning, because I'll be in church," Barnett told him. "Hold on, I'll ask if you can come after lunch."

Fielding held on, and a minute or so later Barnett came back to the phone.

"You can come in the afternoon and stay for tea, if you like," he said. "And…" He lowered his voice. "If you dress nicely and are really polite, and Mummy thinks you're nice, I think you'll be allowed to come and stay in the holidays. I'm not allowed to have rough boys round, though, so do your best to be good – please? I'd really like you to be able to stay."

"So would I, so I promise to be on my best behaviour."

"Great! Oh… I don't know what your first name is, and I think I should if we're going to be friends, shouldn't I? I know from the class register that it starts with J – is it John?"

"It's Jordan," said Fielding. "What's yours?"

"Charlie," said Barnett.

"Okay, Charlie, I'll see you on Sunday afternoon."

Fielding hung up, thinking that Barnett's mum sounded a bit strict: church in the morning and only well-dressed and polite friends allowed to visit. He wondered for a moment if it was worth the effort, but then he thought he might as well go and see what happened – after all, he wouldn't have to go again if Barnett's mother was too much to put up with.

Somebody else with things to think about that evening was Larkin, because he'd made a mistake at the end of school: he was so keen to get away from the place that he'd made a run for it the moment the final lesson ended, and as a result he had just managed to catch the bus before his usual one. It was only as the bus pulled away that he realised his mistake: he was now on a different bus from Baker, and so there was nobody to help him with his bra.

As soon as he got home he ran up to his room, threw off his blazer, tie and shirt and started desperately trying to undo the bra, but he simply couldn't do it: he'd hurt his left arm playing rugby a week ago, and he couldn't bend it properly – at least, not without causing himself considerable pain – and consequently it was almost impossible to undo the hooks on the bra.

He stood in front of the mirror on his wardrobe door, looking over his shoulder and trying to reach the back of the bra, and eventually, after a lot of painful contortions, he got one of the hooks undone. But the other one simply wouldn't budge (in fact Fielding had bent it a little when putting it on for him), no matter what he tried.

And then there was a splutter of laughter from the doorway, and he turned in horror to see his little brother standing there laughing at him.

Billy Larkin was only ten, and so he was still at primary school, so he had no idea of what his older brother had been going through at school over the past week or so: he just knew that right now he looked really funny.

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked.

"Oh," said his brother, blushing all over and struggling to find an excuse. "It's… well… it was a dare."

"Really? I wonder what Mum will say when I tell her you're dressed as a girly? I'd better go and find out." And he turned to go.

"No!" yelled Larkin desperately. "Please, Billy, don't tell her."

"What's it worth?" asked his brother, grinning at him.

"Come in and close the door."

"Tell me what it's worth," repeated his brother, not moving.

"Anything!" cried Larkin, desperate to avoid his mother catching him like this. "Please, Billy, close the door!"

"Anything? You swear?"

"Yes! Yes, I swear! Please, Billy…"

The younger boy grinned at him and came into the room, closing the door behind him. He advanced across the room and plonked himself down on his brother's bed.

"Come on then, Stevie, tell me all about this dare, then," he invited.

"Well… there's this boy at school…" Steven Larkin's problem was that he wasn't very good at telling lies: he'd been brought up not to, and now he found it really difficult to lie without feeling guilty and therefore blushing or stammering. Billy, for some reason, seemed to have no difficulty telling lies at all, as well as being able to spot when his brother was telling a fib.

"Tell me the truth, Stevie, or the deal's off and I'll go and tell Mum," he threatened.

"Well… okay, then: I got into trouble and this is my punishment. See, there's this boy in my class who sneaks to the prefects, and he was the one who caught me – and if I don't do the punishment the head boy's going to report me to the headmaster, and then I might be expelled. So I have to wear this until the end of term. But the problem is that I can't get it off on my own – normally there's a boy who catches my bus who does it, but I caught the earlier bus today so I couldn't ask him. So – could you do it for me, please, Billy?"

"Well… maybe." The younger boy stood up and came over to where his brother was standing in front of the mirror. He reached for the catch, glanced down and caught a flash of pink: the knickers were just visible above the top of Steven's trousers.

"It's not just the bra, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, it is… well… okay, no."

"Show me, then, or it stays on."

"Look, Billy, just take the bra off. Otherwise I might have to thump you."

"I don't think so, not unless you want me to spill the beans. And the more you hit me, the more people I'll tell. There are at least three boys at my school with brothers at yours – I bet they'd pretty soon make sure that everyone at your school knew about it…"

Steven's shoulders slumped, because he knew that was true.

"Okay, then – but you've got to swear not to tell anyone."

"Depends how you behave." Billy was enjoying this: Steven wasn't all that bad, as big brothers go, but he did tease the younger boy a lot, calling him names ('Baby Billy' was his favourite) and sometimes he'd ignore the younger boy completely, and sometimes he'd hit him – not that hard, but hard enough to hurt… Billy thought this was a great chance to get his own back for a whole heap of annoying behaviour on his brother's part.

Steven realised he was stuck. He removed his shoes and socks and stood up, undoing his belt and letting his trousers fall to his ankles. Billy burst out laughing.

"You look really funny!" he said, slowly getting himself under control. "Okay, take your trousers right off and hang them up properly with the rest of your uniform, and then you can stay like that until tea's ready."

That would only be a few minutes, Steven thought, so he could probably survive his brother's teasing for that long. He went and got the hanger from his wardrobe, put his trousers and blazer on it and took it back to the wardrobe to put away, and as he opened the wardrobe door again Billy spotted something on the top shelf. Oh, yes, he thought: this is perfect.

"Get the camera out," he ordered.

"No! Absolutely not, Billy! I'm not letting you show a picture of me like this to all the kids at your school!"

"I'm not going to show it to anyone – as long as you keep your word, that is. It's just in case you change your mind. Now give me the camera, or I'm going to see Mum."

Once again Steven was trapped, because he knew that his mother would keep going on at him until she found out exactly what he'd done to merit this particular punishment, and there was absolutely no way he could risk that. Slowly he took down the camera, a brand-new Polaroid he had been given for his birthday just that morning, and handed it to his brother. Billy made him pose with his hands on his head and took a couple of pictures. Then he got up and went back to his own room, hiding the pictures in two separate places.

"Now I'll take it off," he said, once he was back in Steven's room. "Come here."

Steven obediently trotted across the room, and Billy wrestled with the bent hook until he finally managed to undo it. Finally the bra was off, but Steven's ordeal wasn't yet over.

"Now take the knickers off, and let me see your thingy," ordered his brother.

This was a particularly satisfying moment for him: Steven had a habit of pulling Billy's trousers and pants down when he wanted to annoy him, and sometimes he'd strip him bare and make fun of his private parts. Billy had managed to return the favour a couple of weeks ago: he'd burst in to the bathroom while Steven was in the bath and so had been able to get a good look at his brother's body. He'd paid for it, though: Steven had been angry about it, and had hit Billy hard enough to make him cry. Revenge, thought Billy, is going to be sweet.

Of course, it was even sweeter than he had anticipated: Steven had forgotten about the pink bow, and Billy burst out laughing again, and then he noticed something else.

"What happened to the hair?" he asked.

"They cut it off as part of my punishment," admitted his brother.

Billy fell about laughing, and then he picked up the camera again. He had to threaten Steven with passing the earlier pictures around at school before his brother finally gave in and posed for a full-frontal picture, and then one from the side, both of which clearly showed his face, his ribbon and his hairlessness.

"Okay," said Billy, when he got back from hiding the latest pictures, "from now on you do what I tell you, or else. Kneel down."

Steven dropped to his knees, still naked except for his ribbon.

"Swear to be an obedient slave," demanded his brother, and reluctantly Steven swore it.

"Okay. From now on, I'm in charge," said Billy. "I'm going to make you strip for me every day, and I'm going to make you have your bath with the door open, so I can come and watch if I want. You're going to give me half your pocket money every week, too. You'll go to bed at the same time as me – you can tell Mum and Dad you're tired, and you think it'd be a good idea if you spent longer in bed. You'll do all my chores around the house. And when we're on our own in the house it'll be me in charge, not you, so you'll have to ask my permission if you want to do anything, even if it's just to go to the toilet, or something. Let's see, what else… if you're going out somewhere, on your own or with your friends, you have to ask if I want to come, too, and if I do you have to take me. And…"

Steven's heart sank further and further as Billy's catalogue went on. He wished he hadn't been given a camera for his birthday – all in all, this had been the worst birthday ever.

