Chapter One

"Thank you for coming to see me at such short notice, Mr Barton."

"So, wot's the little bastard done now, eh?"

The headmaster smiled to himself. This was going to go even more easily than he had expected.

"It's perhaps not so much a question of what he's done as of what he is."

"Wot you mean, wot he is? He's a fucking waste of space, is wot he is."

"A waste of space. Hmmm. Help me out here Mr Barton. If you had to sum up John's personality in just one word rather than three, what would it be?"

"Just one word? Sissy. Or cry-baby."

This really was going very well. It was time to test just how compliant his father would actually be.

"Sissy, cry-baby" the headmaster echoed. "Yes I've seen enough of your boy over the years to appreciate what you've just said. But I'm interested in some words that you didn't use. Words like queer and faggot, for example…"

"Fuck. I dunno. He's only eleven. Isn't that a bit young to be called a queer?"

"Oh no, Mr Barton, I assure you, I have seen boys of seven or eight in this very primary school who like nothing better than to parade their naked bodies in front of grown men and who prove to be surprisingly easy lays. So think hard, Mr Barton – think very hard – and tell me if your sissy son has done or said anything – anything at all – that suggests to you that he is a queerboy." The headmaster stared hard at Mr Barton, willing him to answer in the affirmative.

Mr Barton gave the headmaster a sly look. "Well there was this time a year ago. I found him in his bedroom playing tickling games with his younger brother. They were just in their pyjamas and it seemed to me that his cock was a bit stiff. Then there was the time a year or so before that when his mum was out and he made up his brother's face with lipstick, mascara, that sort of stuff. I gave him a real larruping for that, but I didn't think it counted as sex stuff."

"Oh yes, Mr Barton, it certainly does. I need to tell you what this all means for John's future. This may take a while so, can I pour you a whisky?"

The whisky having been dispensed, the headmaster again fixed Mr Barton with his basilisk-like stare.

"You will no doubt recall the referendum held earlier this year to determine just how severe the punishments should be for engaging in sexual activity with children. You may recall that, to the government's surprise, there was substantial support for the reintroduction of the death penalty, to be applied in cases of serous abuse, however young the abuser was, and for life imprisonment in the case of a minor transgression. The life imprisonment option would, however, rarely be made available to those guilty of homosexual abuse. The legislation to give effect to the referendum was duly passed by parliament and comes into operational effect in a week's time.

"What you will not know is that the detailed implementation of the new policy was devolved to a working party to which I was appointed as representative of the primary school sector. At first the emphasis was entirely on primary schoolchildren as victims of sexual abuse – by their teachers, their parents, their relations, their neighbours – whoever. But as we dug deeper into the evidence we came to realise that primary schoolchildren were as likely to be abusers as abused. Remember that even pre-pubescent boys are capable of feeling sexual lust, of having erections, of fucking their little brothers or sisters. The working party rapidly came to the conclusion that implementation of the referendum would involve the life imprisonment or execution of literally thousands of pre-teen boys.

"Let me be quite clear what this meant in practice. In the case of children who, like John, have managed to avoid being taken to court, all that would be required to trigger the legislation would be a statement by the boy's headmaster – that's me – and endorsed by a parent or guardian – that's you – that the boy was a practising homosexual who had abused someone even younger than himself. The evidence you have just provided, supported by my own observations and those of my teachers, leave me in no doubt that John Barton, your 11-year-old sissy son, is indeed a paedophilic homosexual. The only question in my mind is whether his offences against his little brother are sufficiently serious to warrant him being hanged by the neck until dead. It is our views on this matter – yours and mine – that will determine whether your wretched child lives or dies. So, as his father, do you have a view?"

Both men were now sporting prodigious erections which neither of them attempted to conceal from the other.

"Oh fuck, that's so hot! Do I have a view? Fuck, yes I have a view! I want to see the little faggot swing for it. I hate and despise the cunt. I want to hear him scream and see him struggle as he is dragged to the gallows. Preferably stark naked! Fuck, yes, I want to be the one who pulls the lever!"

