Prologue

Stephen Dean stood, naked and shivering, at one end of the 30-foot long dormitory. Youths in their late teens and early 20s were lined up, wearing just their underwear, wet towels in their hands and salacious grins on their face. The little boy had never heard the expression "running the gauntlet" before, but its meaning had now been explained to him. All new inmates had to experience this rite of initiation, only in this particular institution the ritual did not end with the boy being flicked with wet towels. Other more painful ordeals would follow as he was forced to run the length of the dormitory and back, time after time, until his tormentors were tired of listening to his screams.

The only thing that set Stephen apart from the countless boys who had undergone this experience in the past was his age. In a Young Offenders' Institution designed for adolescents and young adults, newbies facing initiation had never been younger than 16. Until this night. For little Stephen Dean was just 10 years old.

While waiting to be told to start running, Stephen found himself reliving the events that had landed him in this hell-hole.

Chapter One

For months Stephen had been bullied mercilessly by two 15-year-old boys from the nearby comprehensive school. When walking to or from his primary school he was particularly vulnerable when his route took him through a densely wooded area. That is when the older boys would pounce, drag him off the path and torment him. At the very least they would open his rucksack, spill its contents on the ground and, on one occasion, actually set fire to them. He had a hard time the next day explaining to his teachers why he had not been able to complete any of his assignments.

Increasingly, though, the torment took more physical form. One of the boys would hold him in place whilst the other would rain blows on his puny defenceless body, paying special attention to his cock and balls. They would search his clothes for anything of value, even if only his dinner money, and then leave him curled naked in a foetal position and weeping piteously while they made their way back to the road, whooping and hollering as they did so.

It never occurred to Stephen to report his assailants to the authorities. Once, when attempting to explain his failure to do his homework, he did start to tell his parents what he had to endure. They both reacted sympathetically until he vouchsafed the name of his principal assailant: Gary Protheroe. Suddenly his parents' attitude changed completely, for they knew, as their ten-year-old son did not, who Gary Protheroe's uncle was.

It was just six months ago that Stephen found himself being held firmly in place while awaiting the usual assault on his cock and balls. On this occasion his assailants decided it would be more fun to pull his shorts and underpants right down before giving his genitals a good punching. But while they were stripping him he had managed with a superhuman effort to break free and in so doing had unintentionally tripped up the boy who had been holding him. The boy was Gary Protheroe. He fell down, cracked his head on a stone outcrop and died on the spot.

Stephen backed away, appalled at what he had just done.

Aaron Wills, his second tormentor, checked Gary for a pulse, turned to face Stephen and said, incandescent with rage, "You fucking cunt, you've fucking killed him. You're going to suffer for that. Do you know who you've just killed? DO YOU?"

Stephen merely knew that the dead boy was called Gary. What he did not know was that the uncle of the boy he had accidentally killed was the town's most prominent businessman and local councillor – a wheeler-dealer who largely owed his far-reaching civic power to the fact that he was the man who knew where all the bodies were buried.

"You've just been and gone and killed Gary Protheroe!" Aaron said. "They're going to lock you up and throw away the key for that!"

"Please, Aaron," the 10-year-old said, "it was a total accident. I was wriggling to get away and he just tripped and fell. It wasn't my fault. I am sorry he's dead but it really wasn't my fault."

This was the point at which a middle-aged couple and their dog entered the scene. As their dog sniffed around the dead boy, the couple took control of the situation, ringing 999 for police and an ambulance, and attempting to establish what had happened.

"You must have seen what happened," Aaron said. "This kid, whom I've never seen before, charged out of the woods and launched himself at my mate. My mate's uncle is Councillor Protheroe, by the way, and I'm sure he will appreciate it when you confirm that this is what happened."

At the mention of the word "Protheroe" the dog-walkers blanched. They had had a run-in with the councillor in the past, and had lost a great deal of money as a result. They were not going to make the same mistake twice. When the police arrived, to Stephen's mounting distress, they confirmed Aaron's fictitious version of events to the letter.

Stephen was devastated. If it had just been Aaron who lied about what had happened, he would surely have been believed, but these grown-ups – two respectable-looking people whom he had never seen before – were telling lies about him for no apparent reason at all.

"Please, please," the 10-year-old begged, "it never happened the way you said. You weren't even here when it happened. Please, just tell the truth!"

The woman appeared to Stephen to be wrestling with conflicting loyalties – to the truth and to whatever was driving her to lie. Her husband, however, had fully resolved any such conflicts.

"How dare you suggest we are lying, you little scum-bag," he shouted. By now both he and the policemen had had enough of Stephen's wailing and pleading. "Shut your face, you fucking little prick," shouted one of the policemen, smacking him hard on both sides of his face whilst his colleague cuffed the boy's hands behind his back.

Given the watertight testimony of Aaron and two middle-class, middle-aged dog-owners, it is small wonder that Stephen was formally arrested and frogmarched – shorts and pants still concertinaed around his ankles – to the police station to be formally charged. To all the other emotions that the boy was experiencing could now be added shame, as his private parts, generous for a 10-year-old, were revealed for all the town to see.