On Saturday afternoon Fielding set out for the wood. He hadn't in fact hidden the key in advance: instead it was on his wrist, tucked between a towelling wristband and his watch. He was confident that Stephens wouldn't dare ambush him unless he was certain of finding the key, and he was right: when he got to the usual place he found Stephens naked and lying on the ground as ordered.

"Good boy," he commented. "I'm glad you decided to be sensible. If you go on being good I'll definitely take the chain off you for a bit later on. Now, kneel down with your back to the tree and I'll show you something you're going to need to do for me sometimes…"

Stephens backed up against the tree on his knees, and Fielding tied his hands securely behind the tree.

"Okay," he said. "Now you're going to learn how to suck on a thingy. I bet that's something Page Seven Boy would like you to do for him, isn't it? Actually, I looked at the magazine properly, and apparently his name is Nils, so we won't have to call him Page Seven Boy any longer. Anyway, open your mouth and I'll explain what you have to do."

Stephens gaped at him. "Are you serious?" he asked. "There's no way I'm letting you put your knob in my mouth."

"Okay, then. I'll just go and throw the key in the river, shall I?"

"No! No, please don't… but… come on, Fielding, you can't seriously expect me to let you put it in my mouth. It'd probably make me ill…"

"No, it won't. I bet you'd do it for Nils, wouldn't you?"

"No!"

"Well, you're going to do it for me. Open wide…"

Fielding pushed his jeans down to his knees, lowered his pants and flourished his stiff penis in Stephens's face. Stephens stared at it.

"Gosh, it's big, isn't it?" he said. "I reckon you and Nils would be almost the same size… maybe his is a little bigger, but not much."

"Good, then if you close your eyes you can pretend I'm him, and then maybe you won't mind so much. Now open up, or I'll whip you and then throw the key away."

Stephens could see no way out of this, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and he felt Fielding's hot, hard organ slide in between his lips.

"Now close your lips – keep your teeth out of the way – and suck on it. Yes, that's nice… now lick it, too… and now slide it into and out of your mouth… yes, right, but keep licking and sucking at the same time… brilliant! Keep going like that."

Stephens did as he was told, torn between disgust and shame on the one hand and a sort of reluctant excitement on the other. He'd never fantasized about doing this with Nils or anyone else: he'd never even imagined that such a filthy act was even possible. But if he really had a boyfriend like Nils, and if Nils had asked him to do this… maybe he would have been prepared to give it a try. So he did exactly what Fielding told him to, and Fielding held his head, and Stephens fantasized that it was Nils who was holding his head and stroking his hair…

This turned out to be a mistake: he began to get an erection, and with the chain still on it hurt. He gave a muffled gasp of pain, and Fielding looked down and saw what the problem was.

"Oh, dear, maybe I'm too much like Nils," he said, grinning. "Hard luck – and don't let it interfere with what you're doing, 'cos you're doing it pretty well."

So Stephens had to try to ignore the pain and keep going, but it was a lot more difficult with the distraction of an aching penis. Fielding helped him a bit by not trying to draw the process out, and eventually he reached his orgasm, pulling Stephens's head hard against him as it happened. At last he let go, stepped back and pulled up his pants and jeans.

"Not bad, for a first effort," he commented. "I reckon Nils would come back for more – and I'm certainly going to. Now, let's see – do you think you deserve to have the chain off for five minutes?"

"Please," begged Stephens, hating the desperation in his voice but unable to stop it. "I've done what you told me. Please take it off."

"Well… okay, then."

Fielding untied Stephens's hands and ordered him to lie on the ground with his feet against the tree. Then he took another length of chain from his bag, looped it round the tree and padlocked the other end securely to Stephens's left ankle. Then he trotted off into the wood, waited three or four minutes to give the impression that he was retrieving the key from a hiding place, and then strolled back holding it in his hand. He was also holding a birch switch he had cut.

"Right, now here are the rules," he said, squatting down beside Stephens and inserting the key into the little padlock. "You can have the chain off for… let's say ten minutes. That'll give you time to rub yourself and think about Nils. At the end of that time you'll let me put the chain back on – I've left the key to the lock round your ankle in the wood, so if you try anything you won't get it back and you'll be stuck here. And I'll also whip you and go on whipping you until you obey me, and as you know you'll have to in the end if you don't want to be chained to that tree all weekend, you'd be sensible just to do what I tell you. Okay, your ten minutes start… now."

He unlocked the padlock and removed the chain, and Stephens cradled his sore genitals gratefully. It felt brilliant to have an erection without the chain digging into the base of it, and to start with his simply held himself, feeling the temporary indentations left by the chain in his flesh.

"Fielding… I don't suppose you'd let me do this in private, would you?"

"Don't be stupid. This is going to be fun. Just close your eyes – I won't say anything, so you can either pretend I'm Nils, or that there's nobody here at all, whichever you like. But you've only got eight minutes left, so you'd better get on with it."

Stephens hadn't really expected a different answer, but he still felt uncomfortable masturbating in front of an audience. But this was likely to be the only chance he'd get to do so for at least another week, so he took hold of himself and started to rub it. At first he kept his eyes closed, but once he was well on the way he opened them to see what Fielding was doing. The younger boy was staring at his groin and smiling widely.

"You've got loads of time yet," Fielding told him. "Slow down a bit. I like watching you do this."

Obediently Stephens slowed down, feeling even dirtier than he had before: this was supposed to be a private activity, which was shameful enough when done in total privacy; out here in the open in front of a much younger boy it was utterly humiliating. But he kept going, knowing that he would only get this one chance for relief, and he hoped that maybe his thing wouldn't go hard quite so often if he managed to unload some of his sperm.

"It's coming," he reported, and Fielding squatted down beside him to watch the final moments. Two or three spurts of whitish ejaculate burst from Stephens's penis and splattered onto his chest and stomach, before petering out into a dribble that bridged the gap between the end of his foreskin and his groin.

"Let go and put your hands behind your head," ordered his master, and Stephens obeyed. His erection disappeared and his penis subsided into the puddle underneath it.

"It's really small when it isn't sticking up, isn't it?" commented Fielding. "Okay, ready for the chain again?"

"No, please don't," begged Stephens, piteously. "I've done everything you've told me – please can't you just let me go now?"

"God, no – this is brilliant fun. We're going to do this loads of times. Now, are you going to behave, or will I have to whip you?"

He started to wrap the chain around Stephens's balls, but Stephens simply couldn't face it. He shoved Fielding off and snatched at the chain, at the same time wrenching at the other chain around his ankle. The he lurched to his feet.

Fielding rolled away, stood up and gripped his whip, and when Stephens showed no signs of obeying him he swung it hard. It hit Stephens's thigh and drew a yell of pain: Fielding wasn't holding back. He swung again and again, hitting Stephens on the buttocks and on the ribs as the older boy tried to put the tree between them. Fielding simply followed him round, hitting him again and again, and skipping back out of range when Stephens tried lunging for him. After a dozen or so blows Stephens's spirit failed, and he hunched down at the base of the tree, covering his head with his hands and sobbing.

"Now get back where you were and lie on your back," Fielding ordered, and Stephens, crying and with spunk smeared into and running down his body, obeyed.

"Now keep still, or I'll beat you till the whip breaks and then go and leave you here," demanded his master.

Stephens hurt too much to fight any more, so he lay submissively and allowed Fielding to wrap the chain around his genitals once more. Once it was in place Fielding checked that it was tight enough and then ordered him to stand up, which he did, his head bowed.

"That was stupid," Fielding told him. "I've warned you what would happen if you disobeyed. Obviously you still haven't learned who's in charge here. Bend over and touch your toes, and if you straighten up I'll start again."

"No, please don't hit me any more," begged Stephens. "I swear I won't do it again… please, Fielding, I'm really sorry…"

"Too late. Now bend down or you'll get twelve instead of six."

Sobbing, Stephens bent over and Fielding whipped his bum, hard and accurately, six times. Stephens howled and clutched at himself, but managed not to straighten up until the six blows were over.

"Good – maybe you're learning after all," said Fielding. "Stand up straight and let me look at you."

Stephens was a mess: his body was smeared with his own semen, there were angry red marks on his bum, legs, back and chest, and his eyes were swollen with crying. There was a trail of snot underneath his nose, running across his lips. Fielding looked at his victim, feeling absolutely wonderful: this was real power, he thought. He was aware that he had an erection again, and briefly thought about making Stephens suck it once more; but then he decided that the older boy had probably taken all he could for one day.