The headmaster smiled wanly. "I am grateful for your clear reply to my question. It makes the next decision we have to take much easier. You see, the best-laid plans of my working party have been up-ended by global politics. You will be aware of how serious the economic crisis is that the country finds itself in. Any substantial and reliable stream of overseas income available to us needs to be pursued, no matter how distasteful it may seem to do so. The establishment of the Islamic Caliphate in the Middle East has presented us with an irresistible opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak – ridding the country of young queers like your son just as surely as if they had been hanged, whilst at the same time generating a huge financial surplus for the Treasury."

Mr Barton was puzzled. "Forgive me, headmaster, but wot the hell has the latest madness in the Middle East got to do with my son?"

"Everything! Let me explain. The religious zealots now running the region have very clear views about sexual relations. Sex with one's wife is permitted once a month, when the woman is at her most fertile. For the remainder of the month she is in strict purdah. Sex with women other than your wife is a capital offence, punishable by a slow beheading. Punishment is even more grotesque and painful in the case of sex with another man, whilst the most medieval punishments of all are reserved for those having sex with girls under the age of 13. You really wouldn't want to be caught in Baghdad fucking an 8-year-old girl. But an 8-year-old boy? That's another kettle of fish altogether.

"As you may be aware, the Arab world has a long tradition of tolerating sex between men and boys. In the light of the new morality laws which I have just summarised man-boy sex is now ubiquitous. However, for the elites in the Caliphate – the sheikhs, the imams, the Saudi princes – fucking an Arab boy is a demeaning act. In the same way that they want to sponsor the biggest mosques, own the best string of racehorses and run up the largest bills at Harrods when they visit the UK, so they want to fuck the most attractive boys. And that means cute little white boys.

"Partly for reasons of prestige, but also partly as a way of underlining their strategic dominance of the western world, the Arab elites have therefore started to import young white boys to serve as slaves and prostitutes. Having little British boys, French boys and American boys fucked mercilessly, whipped savagely and generally treated like shit is a pretty effective way of showing us effete westerners who are the masters now, wouldn't you think? And as all the so-called western democracies are in the same leaky financial boat they all have an interest in meeting this demand for white flesh, particularly when the Arab purchaser is prepared to pay thousands of pounds per boy if the flesh is particularly succulent.

"The priority will be to sell young sex offenders who would otherwise have been executed. I have to say that for this purpose the definition of a serious sex offender will be drawn very broadly to ensure that we can meet our quotas. To make a serious dent in the government's deficit we need to be selling upwards of ten thousand boys annually, so in many cases their sexual transgressions might seem to have been minor ones. But for the purposes of our enslavement policy they will count as capital offences.

"Once a boy is enslaved he will face a number of possible scenarios. The most appealing will be that his master keeps him as he moves through puberty, adolescence and on to adulthood. Or his master tires of him and gives or sells him to a new master. Or he does not survive the experience of enslavement – you can I am sure imagine a number of ways in which this eventuality might occur. Or – and this may be the outcome of most interest to you – his master makes use of his contractual right to return a slave to his country of origin. So an English boy of, say, 10 might serve as a slave for two years, by which time his master is more interested in fresher meat so he packs the 12-year-old back to Britain where a death sentence awaits him. This outcome could be said to represent the best of both worlds, don't you think?"

Mr Barton certainly agreed, but he was in no state to say so. He was in the throes of a stupendous, unassisted ejaculation, which the headmaster politely ignored.

"Most of that money received from selling boys into slavery will of course flow to the Treasury, but some of it will be set aside as bounties to reward those who have helped to make a sale possible – such as police officers, magistrates and judges in the case of those boys whose transgressions have landed them in court, as well as schoolmasters, youth leaders and others who have observed such transgressions. Oh yes, and parents and guardians who attest to their sons' guilt."

Mr Barton now just wanted to know when, where and how his first-born would be sold into slavery and turned into a cum-bucket, and how much money would be coming his way.

"Patience, my dear fellow, patience!" said the headmaster. "Before we can start exporting large numbers of our youngsters we need to ensure that public opinion is wholly on our side. A good way to ensure this is to subject every boy earmarked for slavery to a one-week regime of pain, humiliation and sexual torment that will leave him looking wholly worthless in the eyes of his family, teachers and classmates, and the public at large. Mothers like, dare I say, Mrs Barton need to relish seeing their child suffer every sort of degradation. Ideally they should not only approve of the punishment and humiliation regime but participate actively in enforcing it. Nothing would be more successful in driving home the debauched status of the prospective child slaves and prostitutes than seeing them being slapped and spat on by their own mummies."