To the inevitable questions about what was going on, the policemen had a simple answer: "This delinquent has just killed Councillor Protheroe's nephew".

For the townsfolk, that clearly made Stephen Public Enemy Number One; several of them made it clear that if they had their way the boy would be strung up there and then. The policemen would have been happy to oblige were it not for their suspicion that Cllr Protheroe would regard such an outcome as letting the boy off far too easily.

They were of course correct in their surmise. From the moment of Stephen's arrest the councillor, mortified by the death of his favourite nephew, used all the levers of power at his disposal to seal the 10-year-old's fate. Police officers, prosecutors, barristers, judges, jurors, probation officers, social workers – all were bribed, blackmailed, cajoled or threatened until they were left in no doubt as to where their duty lay.

Their combined efforts ensured that in short order Stephen was remanded in custody, tried, convicted of murder and (having just attained the age of criminal responsibility) sentenced to life imprisonment. A court order swiftly forbade the boy from seeing his parents, on the grounds that they would only conspire to perjure themselves. The court-appointed lawyer was a total waste of space. He would have been a third-rate defence lawyer at the best of times, but on this occasion it was made very clear to him that Cllr Protheroe would be mortally offended if he succeeded in getting the boy off. He made no attempt to question the official version of events and merely argued, none too convincingly, for the boy to be given a fixed-term rather than whole life sentence. He suggested 40 years.

Throughout this whole process Stephen's parents were torn by two conflicting considerations. On the one hand they simply did not believe the official version of events. The idea that their frail son had launched himself out of nowhere at a bully five years older than himself stretched credulity to breaking point. But they too had an inkling of how far the tentacles of Cllr Protheroe reached. And even if they had been prepared to take him on, they had the welfare of their other son, seven-year-old Michael, to consider. Nevertheless, they made it clear to anyone who asked that they stood by their son's altogether more plausible version of events.

Their ability to provide Stephen with at least moral support, however, came to a grinding halt on the day after his sentencing. Three policemen paid the Dean family an unexpected and unwelcome visit. First they took great pleasure in informing the boy's distraught parents that there were no vacancies at secure council accommodation designed for criminals of Stephen's age and, exceptionally, he would therefore be consigned to an institution intended for much older boys and young men.

"When you think about your brat, I want you to concentrate your mind on what thirty or more randy adolescents with no female company in sight are likely to get up to when a pretty 10-year-old is delivered to them on a plate," Policeman 1 said.

"Yeah," added Policeman 2, "and one of the guards has just rung me up to say that he won't even have trousers and pants to protect him. Apparently, there are no prison garments which will fit a boy as small as he is: he will need to grow at least another 12 inches [30 cm] from his current height before he can be clothed again. Meanwhile his only protection against the cold and the attentions of his elders will be an old blanket. Thought you'd like to know that."

"Now listen very hard," said Policeman 3. "Your pathetic attempts at defending your brat of a son have really annoyed some very important people in this town," he said. "Unless you stop making waves right now you will be arrested for perverting the course of justice. You will receive a lengthy custodial sentence. You will have plenty of time to contemplate what life must be like for Stephen, and what life must be like for your other little boy – Michael, aged seven, am I right? We will ensure that whilst you are in prison Michael is fostered by a couple who believe fervently in old-fashioned discipline and whose adolescent sons have long been suspected of subjecting previous foster children to serious sexual abuse. Seven, I am reliably informed, is their favourite age."

Chapter Two

With a final graphic warning of what would happen to the Dean family if they 'made waves' the policemen left. Meanwhile Michael's elder brother was being frogmarched by two prison guards into the Young Offenders Institution (YOI) that was now to be his home until he was old enough to be transferred to an adult prison. There, waiting for him, was the reception clerk, a saturnine man who provided the boy with the clearest of indications of what his new life was going to be like.

"Strip!"

It took a few seconds for the boy to register what he had just been told to do; but that was a few seconds too long. One of the guards hit him across the face, hard.

"Strip, you little prick."

Stephen started to undress but he was shaking so badly from fear that he simply couldn't manage the buttons. Another harsh slap forced him to try again and he managed to strip down to his underwear and socks. He stood there, shivering, and waiting to be told what would happen next.

What happened next, of course, was yet another stinging blow to the face, this time followed immediately by an even harder punch to the stomach which had the child writhing in agony on the floor

"I don't seem to remember telling you to keep your vest and pants on," said the reception clerk. "Get buck naked right now or I cannot begin to describe the punishment you will face."

The boy stood up and removed his socks and underwear. The reception clerk's next words chilled the boy to the marrow.

"See that stove? I want you to gather all your clothes – your nice grey jacket, your nice grey shorts, your nice red tie – the lot – and stuff them in the stove. You will never need them again."

"Please sir," the boy asked querulously, "what am I meant to wear?"

"Right now, nothing," the reception clerk said, "because we need you stark naked for the thorough cavity search we are about to perform. Jack, Ted – you know the drill."

Within seconds the protesting child was being held firmly in place face down on a table with his legs hanging over the edge. The reception clerk's evil smile made it clear that this was the part of the registration procedure that he enjoyed the most. He smeared a dollop of grease over the index and middle fingers of his right hand and commenced the search.