"Okay," he said, rummaging in his bag and finding the packet of tissues he had brought with him. He handed the packet to Stephens. "Clean yourself up a bit, and then you can get dressed, except for your shoes and socks. I'm going to hide the key. I'm sure you've learned your lesson, but I'm still not taking any chances."

He unlocked the ankle padlock and tucked the chain into his bag, then strolled off into the woods and waited a few minutes. By the time he got back Stephens was standing waiting for him, dressed apart from his footwear, his head bowed submissively.

Fielding tucked Stephens's socks into his shoes and chucked them into a thick bramble bush. "See you on the bus on Monday," he said, trotting off along the path. He knew that he would get enough of a start to be out of range by the time Stephens had retrieved his footwear, but he didn't hang about, all the same. It had been a brilliant day so far, and he didn't want to take any chances.

The following afternoon he put on his best clothes – his only pair of long trousers (other than his jeans), a clean blue shirt and his school shoes, neatly polished – and rode his bike over to Barnett's house. Barnett himself opened the door, wearing a big smile and a set of clothes that made him look about seven: a pair of pale yellow shorts, little white ankle socks, sandals and a white tee shirt with a picture of the Road Runner on the front.

"Come in, Jordan," he invited, the smile getting even bigger. "I'm really glad you came… come and meet Mummy."

'Mummy' was at work in the kitchen, and didn't look quite like the dragon Fielding had expected, though she looked him over in a way that made him feel a bit like a new recruit in front of a particularly critical sergeant-major. But apparently he passed muster, because after a moment she smiled at him.

"It's nice to meet you, Jordan," she said. "Charlie's told me all about you."

I bet he hasn't, thought Jordan, keeping his smile in place.

"Right, Charlie, take Jordan up to your room and play quietly," she went on. "Or you can go and play in the garden, if you like."

Jordan noted that the garden was just outside the kitchen window, which meant that she would be able to keep an eye on them while they were outside, and so was quite glad when Barnett said that they would go up to his room to start with.

Barnett's bedroom was a bit smaller than Fielding's own, and, like Barnett's clothes, gave the impression of belonging to a much younger boy: there was a battered teddy-bear on the bed (which Fielding thought was OK – his own teddy still sat beside his bed, though he didn't actually take it to bed with him any more), but there were quite a lot of other soft toys sitting on the cupboard beside the bed, and the pyjamas folded up on the pillow were decorated with cartoon ducks. And there wasn't a single toy soldier or tank in sight: Fielding's own floor was scattered with them. In fact, Barnett's floor had nothing on it at all except for a rug beside the bed and a small litter bin beside the desk. Nor were there any posters on the walls. And the curtains were actually pastel pink, though maybe Barnett hadn't been responsible for choosing that colour.

"So – what would you like to do?" asked Barnett, sitting on the bed and bouncing on it.

"I don't know… have you got any soldiers?"

Barnett shook his head. "I'm not allowed things like that," he said. "I've got some cars, though – would you like to see?"

He opened a cupboard and produced a number of Corgi and Dinky cars, which at least looked battered enough to suggest that they got some proper use, and so for a while they played an impromptu game of car chases. This lasted until Barnett overenthusiastically crashed one of his cars into the rubbish bin, at which point his mother called up the stairs for them to play more quietly.

"We'd better put them away," said Barnett. "I've got some board games – shall we play Snakes and Ladders?"

They did that, and later they went out into the garden and threw a ball to each other. By tea time Fielding really did feel as if he had somehow acquired a little brother: Barnett seemed to be trying his hardest to keep his guest happy, agreeing with everything Fielding suggested.

"Charlie tells me you know some of the senior boys at your school," Mrs Barnett said as they sat down for tea. "He says you spend some of your time helping them. Is that right?"

"Well, I run errands for the Head Boy sometimes."

"You know Marcus Garrett?"

Fielding nodded. "Sometimes he gets me to help out with stuff," he said.

"Really?" She looked sceptical. "I know his mother – I expect I'll be seeing him at Parents' Evening tomorrow night, too."

"I'll be helping him with that as well," said Fielding, who had already volunteered his services to Garrett.

"I'll see you there, then," she said, looking marginally less sceptical.

And the following evening she did indeed see him there: he'd had a word with Garrett and arranged to take charge of the collection of boys in detention and other miscreants (including most of those he had helped to catch) who would be acting as guides and runners. Garrett sat in the classroom nearest the gates, greeting each parent on arrival and offering the services of a guide to show them where each teacher was stationed.

When Mrs Barnett arrived with her husband she said hello to Garrett and asked where her son's form teacher was to be found. Garrett nodded at Fielding, who was marshalling the runners, and Fielding promptly snapped out, "Larkin – take this lady to 1C's form room. I think you know where it is…"

Larkin, who wished he had no reason to know where 1C's form room was, stepped forward and led the Barnetts away, and Fielding noticed that Mrs Barnett looked at him and smiled before they left. Later in the evening she came back on her own, spoke quietly to Garrett, watched Fielding issuing instructions to boys a lot older than he was for a couple of minutes, and then took him to one side.

"Marcus says you're very responsible for your age, and I can see it's true, the way those big boys do what you tell them straight away," she said. "Charlie says you'd be prepared to baby-sit for him while we're out. I didn't think you'd be suitable at first – after all, you're the same age he is – but now that I've seen you and spoken to Marcus about you I've changed my mind. So I know this is very short notice, but we're going out on Wednesday evening, and we'd like you to look after Charlie while we're out. Will you be able to?"

"I think so. I'll have to ask my parents, but I should think I can – as long as Charlie knows I'm in charge, that is. As you say, he might not want to take orders from someone in his own year."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he knows he has to do what you tell him. Don't take any nonsense from him – if he doesn't do what you say he'll be in trouble when we get home. But I don't think he'll misbehave: he's normally a good little boy."

"Okay," said Fielding, trying not to smile. "I'll phone you when I get home and let you know if I can come. I've got your number."

Ten minutes later another lady came over to talk to him, a tall woman with her grey hair in an elaborate wave, and with a cigarette in her hand. She too had been talking to Garrett.

"My name is Helena Baxter-Cauldwell," she told him, apparently expecting this to mean something to him. It didn't, so he said nothing, and after a moment she went on, "Marcus Garrett says he relies on you to motivate a lot of the older boys into behaving properly, and I've watched you in action for a while this evening. I can't really understand how you do it, but it obviously works, whatever your secret is.

"My problem is that I have a son, Philip, who's in the Lower Sixth. He's lazy: he scraped through his O levels, but he won't get to a decent university unless he works a lot harder next year, and I can't seem to find any way to get him to work. Marcus thinks you might be able to find a way, and because I can't think of anything else to try, I'd like you to see what you can do. You'll have absolute control: do whatever it takes to get him working. I'll be happy to pay you – based on results, of course. His exam results last term were dreadful, and all of the teachers think he's going to fail his A's. Get him working again if you can, and if his results at the end of next term are better, I'll pay you £50."

£50! That was a huge sum of money to an eleven-year-old boy, and Fielding nearly fell over himself accepting the challenge. The idea of being paid to bully and dominate a sixth-former was brilliant, and he already had a pretty good idea of how it could be achieved…

Fielding's appointments book was getting quite crowded: now he had Barnett and the hitherto unknown Philip Baxter-Cauldwell to order about outside school, as well as Stephens, and of course during school time he was busy with Larkin. This didn't leave him quite so much time to go looking for new wrongdoers, but he did his best to do a certain amount of checking of toilets and bike sheds, even though this was now the last week of term. He had no reason to think things would be any different after the Easter holidays: this was his first year, after all, and he didn't know how the school operated, and, unlike Little Collins, he didn't have an older brother to keep him informed. But Little Collins knew what was going to happen after the holidays, and that was one reason why Ian Osterley looked a lot happier this week.

Little Collins had been round to visit him on the Saturday, dressed as he had promised in shorts (though he wore pants underneath his), and the two of them had spent most of the day going for a long walk in the country, during which they had more or less behaved themselves, and the latter part of the afternoon in Osterley's bedroom, where they hadn't: they'd stripped and wrestled and, eventually, wanked each other off. And it was after that that Little Collins had given his friend the glad tidings.

Of course, he still had to survive the final week, and the end of term prefects' meal on Thursday evening promised to be particularly humiliating, but he thought he could get through it. On the Monday he managed to avoid Pope's forces altogether by dint of arriving at school at the very last moment and then staying in his own form room at break and lunch time: the teasing of his own classmates was infinitely preferable to what Pope would do to him, given half a chance. On the Tuesday he had music last lesson before lunch and so was able to hide out in one of the practice rooms with Little Collins, as he had the previous week. And on Wednesday he got lucky with the weather; it rained on and off all day, so everyone stayed in his own form room during the breaks. But Thursday… Thursday was always going to be a problem.