The child screamed at this wholly unexpected and excruciatingly painful invasion of his anus. The reception clerk used his two fingers to probe as deeply as he could, less in the expectation of finding any contraband than to open the boy up for a more comprehensive search involving an eight inch [20 cm] dildo with a fibre optic cable running through it. The preliminary finger-fucking had prevented the dildo from tearing the boy's anus to shreds, but being so much wider and longer than a couple of fingers it still caused him real grief, as his renewed screams attested.

Skilled in these matters, the reception clerk wielded the dildo so as to stimulate the boy's juvenile prostate. This had its inevitable effect on the state of his penis, so when the dildo was withdrawn and the boy was flipped on his back the three men were greeted with a steely four-inch [10 cm] erection, both longer and wider than might have been expected on the body of a 10-year-old.

The erection was not just a source of salacious pleasure in its own right but a definite aid to the next component of Stephen's anatomy to be searched – his bladder. With the boy still held firmly in place by the two guards, the reception clerk took great pleasure in forcing a 10-inch [25 cm] sound as far as he could up the child's urethra. If the volume of his screams was anything to go by this procedure caused him even more pain than the anal investigation. The reception clerk took great pleasure in fucking the child's cock vigorously, all pretence at searching for contraband set aside. When he finally withdrew the sound, the search of Stephen's mouth was a definite anti-climax.

The guards released the boy from their grip and waited until he had sobbed himself out before answering the question he had put to them the best part of an hour ago – what was he going to wear? The reception clerk picked up a threadbare blanket from the reception desk and threw it to the boy, saying that as they had no proper clothing of his size this would have to do. A safety pin was used to hold the makeshift garment in place like a poncho but in truth it provided little protection against either the cold or the attentions of the YOI's guards and inmates. That was when Stephen made his worst mistake yet.

"Please sir," he complained, "it's very scratchy." The reception clerk burst out laughing. "Well if that's the worst thing you have to complain about you are even more naïve than you look. Still, you're a newbie and need some cosseting, so me and my friends here will soften the blanket up for you, as a special favour."

Whereupon he retrieved the blanket from the boy, chucked it on the ground, unzipped his trousers and urinated all over it. Inspired by his example, the guards followed suit before throwing the sodden, foul-smelling blanket to the boy, before leading him off for his appointment with the Governor.

Chapter Three

Stephen could not fail to be aware of how inmates and staff alike had jeered, insulted and threatened him as he was led from the reception area to his rendezvous with the Governor, clad only in a stinking, soaking, threadbare blanket. Perhaps fortunately, the little boy was far too innocent to fully appreciate the sexual and sadistic content of those threats. He also did not know that Governor Wills of the YOI was Aaron's father, and had therefore been more than willing to accede to Cllr Protheroe's demand that Stephen be subjected to the worst punishment regime possible.

"The new prisoner, Stephen Dean, sir," the first guard announced. "Apologies for the smell. He seems to have wet himself rather badly. I also need to report, sir, that he actively resisted our instruction to remove his clothes and complained that his blanket was scratchy. He has shown nothing but insubordination and dumb insolence since his arrival."

"Well, well," said Governor Willis. "You've only been here for a couple of hours and already you're piling up demerit marks. Now listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. First it seems that all the official paperwork that relates to your trial and conviction has mysteriously disappeared. What this means in practice is that to all intents and purposes you no longer exist. We could slowly torture you to death right now and no-one outside these four walls would ever get to hear a word about it."

Stephen came close to fainting at this point and had to be held up by the guards.

"In particular," the Governor said to his shivering prisoner, "don't expect your parents to help you. Really nasty things will happen to them – and to your baby brother – if they attempt to visit you, agitate for your release or basically do anything other than forget that you ever existed.

"Let me make one thing quite clear, Dean. You have been incarcerated for life. Forget anything you may have heard about life sentences only being a few years of imprisonment in practice. In your case the judge made it quite clear that life means life. The only way you will leave the prison system is in a box.

"Oh for God's sake stop blubbing. You'll have plenty to really blub about before the day is out, I can assure you. So, life means life. But I have to warn you that the life expectancy of someone of your age and in your present circumstances is a lot less than average. For a start you may find life here intolerable and decide to top yourself. Lots of kids do. Alternatively you should be aware that Inmates at a place like this can get a bit over-exuberant when they are given the opportunity to have some fun with a little faggot like you. Even guards can sometimes get carried away by the powers that I have given them to maintain discipline."

If Stephen had not been so distraught he would not have failed to notice how visibly erect the two guards had become whilst listening to their boss's dire predictions of the little fellow's survival prospects.

"Frankly I have my doubts about whether all the suicides that occur in this institution really are suicides, but the coroner – who is a particular friend of Mr Protheroe – has never had any difficulty in signing them off as such. And, as I have just explained, if the worst came to the worst, nobody would miss you. It would be as if you had never been born. But until then – well, I can assure you that every day from today onwards will be a day when you will really wish that you had never been born.