The end of term prefects' meal was held on the last Thursday evening of the Easter term, and by tradition it was organised and run by the prefects themselves. There would be a teacher on duty in the teachers' common room in case of emergency, and of course there were adult workers in the kitchen, but there would be no adults present in the dining hall, which was exclusively occupied by the prefects – and their waiters. Or, in the case of this year, waitresses: Garrett had coerced a number of the term's wrongdoers into attending the meal, and they would be dressed accordingly. Osterley wasn't looking forward to it, but a much bigger problem was going to be working out what to do with himself between the end of school at four o'clock and the start of the meal at six thirty. He lived too far away, and his bus service was too erratic, for it to be feasible to go home in the meantime, so he would have to do something else, such as going into town and reading in the library – if he could get out of school unnoticed.

Because, of course, Thursday was also Games Day, and the previous Thursday he had been ambushed on the way out of the Games Hall, and he was determined to avoid a repeat of last Thursday evening's horrors at the back of the rifle range. He knew it was no good trying to escape via the teachers' door: Pope's army had watched it last week and would no doubt do so again. He supposed he could just go out the front with everyone else and hope his own classmates would stick up for him – though he was very much afraid that they wouldn't, given the amount of stick he was still taking about his shorts.

So he did the only other thing he could think of: once he had got changed he slipped into the equipment store, intending to hide until everyone had gone. Once the teacher turned off the lights and locked up he reckoned Pope's crew would think they'd missed him and disperse, and he would be able to slip out of a window and make his way quietly and unopposed into town.

And it very nearly worked, and it would have done if it hadn't been Mr Day on duty. Mr Day was young and conscientious, and so when he did his rounds to lock up after all the boys had gone he actually opened all the cupboards and checked everywhere, and so he found Osterley lurking in the equipment room.

"What are you doing here, Osterley?" he asked.

"I'm… I'm trying to avoid someone, Sir."

"Well, you'll have to avoid them somewhere else. Come on, boy, shift: I need to lock up." And he ushered Osterley out of the front door, and straight into the arms of Pope and his gang, who had almost given up – almost, but, unfortunately for Osterley, not quite. Once again he was frogmarched down to the rifle range, but this time Pope had gone one better: one of his gang had managed to pop the lock to the range using a penknife. He was shoved inside and pushed over to the raised section where those shooting used to lie.

"Come on, Pope," begged Osterley, "haven't I been through enough of this? You know you won't be able to do this stuff next term, don't you, unless you want to get into real trouble."

"That's why we're making the most of it now," said Pope. "This will be our last chance to have some fun with you, and we've got… oh, I reckon you haven't got to be at the meal for another two hours and twenty minutes. Plenty of time for lots of stuff, don't you think?"

"How do you know about the meal?"

"The Rat told us. He said he'll try to get to come and watch in a bit, but we might as well start without him. Strip him, boys!"

Osterley struggled, but once again he was hopelessly outnumbered: this time Pope and Harwood had been able to do a little advance planning, and so even more of their friends had been able to make arrangements to stay after school. Tonight there were eleven second years and nine first years in attendance, and that gave Osterley no chance at all. To make matters worse, one of Pope's friends had a Polaroid camera, and everyone had chipped in with some money to buy a couple of films for it. Osterley hadn't actually spotted the camera yet: so far he was too busy trying to hold on to his shorts.

Pretty soon he lost the battle and found himself naked, being held upright by a couple of hefty second year boys while everyone pointed at him and laughed. He still didn't realise there was a camera present until the flash went off, and the he redoubled his efforts to get free, but to no avail. The boys holding him dragged him to the raised platform and forced him to lie face down across the edge of it.

"Who wants to go first?" asked Pope, flourishing a heavy leather belt he had pinched from his father's wardrobe.

The predictable scrum followed, ending only when one of the second years laid claim to the belt and took up position behind Osterley's bum. Everyone else stood back to watch.

"Just one each to start with," said Pope. "We don't want him passing out on us. But you can make it good and hard."

The second year obliged, and Osterley squealed and bucked, but the boys holding him down – and there were four of them now – help him firm. The boy with the belt passed it on, and a second boy made the most of his moment in the spotlight by swinging the belt as hard as he could, drawing another yell from their victim.

David arrived just after the fifth blow had landed. "Carry on," he invited them. "I'm just here to watch." He leant on the wall behind Osterley's bum and grinned as the next boy delivered his blow, and the next, and the next…

After all twenty boys had hit him Osterley was hurting far too much to struggle any more, crying openly and clutching at his sore bum when they finally released his arms. When he was given the choice of posing for half a dozen obscene photographs or being given another hundred blows with the belt he chose the photos, and the juniors had fun dreaming filthy and humiliating poses for him. Close-ups of his genitals and anus were taken, and he was made to pose holding himself and apparently wanking, squatting as if to shit and actually urinating (he was taken outside for that one). Of course, Pope knew there was a lot worse to come, so he limited the use of the camera: he wanted the film kept for the real action later on.

Next Osterley was tied to one of the wooden pillars that help the roof up, his back to the pillar and his arms firmly lashed behind it, and all the boys took it in turns to molest him, making him get an erection and then slapping it, twisting it, pulling it, forcing it down and then releasing it to slap into his body, and so on. By the time everyone had had a go it was really hard, and then – once a couple of photos had been taken – Pope picked up the belt again.

"We all know he's a pervert," he told them, "and perverts should be punished appropriately. Like this." And he swung the belt hard against Osterley's stiff penis.

Osterley yelled and struggled, but he was tied far too tightly. One by one the boys whipped his penis with the belt, and a couple of them hit his exposed balls, too, which was agony to him. By the time the tenth boy had hit him they had been forced to stuff his socks into his mouth to muffle his screams.

By the time everyone had had a go – and even Little Collins had been forced to ply the belt in order to maintain his cover – tears were streaming down Osterley's face, and his penis was covered in black marks. The foreskin had been pulled right back, and the exposed head was also bruised and agonisingly sore. But Pope had barely started: next he ordered their victim to be cut free and bent over the firing platform once more, and once he was in position Pope pulled down his own trousers and pants, revealing an eager erection.

"Now we get to show him what happens to perverts," he said, rubbing a little lubricant onto himself and lining up.

The boys who had not been there the previous week gasped and stared, though none of them raised the least protest. Pope forced his way in, and Osterley gave a muffled cry once more: not only did this hurt in itself, but now his aching penis – with the sensitive head still exposed – was being crushed against the rough wood of the firing platform.

Pope fucked him steadily, crying out in ecstasy as he came, and them wiped himself down, pulled up his trousers, picked up the belt, swung it against Osterley's bum, and turned to the crowd.

"Who's next?" he asked, and once again a clamour of voices erupted.

In the end he got everyone who wanted a go lined up in alphabetical order of surname. Some of the first years abstained: Barnett wasn't there tonight, though his friend Sadler was and he declined the invitation; and a couple of the second years also decided not to reveal their shortcomings in public. Little Collins, of course, had no wish to take part, and David himself had no intention of undressing in front of anyone. But that still left fourteen boys who were prepared to give it a try, even though some of them were not big enough to be able to do it properly.

From Osterley's point of view it was still horrible: even the smaller boys ground his penis against the platform, and the bigger ones hurt his bum as well. Fielding (who had been quite happy to sit back this time and let Pope run things) was of course big enough to cause him substantial discomfort, and so were some of the second-formers. The only plus point was that this took quite a long time: even before everyone had fucked him some of the boys were leaving, having to get home for supper, with the result that when it was finally over and he was dragged outside, there were only a dozen boys left to urinate all over him – which they did, this time soaking him all over, including his face and hair.

Finally they all trooped off, leaving him lying on the ground groaning. David and Fielding stayed with him, because now it was only about twenty minutes before the prefects' meal was due to start, and they wanted him on his feet and ready to go by then. But Osterley seemed incapable of even standing up.

"He's faking it," said David, kicking him.

"I don't think so," said Fielding, squatting down and peering at him. "I think he's seriously messed up."

"Well… okay, let's leave the bloody pervert here, then. We've got enough waitresses without him. But he can damned well stay here until we've finished – I don't see why he should be allowed to sneak off home." And David went back into the range and collected all Osterley's clothes, stuffing them into his bag.