"Some bleeding hearts say that vicious criminals like you are sent to prison in order to be rehabilitated. I cannot begin to tell you how profoundly I disagree with such soppy sentimentality. Let there be no doubt about it. The purpose of imprisonment is punishment, pure and simple. As you will surely discover all too soon, we operate a punishment regime here that those bleeding hearts might regard as a bit barbaric but which we regard as all in a day's work. You will be punished without mercy and without limit on a daily basis for as long as you are alive and in my custody. Do I make myself clear?"

Shaking with cold and terror, the boy managed to nod his head.

"Take this piece of shit away," said the Governor to the guards. "I think you'll find they're waiting for him in Dorm 4.

Chapter Four

Thirty boys were lined up in Dorm 4, 15 on one side of the aisle and 15 on the other. A guard held Stephen firmly in place by his shoulders until he was sure that the welcoming party was ready for action; at which point, he propelled Stephen between the first two boys to allow him to learn just how painful the flicking of a wet towel can be in the hands of an experienced practitioner. He soon realised that he had to keep moving. The longer he took to get to the end of the line the more flicks he would receive and the better they would be targeted.

Eventually he reached the end of the line (though not the 'End of the Line' – that was still over an hour away). A guard swivelled him round and forced him to start running back the way he had come. But this time it was not wet towels that caused him agony but the fists of 30 strapping youths raining blows down on his defenceless body without mercy. Given how much taller the assailants were, it is not surprising that most of the blows landed on Stephen's head and chest. Some of the blows were ferocious enough to fell him to the ground, from which he would instantly be picked up again so that the pummelling could resume.

Eventually he found himself back where he had started, hoping against hope that his return to the arms of the first guard marked the end of his ordeal, at least for one night. No such luck. The towel-flicking resumed, more painful even though less damaging than the pummelling. The second guard hold him firmly in place while he announced to the assemblage: "Right, lads, it's roly-poly time." The announcement was greeted with cheers. Flaccid cocks stiffened up. Erect cocks became even more erect.

The guard threw Stephen to the ground, where he lay on his side, weeping piteously. The nearest two boys high-fived each other and then proceeded to give Stephen a serious kicking. The only saving grace was that the lads were all bare-footed, so the kicking would do no lasting damage to Stephen's internal organs. After a few moments the guard shouted: "Next!" and the first boys used their feet to roll him over through 45 degrees so that their successors had easy access to his front and, in the case of one lucky lad, unrivalled access to his cock and balls. Then he was rolled 45 degrees onto his other side, then onto his front with his buttocks and thighs now inviting serious attention. And so the initiation continued until Stephen had been rolled all the way back to where he had started.

Surely now, he thought, they will call a halt to proceedings. But no. Once again the wet towels were put to good use, only this time the prior pummelling and kicking meant that he was far more sensitive to the pain than at the outset.

"OK lads, I think you know what happens next," smirked the first guard. The whooping and hollering intensified and stiff cocks stiffened even further. It was time for the final ordeal. Each lad was handed an 18-inch length of cane. Stephen was masked to protect his eyes: blinding him, accidentally or otherwise, was not part of the script. Then each boy was allowed three blows with their canes before his neighbour took over. Three times thirty amounted to ninety blows all told, raising weals on every part of his body from his face to his heels. Some of the more sadistic youths ensured that the soles of his feet did not escape their share of attention. Even the blows to Stephen's immature genitals were not as painful as that.

Finally it was over. The little boy collapsed on the ground, racked with sobs. He had never known such pain, such humiliation, such desolation, such fear for the future. But before leaving one of the guards announced the only piece of good news Stephen had heard for weeks.

"A reminder, lads, you've had your fun for one night, so – no touching the merchandise!"

But then the guard spoiled it all by adding: "There'll be plenty of opportunity to get to know the little faggot more intimately from tomorrow onwards."

Chapter Five

Racked with pain from his ordeal, Stephen had a poor night's sleep. He had made his way laboriously onto the only unoccupied bed, happy to find that the blanket on it, though threadbare, was not piss-sodden. When all the other lads seemed to be asleep he made his way to the bathroom at one end of the dormitory, rinsed out 'his' blanket and placed it on a radiator, hoping that it would be dry enough to wear in the morning.

Morning arrived all too soon. It was only six o'clock when two guards burst into Dorm 4 and summoned the inmates to breakfast. As Stephen made his way to the canteen, stark naked except for a blanket that was still damp and smelly, he was subjected to yet more verbal abuse from his dorm-mates but there were no further assaults on his body. He eventually found himself at the tail end of a lengthy queue comprising boys from all six of the dormitories. By the time he arrived at the head of the queue all the appetising food had been doled out, leaving him with nothing but some congealed porridge.

"Sorry kid," the trustee manning the counter said, "all the milk's gone. You'll have to make do with this instead." Laughter broke out all around him as it became clear that "this" was a jug full of warm piss which was lovingly poured over his breakfast. Stephen nearly threw up on the spot. Luckily the porridge was sufficiently solidified to allow him to avoid most of the piss, but he still came close to puking on several occasions.

Breakfast over, two guards frogmarched Stephen to the guardroom – the room where guards who were not on active duty went for rest and recreation. Half-a-dozen guards were already there, some already flaunting their cocks in anticipation of the special brand of R&R that was about to be on offer. No sooner had the door closed behind Stephen than his blanket was snatched away, exposing the 10-year-old to the lustful attention of the adults who were leering at him.

Stephen Dean was an attractive little boy – wavy fair hair, soulful blue eyes, ruby lips, not to mention a genital set more fully formed than one might have expected to see on so young a boy. But for the leering guards his looks were just a bonus. What mattered was that he had a body – and in particular a mouth and an anus – that were fit for purpose. None of the guards had ever previously thrashed or fucked a 10-year-old. All were salivating at the prospect of doing so.

It became quickly apparent to Stephen who was in charge here. A shaven-headed burly 50-year-old called Gwyn started the proceedings.

"Hope you haven't got any plans for the rest of the day, cuntface. Because for the next eight hours you're going to learn just how me and my staff set about chastising young murderers. OK, guys, get him in position."

The position into which they got him had him kneeling on a coffee-table with his arms and legs tied to the table-legs.

"Right, belts out!"

The three words came across like a military command and were treated as such by the adults in the room.

"Whip the fucker raw!" Gwyn shouted. It was an order which none of the guards was remotely inclined to disobey.

Stephen was still feeling the after-effects of the punching, kicking and caning he had undergone the previous evening. But by comparison with what he had experienced then, what he experienced now was off the scale.

As they had so much time to kill, they started off quite slowly. The blows were ferocious but intervals of 10 seconds or so allowed Stephen some recovery time. Soon, however, the lust that the men were feeling led them to speed up the process until blows were falling in rapid succession all over his body from his ankles to his neck.

In his kneeling position his genitals were visible albeit not exposed to punishment. After some ten minutes of unrelieved belting, one of the guards had a peep and whistled with pleasure and surprise.

"Fucking hell, the little queer likes what we're doing to him. His cock is stiff as a nail."

"Speed things up!" barked Gwyn, gasping with lust. "Flog him harder! Make him come!"

They did. And he did. His body went into an unmistakably orgasmic spasm and a minute quantity of seminal fluid seeped from his erect cock.

"There," said one of the guards. "Now we know he's a queer-boy we can fuck him with impunity. It's what he wants, after all."

So the belting ceased and the spit-roasting began. By prior agreement the guards paired off, one positioned to fuck his mouth, the other to fuck his arse. As before, they knew they had time in hand and so did not rush matters. The first arse-fucker greased himself up well, including his hand, and spent a long time finger-fucking the child until he and Gwyn were agreed that he was ready to take cock. Secretly, some of the guards hoped that in time they would be allowed to truly ruin the boy, but it would be terribly unfair on their colleagues to do so too soon.

The finger-fucking provided only limited preparation for the mass sodomy that was to follow. The first cock to enter Stephen was probably less than six inches [15 cm] in length, certainly shorter than the dildo used to explore his anal cavity the previous day. But even well greased its entry was every bit as painful as any of the previous tortures. The little boy screamed, which of course gave the second rapist easy access to his mouth and throat. Within a fraction of a second a muscle-bound black guard was in to the hilt and revelling in the contractions in the boy's throat and the knowledge that if he maintained his present position the boy would slowly but surely be asphyxiated. It was tempting to snuff the kid there and then, but he too knew that this would be terribly unfair on his colleagues. So he pulled out a few inches before ramming his cock all the way back again.

Soon the two rapists had built up a steady rhythm, thrusting in at the same time, pulling out at the same time. They were clearly engaged in some healthy competition to see which of them could last longest before injecting their sperm into the child. It was a full 20 minutes before the arse-fucker lost that particular bout.

As soon as his partner had followed suit both guards withdrew. Spunk was dripping out of the boy's mouth at one end and his arse at the other. But no attempts were made to clean him up before the next pair took their place. By the time all the guards had fucked him at one end, they reversed their positions and fucked him at the other. Somewhere along the line 10-year-old Stephen Dean had the second orgasm and mini-ejaculation of his short life. Eventually the next cohort of guards arrived, to be followed before nightfall by the third. It was in fact 8.00 p.m. before Stephen was returned to his dormitory. And then of course it was the inmates' turn to emulate their elders and betters by giving the boy a seriously good belting, except this time the boy was not tied down. This allowed the belting to extend to his front (primarily his genitals) as well as his back. Unfortunately for the inmates, the guards told them that Stephen's arse was off limits for at least a night to give it a chance to recover from the day-long gang-rape he had just endured. The lads did however compensate for this disappointment by dragging him into the bathroom where they jerked off and pissed all over him.

Chapter Six

Two weeks had passed and Mrs Dean remained almost insane with grief when she thought about the fate of her firstborn. She was worldly-wise enough to know that a pretty child like Stephen would be natural prey for the attentions of the older inmates, though it frankly never occurred to her that the main threat to her son's honour would come from the guards.

She could think of only one way to get Stephen released from the YOI and that was to prevail on Mr and Mrs Bellamy, the alleged witnesses to Gary's death, to change their testimony – to admit that they had arrived on the scene after, not during the incident. She had tried phoning them, emailing them and doorstepping them, but to no avail. She was convinced they were lying, but assumed that they simply found the prospect of alienating Cllr Protheroe too awful to contemplate.