"You can wait inside the range," he said. "We'll bring your clothes back when the meal is over. Try not to play with yourself too much." And he stood up and walked away.

Fielding followed him, wondering if maybe they had gone too far this time: Osterley looked in real pain. If he complained, there would be trouble… still, probably not for him, he thought. After all, it was David who had masterminded Osterley's punishment, and Pope who had carried it out. He was confident that, whatever else happened, it wouldn't be Jordan Fielding who got the blame.

Once they had left, Little Collins emerged from behind the cadet hut and ran back to the range. He had left with the others and then doubled back once the group had dispersed outside the school grounds. He knelt down beside his friend.

"They've all gone," he said. "Can you stand up?"

Osterley groaned and used his friend's body to help him struggle to his feet. He felt wet and cold, his penis felt as if it was about to fall off, and his arse ached far worse than it had the first time he had been subjected to this. He tottered back into the building, using Little Collins as a crutch, and sat down on the platform, immediately rolling onto his side: his bum hurt too much when he sat on it.

"They've taken my clothes," he stammered. "The Rat said he'll bring them back after the meal, but that could be hours, Bertie… I'm cold, and it hurts…" and he started to cry again.

"Wait here," said Little Collins, taking off his blazer and draping it over Osterley's shoulders. "I'll see if I can get your clothes back."

He made his way up to the dining hall, waited until noise from within suggested that things were getting under way, and then started to check the rooms on the level above the hall. The third room he looked into proved to be the temporary dressing room: there were a number of uniforms in various sizes scattered about. The ubiquitous labels helped him to establish that none of the clothes in plain view belonged to Osterley, but the Rat had left his bag in the same room, and eventually Little Collins got around to checking it and found what he was after. He made his way back to the range, where he found Osterley still sitting shivering; he had folded the blazer up and put it down next to him.

"I didn't want to get pee on it," he explained, his arms wrapped around himself. "My hair's still dripping, I think."

"God, you're stupid. Do you really think I'd care about a bit of pee on my clothes if it stopped you getting pneumonia? Anyway, I've got you some paper towels from the toilet. Do what you can with them and then get dressed, and then you're coming home with me for a hot bath. I live a lot closer than you do."

Osterley tried to argue, but Little Collins insisted, and so Osterley did as he was told, gratefully. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life, and he really thought that if Little Collins hadn't been there he would simply have gone out into the street and thrown himself under a bus.

Half an hour later he was lying in a hot bath at Little Collins's house, his friend sitting on the side of the bath and pouring warm water over him, and he was starting to feel a little better. He'd found and removed a splinter that had been stuck into the underside of his penis, and his bottom felt a lot better now that he had had some time to recover; and having his friend there to look after him helped as well. And as his spirits rose a little he swore an oath: one day he was going to make the Rat suffer the way he had, only worse. And maybe he'd get a chance to do that sooner than the Rat was expecting…

Bad news for the Rat there, especially as he still hasn't seen the flaw in his plans… In the next chapter we'll backtrack to the start of the week, to catch up with Larkin's troubles at home and at school and to see how Fielding's career as a babysitter gets off the ground. And maybe we'll get to see a bit more of David himself in the next chapter: the roof is about to fall in on him, and there are a lot of people looking forward to being there when it happens.

Chapter Eight

In this chapter Larkin's troubles get bigger (or smaller, depending how you look at it). And Barnett fairly quickly finds himself wondering whether recruiting Fielding to be his baby-sitter was really such a good idea…

Billy Larkin wasted no time enforcing his orders to his brother: when his father told him it was time for bed that Friday evening, Billy stared at his brother until Steven stood up and said, "I think I'll have an early night, too. In fact, I've been thinking of going to bed a bit earlier every day – I've been feeling a bit tired at school."

"Okay," said his father, looking surprised: it was only eight o'clock, and usually Steven stayed up much later than that on a Friday evening.

So both boys went upstairs, and Billy came into Steven's room and watched him put his pyjamas on, insisting that he did it facing him, so that he got a good view. Then he went back to his own room and closed the door before getting undressed himself.

Things didn't get any better next morning. Usually their parents went out to do the weekly shopping on a Saturday morning, leaving Steven in charge, and they thought they'd done the same thing this week: they left quite early, as they usually did to try to beat the rush at the supermarket, and before they left their mother put her head round Steven's door (the boys were still both in bed) and told him they were leaving, and that he should make sure Billy behaved himself while they were out.

The minute Billy heard the car start he jumped out of bed and went to his brother's room.

"Stay in bed," he ordered him. "I'll come and get you when it's time for you to get up."

He went to the bathroom and got washed, and then returned to his own room and got fully dressed. Then he went back to Steven's room.

"Get up, take your pyjamas off, make the bed and then go to the bathroom and get washed," he ordered.

Steven got out of bed, removed his pyjamas and reached for his pants, but Billy stopped him.

"Leave those alone," he said. "You're not allowed to get dressed until you've finished in the bathroom. Now make the bed, and if it isn't done properly I'll make you start again."

Hideously conscious that he was wearing nothing except a small pink ribbon – Billy had ordered him to keep it on overnight – and that his ten-year-old brother was smirking at him, Steven started making the bed; but of course Billy wasn't satisfied with his first effort and made him do it again.

"Stop wasting time," he said. "If you don't get everything done properly before ten o'clock I'm going to phone Nathan and ask him to come round to play, so unless you want him to see you like that you'd better get a move on, hadn't you?"

The last thing Steven wanted was for Billy's best friend to come round and catch him naked, so he made a serious attempt to make the bed. This time Billy said it would do, but insisted that he go and make Billy's bed too before he went to get washed.

"Come on, Billy, I need to go to the toilet," said Steven. "Can't I do your bed later?"

"Do it now, or else I'll call Nathan at half-past nine instead."

So Steven went to his brother's room, and – eventually – satisfied his demand for a perfectly-made bed. Only then was he allowed to go to the bathroom, but before he could shut the door Billy followed him in.

"I've got to make sure you wash behind the ears," said the younger boy, smirking at him.

"But… I need to pee, Billy. I'll call you in when I've finished."

"No, you won't, because I'm not going anywhere. If you need to pee, get on with it."

"But I can't go in front of you!"

"Then you can't go at all." And Billy plonked himself onto the side of the bath and folded his arms.

Steven really had to go, and although he tried desperately to persuade Billy to leave he was unsuccessful. Obviously he didn't dare physically force him out of the room: he knew if he did that, Nathan would only be the first person who got to look at the incriminating photos. So in the end he had to stand in front of the toilet, and at that point Billy came and stood right beside him so that he could see properly.

Steven felt desperately ashamed: nobody had ever watched him do this – at least, not since he was a very small child. But he had no choice. He started to pee, vainly trying to ignore his brother's giggles and comments.

"Now have a proper wash," demanded Billy, when he had finished and flushed.

Steven washed his hands and face thoroughly and brushed his teeth, and only then did Billy tell him to go back to his room and get dressed.

"I'll go and do some toast," he said, heading for the stairs.

Steven went back to his own room and reached for his pants again, but then he paused. He remembered what Fielding had told him about keeping himself completely hairless, and although there was no sign of anything growing back yet, he wasn't sure how fast it would grow. With his parents out and his brother occupied making breakfast, maybe this would be a good time to use the cream Fielding had given him, just to make sure there was no sign should he be inspected on Monday. After all, it was quite possible that Fielding had deliberately missed a few hairs when shaving him – round the back of his balls, for instance – just so that he could catch him out on Monday.

He took the tube of Immac into the bathroom and read the instructions: 'Spread evenly over the area to be depilated and leave in place for ten minutes, and then wash thoroughly with clean cold water'.

He thought it would take his brother a lot more than ten minutes to prepare and eat his breakfast, so he set to work coating his balls and the area round the base of his penis with the cream. Then he realised he couldn't check it had been on for ten minutes because he wasn't wearing a watch, so he tiptoed back to his room and put his watch on, walking carefully with his legs apart to avoid rubbing off the cream.

"What are you doing?" asked his brother's voice, just as he got back to the bathroom door.

"Why aren't you in the kitchen?" he countered.

"I came up to ask how many slices of toast you want. What's all that white stuff?"

Steven couldn't think of an excuse, and in any case he already knew that his brother could tell when he was lying, so he swallowed and told him the truth. Billy fell about laughing.

"So you have to use that stuff to keep yourself bald every day?" he asked, when he got his breath back.

"I'm not sure if I have to do it every day, only when the hair starts to grow again. But I wanted to be sure it was all off to start with, otherwise I'll be in trouble at school."