What Mrs Dean did not know was the Bellamys had already reported her approaches to the police.

One Friday evening the Deans received a visit from the same police officers who had threatened them after Stephen had been convicted of Gary's murder. They were back, and this time they were angry. They bundled the Deans into their living room and handcuffed them, slapping them both around the face whenever they resisted or protested.

Once they were subdued, Policeman 1 took the floor while disturbingly Policemen 2 and 3 left the room and went upstairs.

"Dear oh dear," said Policeman 1, "some people just never listen. We told you nice and politely what would happen if you continued ruffling people's feathers, but did you pay attention? No you did not. So this time there will be no further misunderstanding. We said then that if you made waves you would end up in prison but some important people in this town have come up with a – how shall I say – more complete and less bureaucratic solution to the problem you represent. Before the night is over you will have found what this means. Meanwhile you can probably have a pretty good guess. (Oh dear, I do dislike people with defective bladder and sphincter control.)

"Now of course it would be terribly unfair on your other son – Michael is it? – to share your fate. So before you go we thought we would get him to act out what's been happening to his older brother this past week. Bring him in, guys!"

Policemen 2 and 3 dragged the weeping, naked seven-year-old into the living room. They tied him, as his brother had been tied, to a coffee table. They removed their belts. They rained merciless blows all over the little boy's body.

The child screamed, "Mummy, mummy, make them stop!"

His parents begged the men to leave him alone, but to no avail. Their excitement at enjoying unlimited power to torture and fuck a tiny child prompted two of them to unzip and parade their steely cocks as they rained blow after painful blow on the infant.

The Deans were screaming so loudly that Policeman 1 was moved to say: "Oh for god's sake, I can't hear myself think. Jack, gag the fuckers so we can flay their baby without interruption."

The belting proceeded for another few minutes before Policeman 2 horrified the Deans by describing what else the guards had been up to with their elder son.

"And would you be surprised to learn," he concluded, "that your precious pure-as-the-driven-snow little boy actually liked the experience? Well his stiff little cock did anyway, so we are told. Let's see how young Michael reacts. Sarge, can I go first? I think my nice new blue serge trousers may need to go to the dry-cleaners otherwise."

"Go ahead, Jack. Ted, you take him from the other end. Call me old-fashioned, but fucking a seven-year-old isn't really my scene. But you guys, take all the time you like. You have a point to make to his thick parents, so make it by fucking their little boy long and hard."

They did. And, yes, the screaming child's little cock did stiffen as his prostate was pounded, culminating in the treble 'oh- oh-oh's of a juvenile orgasm.

Michael was left tied to the table, weeping bitterly. Blood, sperm and shit oozed from his arse, but the policemen were satisfied that no lasting damage had been done to the tyke. Arrangements for his "adoption" would now be set in train. The sadistic couple and their three deviant sons had been alerted to expect a phone call some time that night. As for his parents, they were escorted out of the house where an anonymous white van was awaiting them.

Chapter Seven

A week into his open-ended prison sentence, 10-year-old Stephen Dean thought that life could not get any worse. But of course it could.

A pattern had been established. The boy was fucked intermittently through the night by his much older fellow-inmates. Piss, shit and sperm were routinely added to his meals, and the kitchen staff ensured that it was now impossible to separate this filth from the putrid food that constituted the rest of his diet. Between the hours of nine and seven all the inmates except for Stephen were engaged in remedial learning classes or vocational training. Stephen was a bright child who had no need for remedial English and maths, yet was far too young to be trained to be a garage mechanic. So he spent most of the daylight hours in the guardroom being abused by the guards. Everyone who came into contact with the boy knew that it was Mr Protheroe's express wish that he be humiliated, punished and abused to the very limits of his endurance.

And then at the end of week one it was time for his first punishment session.

The spanking, belting and paddling that Stephen experienced in the guardroom during the day or the dormitory during the night did not count as punishment of course. That was just good clean foreplay. So Stephen had no idea what to expect when handed out demerit marks on a regular basis for such serious offences as failing to call a guard "sir" or spilling his piss-soaked porridge when an older boy deliberately tripped him up in the canteen.

All he knew was that, as the week progressed, the guards took increasing pleasure in scaring the child witless about what was going to be doled out to him. Gwyn was the most explicit.

"Oh Master Dean, you really should not have annoyed Mr Protheroe," said the sadistic guard, whilst pounding away at the 10-year-old's arse. "He really did not take well to having his favourite nephew murdered. I'm afraid he thinks that my staff and I are too soft to punish you as harshly as you deserve. So you'll be interested to know that he will be honouring you by supervising your forthcoming punishment session himself."

Chapter Eight

"So this is the little snot-rag whose brother is a notorious murderer," said the hatchet-faced, skeletally thin, grey-haired woman who had just arrived at the Dean house in response to a call from Policeman 1. "Just look at the whingeing little brat. He has delinquent written all over him. Well, don't worry, there's no room for bad behaviour in our household, as I am sure he will shortly discover."