"That's funny! OK, from now on you have to tell me whenever you're going to use it so that I can come and watch. I can help you, too – I can check the bits you can't see yourself, like under your balls and round your bum. In fact, I think I'd like to put it on for you next time – I like the idea of it being me who makes sure you haven't got any hair."

So Steven was forced to let his brother stay with him, and once the cream had been rinsed away Billy made him submit to a humiliating close inspection: the younger boy peered closely at his balls and ordered him to bend over and spread his legs so that his bum-hole and the area round it could be inspected. Steven blushed deeply all over, which just made his brother laugh even more.

"We'd better play safe," said Billy, when he finally allowed Steven to go back to his bedroom and get dressed. "I'm going to inspect you like that every day. After all, now that I'm in charge I can't have you getting into trouble at school, can I?"

Things didn't get any better for Larkin when he got back to school on the Monday morning: as usual he had to report to 1C's form room at break to take their tuck shop order, and of course Fielding insisted on making a full inspection, first to check that the bra and knickers were being worn, and then to carry out a full and thorough check for pubic hair. This meant that Larkin was forced to strip naked and undergo a humiliating personal inspection in front of a crowd of jeering first-years. Nor did things get any better at lunchtime, when he was again forced to suck Baker off while Fielding fucked him. If it hadn't been for the fact that this was the last week of term Larkin thought he might have had to run away to sea, or something similarly drastic, but as he only had a further four days to survive, he thought perhaps he could make it through to the start of the Easter holidays.

His situation did deteriorate still further on the Wednesday evening, when he got home from school to find Billy's friend Nathan sitting watching television with him. Larkin tried to sneak up to his room without being noticed, because he knew that his brother would be sure to bring Nathan with him if he came up to watch him getting changed; but of course Billy had been waiting for him and came running out of the living room almost as soon as Steven had set foot on the lowest stair.

"Oh, good, you're nice and early," he said. "Mum's popped round to see Mrs Jenkins – she says can you make us some sandwiches for tea."

"Okay," said Steven, dropping his school bag and heading for the kitchen. "Is Nathan staying for tea?"

"Yes, he is. But… don't you think you ought to go and get changed first? You wouldn't want to get jam or something all over your school uniform."

"It's okay, I'll be careful."

"No, it isn't. Go and get changed… no, just come in here and take off your blazer and stuff."

So Steven followed him into the living room and removed his blazer, but – as he had feared – Billy's definition of 'and stuff' turned out to be anything worn exclusively for school, including his tie, trousers and shirt. He begged Billy to let him keep his trousers and shirt on, but Billy insisted, miming the use of a camera to indicate what would happen if Steven didn't comply, and so Steven was forced to strip to his bra and knickers. Nathan took one look and literally fell on the floor, rolling about and laughing hysterically, while Steven went bright red with shame.

"Make him go and get our tea dressed like that!" suggested Nathan, when he finally got his breath back, so Steven was sent back into the kitchen and forced to wait on the two younger boys in his girl's underwear. He wasn't allowed to eat anything himself until they had both finished, and then he was only allowed to eat their leftovers. Then they marched him up to his room, where Billy undid his bra for him and then ordered him to remove his knickers.

Off they came, revealing the hairless organs and little pink ribbon, and once again Nathan howled with laughter.

"What's the ribbon for?" he gasped.

"It's to show everyone that my brother's a girly," Billy told him. "Hey, Nath – do you want to see it stick out?"

Nathan nodded eagerly, so Billy ordered his brother to come and stand in front of them and then took hold of his penis, squeezing and tugging until it started to get hard.

"Can I have a go?" asked Nathan.

"Of course," Billy told him, so Nathan grabbed it and wrenched at it, making Steven cry out. Nathan thought that was funny, so he pulled it even harder, twisting it as well, and Steven overbalanced and fell onto the bed. Nathan didn't let go, however, continuing to pull and squeeze until Steven's erection was at full stretch.

"That looks so funny," said Nathan, letting go at last and slapping it, making Steven yell. "What else can we do to him, Billy?"

"Whatever you want," said Billy, grinning.

"Oh, wow! Let me think…"

Nathan thought about it, idly slapping Steven's erect penis back and forwards. Then he got up and went and whispered in Billy's ear.

"Yes, okay, why not?" agreed Billy, smiling.

He went and removed his brother's ribbon, stowing it in his pocket, and then he ordered him into the bathroom and told him to lie on his back in the bath. Steven did so, expecting them to turn on the cold water or something, but what happened instead was that Nathan pulled out his little penis and pissed all over Steven's groin.

"Stand up," ordered Billy, cutting across his brother's protests.

Steven stood up, and pee ran down his legs, and Nathan fell about laughing once more.

Billy ordered his brother to lie down again, and now he did turn the cold tap on, ordering Steven to rinse himself off. By the time he had done so the freezing water had done its job and his erection had completely disappeared.

"Now it's gone all small," said Nathan. "This is fun, Billy – can I come round and do this stuff again?"

"Whenever you want," said Billy, and Steven's heart sank: this looked likely to go on for ever…

On the Wednesday Jordan went home with Charlie Barnett, though before they left the school he changed into his long trousers, which he had brought to school specially: if he was going to be in charge this evening, he wanted to look the part.

When they got to Charlie's house his mother was already getting ready to go out. She sent Charlie upstairs to get changed out of his school uniform and took Jordan through into the kitchen, where she was getting their tea ready.

"Now, I've told Charlie you're in charge, and that he has to do whatever you tell him without arguing. If he misbehaves, you're to tell me about it when I get home, though I don't think he will: as I said before, he's usually very good. Once you've had your tea he's to do his homework, and I expect you'd like to do yours at the same time – I don't let him watch television until he's finished it.

"He has to be in bed by eight o'clock, and I'll be telling him he's not to argue about that with you. And I want him to have a bath before he goes to bed – and make sure he cleans his teeth last thing, too.

"I expect you usually go to bed quite early, too, but I don't think we'll be too late getting back home. We'll be in at around nine-thirty, so we should be able to get you home by ten. If this works out, next time we'll arrange for you to stay the night: that way you won't have to stay up past your normal bedtime."

Charlie reappeared wearing the same pair of little pale yellow shorts and the same tiny ankle socks that he had been wearing on Jordan's last visit, but this time the tee shirt was a plain one of pale blue. It didn't make him look a lot older, though.

Mrs Barnett took him to one side and gave him his instructions, while Jordan metaphorically rubbed his hands in glee: this, he thought, might be quite an entertaining evening after all.

Mrs Barnett set the table and invited them to sit down, and when she had finished setting out the sandwiches, some cakes and a bottle of lemonade she looked at her watch and said she had to go. "Jordan, if anything goes wrong you can go round to Mrs Batley next door – she'll know who to call in an emergency. But I'm sure you won't need to do that. Charlie, you be good and do what Jordan tells you, all right?"

She went and kissed Charlie on the cheek and then left the house.

"Yippee!" cried Charlie, as soon as the door closed. "Now we can have some fun!"

"We're not going to mess about, Charlie. We can't let anything go wrong tonight or I won't be allowed to come again. So tonight we're going to do what your mum said we should. After tea we'll do our homework. We can think about enjoying ourselves once it's done."

"Oh," said Charlie, looking disappointed. "I thought we could do brother-type stuff, like chasing each other and wrestling and stuff."

"Well, we might be able to do some of that too if we get our homework done quickly enough."

"Hooray!" shouted Charlie, enthusiastically.

They ate their tea fairly quickly, and Charlie collected their plates and piled them up on the draining board. Then he went into the hall and came back with his briefcase.

"Aren't you going to do the washing up?" Jordan asked him.

"Well, no. Mum will do it when she gets home."

"When she gets home she'll be tired and not in the mood to clean up after us," Jordan pointed out. "But… okay, we'll leave it until we've done our homework, at least."

He went and got his own bag and they sat down beside each other and wrote up that afternoon's chemistry experiment, and then did the ten maths exercises they had been set. Jordan was quite good at maths, so he was able to help Charlie out when he got stuck.

"Thanks, Jordan," said Charlie, putting his books away. "That's another reason I wish I had a big brother: it's nice having someone to help with homework. Now, let's go and see what's on telly!"

He ran and got the Radio Times and looked at what was on.

"There's not much on now," he said, "but I'd like to watch that," and he pointed to a programme on BBC2 that started at eight o'clock.

"You're supposed to be in bed at eight o'clock."

"I know, but… please, Jordan? I never get a chance to stay up normally…"

Jordan himself usually didn't go to bed until nine, so he had a certain sympathy.