Seven-year-old Michael Dean quivered with fear at the sight and sound of the woman who had arrived to take him away. "No!" the naked child cried, "I don't want to go with this woman. I want my mum. I WANT MY MUM!"

The woman's first blow was to his right cheek. The second was to his abdomen. Together they were more than enough to fell the child. He curled into a foetal position and proceeded to cry his little heart out. First the belting, then the raping and now this – being handed over to an evil woman who had no compunctions about smacking and punching him harder than he had ever been smacked or punched before.

"Listen, you spoiled prick," the woman said, "I am your mother now and that is how you will address me – mother. Not mummy, not mum, but mother." Then, turning to the policeman, she said, "Tape his mouth and stow him in the boot. I need to be off. My husband will be expecting his tea."

The journey from his old home to his new foster parents was a nightmare. He would quite possibly have shat himself out of fear anyway, finding himself effectively orphaned and lying naked and gagged in the boot of a car. But his ability to retain the contents of his bowels had been severely compromised by the raping he had received from the two law officers. By the time they arrived at their destination he really was a smelly mess.

His welcoming committee comprised "Mother" (he never knew her real name) "Father" (a short, tubby man with a droopy moustache) and their three tearaway teenage sons, Lee (17), Mark (15) and Craig (13) who feasted their eyes with relish on their latest toy-boy. It was clear enough that he was already damaged goods, but that did not faze the three adolescents at all. So, he had been fucked already? So, that meant he could be raped mercilessly with no preliminaries. Which, as soon as tea was over, is what happened.

Michael had not eaten at all, merely sat and sobbed. The three teenagers had never had so young a child to abuse and were getting visibly excited at the opportunity that was opening up for them.

His bedroom was to be a windowless cupboard under the stairwell, but that is not where he was taken. The three boys shared a large open-plan attic room and that is where they meted out injustice to their foster-brothers and sisters.

"So you're the little prick whose brother killed our best mate Gary Protheroe," said Mark, once they had walked the naked child up the two flights of stairs to their room. "Well, as we can't get anywhere near your cunt of a brother we'll just have to punish you instead. And we'll be videoing everything that happens in this room so that your cunt of a brother will get to see how we deal with the brothers of child-killers. Welcome to the worst day of your life, slut."

The next three hours were a merciless and extended reprise of the beating and fucking that Michael had already endured from the policemen.

Chapter Nine

10-year-old Stephen Dean had just about recovered from his latest rape session and was about to climb into bed when the Governor walked into to Dorm 4. "You!" he shouted at the boy, "Out! Follow me! No, leave your disgusting blanket, you won't be needing that where we're going."

With which Mr Wills and two guards steered the boy out of the dormitory, along the corridor, down a flight of stairs and into a dank, windowless room.

"We have been far too lenient with you, allowing you to sleep on a real bed with real bedding and to swan around your dormitory whilst your fellow inmates are hard at work. This will be your home from now on whenever you are not, uh, socialising with the guards and the inmates. It will also be where you receive the punishments which I just know you will be quite unable to avoid, spoilt brat that you are. And your first punishment session takes place tomorrow, in front of our special guest of honour. Now it would not be reasonable to expect you to sleep on cold, damp flagstones, so out of the goodness of our hearts we will allow you to sleep standing up. Guards, string him up!"

That was when Stephen Dean took in, for the first time, the ropes with cuffs attached which one of the guards was currently lowering by means of a pulley mechanism. The boy's wrists were attached to the cuffs and the ropes were raised until he was on his tip-toes.

"Sleep well, sweetheart!" said one of the guards, punching the boy playfully in the stomach, as the governor's entourage left the boy virtually suspended by his wrists in pitch darkness.

Surprisingly the boy did manage a few hours of intermittent sleep despite his bondage and the prospect of a serious punishment session. His soundest sleep was in fact in the hour or so before the door was flung open at seven in the morning. In walked the Governor, most of the guards and a truly enormous man whom Stephen remembered seeing during his brief trial. His blood turned to ice as he realised who this fat man had to be.

Not a word was said as one guard used the pulley mechanism to create space between Stephen's feet and the ground whilst another cuffed his ankles and attached him via chains to floor-mounted brackets. He was now as taut as a drum and in considerable discomfort.

"What are you…? Oomph!" the boy said as a ball gag was inserted into his mouth and strapped firmly in place.

"Our revered civic leader Councillor Protheroe has kindly agreed to preside over this, your first of many punishment sessions. Look around you, brat. Everything you can see – on that table – hanging from those walls – attached to these electric sockets – everything has been assembled to ensure that you receive the best punishment money can buy. Councillor, this is your show. How do you want to proceed?"

"A thorough whipping to start with, of course. I hope I can rely on your men to test the very limits of his endurance without inadvertently snuffing him. My righteous vengeance requires that he must stay alive for weeks to come to experience in full the tortures of the damned that I have in mind for him. It would ruin everything if he was whipped to death too soon. So, whip him until his whole backside is a bloody mess. Then I want to see him well and truly fucked. Then I want to see some serious and protracted electric shock treatment: once again may I impress on your guards that he must be allowed to survive this life-threatening part of his punishment. I would wish his cock and balls to bear the brunt of this particular torture. If he ends up unable to father a child that will be all to the good. Then the part of his punishment that I am looking forward to most, which is where I throttle him to the brink of extinction, with his eyes bulging and his tongue protruding, then withdraw, then throttle him all over again, keeping going until I am confident that he has learned his lesson.

"For the rest of the day I shall be happy to rely on the imagination and ingenuity of your guards. Then I suggest we meet again in exactly one week's time by which time I would expect this worthless piece of shit to be fit for the next chapter of his punishment, which will of course need to be that much more painful than today's entertainments."

The day unwound exactly as Cllr Protheroe had requested. A frailer child might not have survived the experience but Stephen was strong enough to do so. Just.

Chapter Ten

At precisely the moment when the guards started to flay Stephen Dean's backside with a three-foot whip, his little brother Michael was being gang-raped for the third time in his short life, though the gang of two policemen had now been replaced by a gang of three randy and sadistic adolescents. On the day of his arrival, they had dragged him up two flights of stairs to their communal bedroom. They had stripped him of his pyjamas which were now the only clothing he possessed. They had gasped in admiration at the evidence that he had already been comprehensively fucked – the semen, blood and excrement which continued to seep from his arsehole, the sight of his arsehole itself, a gaping hole with the dimensions of a 10p piece, the evidence that as well as the fucking, he had had to endure a protracted belting. This all served to excite the boys more than any of their previous victims had done, evidence for which was all too visible as the boys tore off their own clothes and exposed their rock-solid erections. To Michael's dismay these proved to be every bit as large as those of the two policemen – quite a bit larger in the case of 17-year-old Lee.

Later on they would take their own belts to the child's backside, but first their cocks needed release. So unlike the policemen they raped him first and beat him afterwards. And then they raped him again and beat him again. That was night one. Tonight was night four with exactly the same mix of fucking and belting as on the day of his arrival.

In the depths of their despair the Dean brothers were not to know that their ordeals were about to end.

Chapter Eleven

Ruby Bellamy was not a bad woman, but she was a weak one. With every day that passed after the death of Gary Protheroe she was increasingly aware that she had personally contributed to a terrible miscarriage of justice. But who could she tell? Her husband clearly felt no guilt at having committed a (probably innocent) 10-year-old boy to a life in prison. The police and the criminal justice system were clearly complicit. But she could not believe that Cllr Protheroe's reach extended to the entire country. Without telling her husband she set out to find an out-of-town lawyer willing and able to help overturn the verdict.

It was several weeks later that she turned up in Cllr Protheroe's office, having booked an appointment under the name of one of his constituents.

"So, how can I help you, Mrs White?" the councillor asked, all avuncular conviviality.

'Mrs White' passed him a letter. As he read it his countenance changed. By the end he was purple in the face and literally frothing with anger.

"Let me stress a few things, Councillor. One, with great reluctance my husband has agreed to do the right thing and withdraw the evidence which did so much to convict Stephen. He knows that we both face prison sentences for perjury but is prepared to pay that price to negate a terrible miscarriage of justice.

"Two, we have sworn statements from several former inmates of the YOI, where Stephen is being held, testifying to the physical and sexual abuse to which the staff have subjected him, and confirming your presence at the institution when many of these offences were carried out.

"Three, the chief constable of a neighbouring police force has agreed to investigate the role of officers in this force in the criminal offences that have been committed, including the abduction of Stephen's parents. Specifically, one officer has reported hearing that named officers have willingly admitted to their colleagues that, at your insistence, they are being held in a disused farmhouse against their will.

"Four, the letter contains evidence from concerned neighbours that a Mr and Mrs Atkins have been mistreating a young foster-child. We believe this to be Stephen's younger brother Michael. Police from the neighbouring constabulary have been informed.

"Finally, you should know that signed and sealed copies of this letter are in the hands of the aforementioned chief constable and, just in case you are able to suborn him too, also in the hands of three reputable firms of lawyers. It goes without saying that they all have been asked to open the letter and act on its contents if anything should happen to me, my husband or either of the Dean boys.

"Yoiur reign of terror in this town is about to end, Councillor, but before it does, you will have Stephen Dean discharged into my care. This evening will be soon enough."

Chapter Twelve

"Here is the news. A Young Offenders Institution has been closed down and most of its staff arrested following an enquiry by this Channel into reports of widespread physical and sexual abuse. In what may well be a related development the bodies of three policemen have been recovered from a reservoir. We understand that there is no evidence of foul play. A County Court Judge has resigned, together with the entire local team of Crown Prosecution Service officials. Again, this development is being linked to the closure of the YOI, as is the arrest of a couple well-known for fostering problem children.

"We understand that the main link between these developments is a local councillor and businessman, George Protheroe, who appears to have liquidated his business interests and left the UK for a jurisdiction where he will not face the risk of extradition.

"In other news, the latest pandemic statistics show that…"

Mrs Bellamy turned the television off.

"Seen enough, boys? Well I have some even better news for you. That phone call I took was to tell me that your parents have been located and will be arriving to collect you tomorrow morning!"

Stephen and Michael Dean jumped down from the sofa, high-fived and, shouted out in unison.

"Yay!"

The End