"Your mum would never let me look after you again if she found out you were up after eight o'clock," he pointed out.

"I won't tell her, I promise."

"Yes, but you're supposed to have a bath tonight, too. If you're still watching telly at half past eight and then go for a bath, you'll be far too late getting to bed."

"Well, I don't really have to have a bath, do I? We could just say I did."

"No, we couldn't. Your mum will be expecting wet towels and stuff. And, besides, I promised her I'd make sure you had a bath tonight. But… I suppose you could have your bath earlier, and then come back down to watch some TV afterwards…"

"Yes, okay!" agreed Charlie immediately.

"Good. Okay, let's go upstairs, and then maybe we can see if you know how to wrestle."

Charlie gave him a big grin and ran up the stairs, and as soon as Jordan set foot in the bedroom Charlie jumped on him. But Jordan was five inches [13 cm] taller and proportionally heavier, and Charlie didn't seem to know the first thing about fighting, so within ten seconds Jordan had him pinned down on the floor. He got off him and let him try again, but Charlie didn't do any better the second time. Jordan pinned his arms down with his knees and tickled the smaller boy mercilessly.

"This is why you should never annoy an older brother," he pointed out, as Charlie wriggled and struggled. "Now… I'll go and run the bath; you get ready."

He got up and headed for the door.

"I'm allowed to do my own bath now," said Charlie, scrambling to his feet. "Mummy said that now I'm twelve I'm old enough not to need any help."

"You're already twelve?" asked Jordan in disbelief: his own twelfth birthday was still nearly five months away.

"Ages ago," said Charlie, proudly. "I'm more than twelve and a half now – my birthday's in September."

That made him almost a whole year older than Jordan, whose birthday was in August. He couldn't believe that this little baby was a year older than he was, but if he was, that made him old enough to have some fun with.

"Sorry, Charlie, but I'm in charge tonight, and when I'm in charge I'm going to make sure you're okay. So, like I said, get undressed and then come through – I'll go and run the bath for you."

"Oh… well, I suppose it's okay if you run it for me… can you put some foamy stuff in, please? It's the pink bottle on the window-sill."

"Okay." Jordan went through to the bathroom and started running the bath, adding a dash of the pink liquid, which started to foam up nicely. A couple of minutes later Charlie came in, wearing nothing but a pair of little white briefs.

"How deep do you want it?" asked Jordan.

"I like it nice and deep, so I can go right under water… and I can manage on my own, Jordan, honest."

"I expect you can, but this is my first time in charge, so I'm going to play safe. Come and try the water and see if it's hot enough."

Charlie did that. "It's perfect," he said, and a little later he added, "I think that's deep enough, too. Thanks, Jordan – I'll come down as soon as I've finished."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Jordan. "I've got to supervise you."

Charlie's face fell. "But… you can't," he said. "I'm not allowed to let anyone see me all bare, ever."

"If I was really your brother, you'd be allowed to let me see you, because we'd probably share a bedroom, so we'd see each other getting changed all the time. And it's different with me than with your mum, because I'm a boy, so I look the same as you do undressed."

"Yes, but… please, Jordan, I don't want to."

"I promised your mum I'd make sure you were okay, so I'm going to. Now get in the bath, or I might have to smack your bottom for you."

Charlie stared at him: he seemed on the verge of tears. Then he made one last attempt to escape.

"Well… okay, I suppose that's all right. But I need to do a wee first. I'll call you back in when I'm in the bath." He was confident he could hide under the foam as long as he was able to get into the bath unobserved.

"No, you won't. As soon as I step outside the room you'll lock the door. So I'm staying right here. If you want to use the toilet, go ahead, but I'm not leaving the room."

Charlie opened his mouth to argue but saw the look on Jordan's face and changed his mind. His shoulders slumped.

"You wanted a big brother," said Jordan, to drive the lesson home. "You've got one, so don't start complaining now."

Charlie managed a small nod. "Okay, but could you please look out of the window while I go?"

Jordan looked out of the window for about five seconds, then turned and saw Charlie sitting on the toilet with his pants round his ankles.

"I thought you only wanted a pee?" he said.

"I do."

"Then why are you sitting down?"

"I always sit down to do a wee."

"Really? Why?"

"I just do," said Charlie, keeping hunched forward. "It means I don't have to touch it."

"Why don't you want to touch it?"

"Well, it's dirty – it's got germs on. Boys aren't supposed to touch themselves unless they really have to, and then they have to have a really good wash afterwards. But it's better not to touch it at all, so I always sit down to have a wee."

"I've never heard that before," said Jordan. "What a strange idea… oh, well, if that's how you've been taught to do it, you'd better carry on. Haven't you finished yet?"

"I can't while you're watching me."

"Don't be silly, Charlie – I'm your brother, remember? You don't need to have secrets from me. Oh, and I promise not to tell the other boys at school about babysitting you, or about seeing you undressed, if that's what's worrying you."

"Thanks," said Charlie. "Look, please can't you go out while I do it? It's really difficult while you're here."

"Nope. Just get on with it, or I might have to spank you."

Charlie wasn't sure if he meant it or not, but he closed his eyes, tried to pretend he was alone in the room, and finally managed to pee. He opened his eyes again to see Jordan grinning at him. Embarrassed, he wriggled a couple of times and then stood up, turning away from Jordan while he flushed the toilet, and then quickly reaching for his pants. Jordan stopped him before he managed to pull them up.

"You're getting in the bath, so that's a bit pointless, isn't it?" he said. "Besides, you haven't shaken off properly – you'll leave a wet mark on your undies. In fact, if that's how you normally pee, I bet there's already one there. Take them off and let me see."

Clasping a hand over his groin, Charlie kicked off his pants and handed them over, and then scampered for the bath. Jordan grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

"Just a moment," he said, turning the pants inside out and pointing out the small stain on the inside. "See? It's a wonder you don't leave brown stains there too. Bend over."

Somehow Charlie forced himself to do that, but instead of spanking him Jordan took a piece of toilet paper and wiped it firmly across Charlie's bum, pressing hard. And, as he had hoped, the toilet paper came away with a faint brown smear.

"I thought so," he said, showing it to Charlie. "You're still a baby, Charlie: you can't take care of yourself properly yet. You really do need an older brother to look after you, don't you? Okay, get in the bath and clean yourself up a bit."

Blushing extensively, Charlie did as he was told, happy to hide under the piles of bubbles. Jordan threw the offending piece of paper in the toilet, removed his shirt and knelt down beside the bath.

"Give me the soap," he demanded.

"Why, what are you going to do?" asked Charlie, nervously.

"Give you a bath, of course. I reckon you'll probably drown yourself if I leave you on your own: a boy who can't even use a toilet properly can't be trusted in the bath on his own. Now give me the soap."

Charlie opened his mouth to argue, but realised it would be pointless and closed it again. Instead he handed over the soap.

Jordan started by washing Charlie's feet, which the smaller boy didn't mind too much – in fact, when Jordan deliberately tickled the soles of his feet he quite enjoyed it, giggling and thrashing about in the water. But as Jordan made his way up, washing first his calves and then his thighs, he became more and more nervous.

But when he had done up to a point about six inches [15 cm] below his groin, Jordan switched and started washing his shoulders and back instead, and Charlie relaxed, thinking he was going to be allowed to wash his personal places himself. He was, obviously, wrong. Once Jordan had finished washing his stomach he told Charlie to roll over and get onto his hands and knees. Charlie really didn't want to do that, but one look at Jordan's face convinced him that he had to.

Jordan washed his back and then started on his bum, soaping his hands thoroughly and rubbing away hard, and then using a nail brush over the hole. Charlie squealed and wriggled, but Jordan told him to keep still.

"I've got to get you clean, you dirty little boy," he said. "Unless you want the whole class to start telling you how smelly you are?"

Charlie didn't answer, but he stopped struggling – at least, he stopped until Jordan put aside the brush, soaped his hand thoroughly once more and then carefully pushed a finger into the hole. Charlie yelped and flinched away.

"Shut up and keep still," said Jordan, thinking how tight this felt and wondering how it would feel if he put his cock inside instead of his finger. "This won't take long if you hold still."

Charlie did his best to keep still, but this felt really unpleasant, and he was grateful when Jordan removed his finger. But the gratitude ended when Jordan ordered him to stand up and face him. He did so, but very slowly, and he kept his hands clasped in front of his groin.

"Don't be so silly," said Jordan, batting the hands away and looking at what was behind them. In fairness to Charlie, it was in proportion to the rest of him, but of course that made it pretty small. Jordan looked for a moment, then soaped his hands again, took hold of it and started to soap it up thoroughly. Charlie gasped and tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

"Look, Charlie, if you can't touch it, someone else is going to have to keep it clean for you," Jordan pointed out. "If it doesn't get a good wash fairly often it really will start to smell bad, and I don't want people pointing at my little brother and calling him names, okay? So keep still and let me do this for you."

So Charlie kept still, and once he recovered from the utter shame of being handled in such a personal way it started to feel not so bad: Jordan's fingers were slipping softly up and down his little thingy and all round the undeveloped balls, and it didn't feel bad at all – in fact, it felt quite nice. And then, of course, the inevitable started to happen, and Charlie blushed as he frantically tried to push Jordan's hand away.

"Keep still, you baby," said Jordan, grinning to himself as he felt the little organ starting to swell. "It'll be easier to clean once it's properly hard."

He went on soaping it and playing with it until it was fully erect, jutting upwards and throbbing in his hand. It looked only about half the length of his own, which would have made it little more than two inches [5 cm], but Jordan didn't make any attempt to tease him about his lack of size. Instead he kept handling it gently, doing his best to make it as big and hard as he could. And Charlie, once the initial wave of shame had subsided a little, found himself quite prepared to stand there and let it happen.

Of course, Jordan didn't really want him to enjoy this too much, so once it was good and stiff he let go and just stared at it, and that made Charlie feel ashamed and embarrassed once more. Jordan made him stand there for a few more seconds and then told him to lie down again and rinse all the soap off, which Charlie did, quickly scooping a big pile of bubbles back over his groin.

Jordan let him lie there for a couple of minutes before telling him to pull the plug out and get out of the bath. He wrapped the smaller boy in a large bath towel and dried him off with it, and then handed him the towel to finish himself off. Then he led him through to the bedroom. Charlie immediately reached for his pyjamas, but Jordan stopped him.

"Not yet," he said. "This room's a mess – you haven't put your school clothes away. I know your mum doesn't let you keep the room looking like this, and nor will I. Put everything away, and don't forget to go and get those dirty pants from the bathroom and put them in the laundry basket."

He sat on the bed and watched the naked boy scampering about putting his clothes away, still trying to keep his groin covered. When he had finally finished he tried to put his pyjamas on again, but once more he was prevented.

"I've just remembered we haven't done the washing up yet," Jordan pointed out. "We'll go and do it now, and then you can have your pyjamas."

"I'm not going downstairs all bare!" protested Charlie. "All the curtains are open – someone might look in and see me!"

"The kitchen window looks out into the back garden," Jordan pointed out. "Nobody can look in."

"I don't care! I'm not going downstairs naked, and you can't make me!"

Jordan had been hoping for a bit of defiance at some point, and now he'd got what he wanted. He grabbed Charlie's wrist and dragged him across his lap, and then he began to spank him hard. Charlie howled – he'd never been spanked before – and tried to escape, but Jordan held him firmly and administered six hard blows. Then he let go, but he kept hold of Charlie's left wrist.

The smaller boy hopped about clutching his bottom with his free hand, no longer worrying about his little genitals being on display. Tears were rolling down his face.

"Don't you ever refuse to do what I tell you again," said Jordan, sternly. "Otherwise you'll go straight to bed instead of being allowed to watch TV."

"I hate you! You're horrible!" shouted Charlie, his face red.

"No, you don't," said Jordan. "You're just not used to having a big brother, that's all. Look, you know Mummy will be annoyed with you if the house isn't clean when she gets home. I said we should have done the washing up straight after tea, if you remember…"

"Yes, but why can't I have my pyjamas?"

"I was only teasing," said Jordan. "I was going to let you put them on first – but now you've been naughty about it I'm not going to. Now come on and let's get it done, then you can put them on before we watch TV. Of course, if you keep arguing I might not let you put them on at all…"

Charlie still looked very unhappy, but he turned and headed down the stairs. Jordan smiled to himself, knowing that he now had the smaller boy nicely tamed and obedient.

By the time they had finished the washing up and put everything away Charlie seemed to have calmed down a bit, so Jordan sent him upstairs to put his pyjamas on while he went and sat in the living room. Charlie reappeared a couple of minutes later and came and sat next to Jordan on the settee.

"Still angry with me?" asked Jordan.

"Yes," said Charlie, sulkily.

Jordan pulled him right next to him and put an arm round his shoulders. "I'm trying to be a proper big brother," he said. "Boys I know who have older brothers say they get teased all the time, so I thought I should tease you a bit, too. But if I'm in charge you have to do what I tell you, Charlie, even if you don't like it. You know you deserved to be spanked, don't you?"

Charlie shrugged. "You didn't have to hit me so hard," he said.

"There's no point in doing it unless it hurts. Now you know what'll happen if you don't do what you're told, I bet you'll be a good boy in future, won't you?"

"Well… I suppose so."

"Good. Now, turn the TV on and we'll get comfy."

Charlie went and turned the television on and then came back to the same place, leaning against Jordan and putting his head on Jordan's shoulder. Jordan smiled again: yes, perfectly tamed; he thought. He put his arm round Charlie, who snuggled back against him.

After a while, just before the start of the programme Charlie wanted to see, Jordan went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of lemonade, and as soon as he sat down again Charlie scooted back against him, pulling Jordan's arm around himself.

"Come on, then, it's bed-time," said Jordan as soon as the programme ended.

"Hadn't we better wash the glasses up first?"

"It's okay, I'll do it once you're in bed. Come on, I'll give you a piggy-back."

Jordan carried the smaller boy upstairs.

"Do you need to go to the toilet before you get into bed?" he asked, setting him down at the bedroom door.

Charlie nodded.

"Come on, then." And Jordan took his hand and led him into the bathroom.

This time Charlie only hesitated briefly before pulling his pyjama trousers down and sitting on the seat, and was able to pee without any problem. When he had finished he gave a little wriggle, stood up and reached for the waistband of his trousers.

"Wait a moment," said Jordan. "Stand up straight."

As he had expected, there was a drop of urine clinging to the tip of Charlie's foreskin, so he took a piece of toilet paper and held it against it, and then showed Charlie the result, a spreading mark on the paper.

"That would have gone all over your pyjamas, and then all over you," he said. "Look, Charlie, you really are going to have to learn to do your business properly. Otherwise you'll get smelly, and you'll have nasty marks all over your underwear, and the kids at school will tease you to death. Okay, you can get away with it in the cricket season, but we really are going to have to get you sorted out before September, because someone's bound to notice once you have to take everything off for games. I'm going to think of how to help you do this properly in future. Okay, wash your hands and clean your teeth and then come through – and don't take too long: if your parents get back early and you're not in bed we'll both be in trouble."

Charlie trotted back to the bedroom a couple of minutes later. Jordan made him show him his teeth and then let him get into bad and tucked him in.

"Are you going to read me a story?" asked Charlie.

Jordan wasn't sure he was serious at first: it had been two or three years since he had last wanted a bed-time story. But apparently Charlie was serious, indicating a copy of The Hobbit on the bedside cupboard. So Jordan sat on the side of the bed, found the bookmark and read him the next chapter.

"Now go to sleep," he said, closing the book. "And… are you still mad at me?"

"No," said Charlie. "I think you're a good big brother really. Except… before you go… you promised to teach me about sex. Why does my winkle get all hard sometimes, like it did in the bath?"

"It's too late now," said Jordan; looking at his watch. "It'll take too long. And I promised to teach Sadler, too, so it would be better to do it when you're together. But next time it happens to you when we're at school, tell me – it'll be helpful to know what you're doing when it happens. And keep a note of whenever it happens when we're not at school, too. That'll be useful when we come to talk about it. Is that okay?"

Charlie nodded happily at him, and Jordan went and closed the curtains and then went back to the TV. It was hard to believe that a boy as childish as that could really be a year older than him, but that did make dominating him feel okay. Although to be honest he was slightly in two minds about it: yes, it was fun teasing Charlie, and he supposed that if he wanted to he could pile all sorts of humiliations on him: nappies and potties sprang to mind. But he didn't think he would. He found himself quite liking the smaller boy, and perhaps going overboard with humiliating him would be too much like bullying, even though Charlie was older than he was. And it wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of older boys do do stuff with, after all…

Well, that was an entire chapter with the Rat nowhere in sight – obviously young Master Fielding has pretty much completely taken over the story… Anyway, next time we'll finally get to the end of term prefects' dinner, which some people are going to enjoy a lot more than others. And David is about to make his biggest mistake yet…

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