Mr Barton made it clear that Mrs Barton would approve of anything she was asked to approve of, and would slap or spit on anything she was told to.

Seizing the moment the headmaster raised perhaps the most delicate issue.

"I should perhaps make it clear that a key element of the degradation of your son is that he should be sexually abused by yourself. Yes, yes, please don't interrupt. I know perfectly well that you are a healthy red-blooded male who has never found young boys remotely attractive as sex objects. But now more than ever you need your son to know that you are the master of the house and that he is a worthless piece of crud fit only to be used and abused. Not only do you have to break his spirit, you have to convince the whole community that you disown and despise him and wish him nothing but pain and shame.

"Now forgive me for being indelicate, Mr Barton, but I could hardly help noticing that you responded in a very physical way to the notion that your little boy could be facing execution. To put it bluntly, you could have drilled through masonry with your cock! So I really don't think you will have too many scruples about raping him viciously and publicly, setting a clear precedent for others in this town to follow suit.

"So in summary, my colleagues and I have developed a one-week programme designed to turn your little sissy son into a slavering wretch, for whom no child or adult could possibly feel anything other than contempt and loathing. Starting tomorrow! And you have a key role to play. So man up!"

Fred Barton made it very clear that he would man up as requested.

Chapter Two

John Barton hated school. The teachers always seemed to save the hardest questions for him, to humiliate him when he failed to answer their questions correctly, to egg his classmates on when they jeered at him. Furthermore, he knew that things were going to get a lot worse in a few months' time when he progressed to secondary school where he knew that the bullying, the insults and the humiliation he faced would be far worse than he experienced at the hands (and sometimes feet) of his 11-year-old contemporaries. Older boys – 13, 14-year-olds – would soon nose out the fact that he was a sissy and a wimp, and they would treat him accordingly. He knew this instinctively, but in case of doubt one of his classmates who was a particularly brutal bully had made it clear, after roughing him up during the morning break one day, that his two older brothers – aged 16 and 17 – would be waiting for John when he arrived at "big school". John was told that the bullies would reduce his balls to mush so he would never have kids of his own. He had no reason to disbelieve his adversary.

So John was "creeping like a snail unwillingly to school", blissfully unaware that being bullied by teenagers was the merest bagatelle compared with what fate actually had in store for him. Over breakfast his dad had hinted that something really unpleasant was awaiting him at school, but he just assumed that this would be another detention for delivering his homework late. He knew that his father had been called to see his headmaster but of course had no idea what his father had gleefully learned during that interview – that he was about to be literally enslaved.

The process of acquainting John with his destiny started at assembly. After the routine business, the headmaster dismissed the younger kids and then stared with a face like thunder directly at John, whose usual attempt to look as inconspicuous as possible failed totally on this occasion.

"Children," he began, after staring hard at John for some time, "I have some very grave news to share with you. Information has come to my attention that makes it abundantly clear that there is, sitting amongst you this morning, a boy whose wickedness knows no limits. I am not at present permitted to divulge the nature of his offences. Suffice to say that he has been disowned by his family who never wish to have anything more to do with him and his fate is now being determined by the highest authorities in the land – pending which, and with great reluctance, I have agreed to house the miscreant on school premises until his next destination has been agreed.

"This vile miscreant is to be treated like the piece of excrement he is. You are all forbidden to socialise with him in any way. If, however, your righteous anger at the shame he has brought down onto our school compels you to chastise him physically, you will do so with my blessing. A teacher will always be on hand to ensure that such punishment does not cause life-threatening injuries as we cannot jump the gun by denying society its legal right to mete out justice to this wretched child.

"I cannot allow this boy to sully school premises, so during the school day he will be tethered by the neck to the gates of the school entrance and he will be locked up at night in the groundsman's cupboard. I also cannot allow him to sully the school's uniform for a minute longer. So I now order that worthless miscreant John Barton to stand up and undress."

The reactions of John's schoolmates to his identification as the "worthless miscreant" were varied. Some talked excitedly to one another. Some stared at John with expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. Some of the girls in particular had flushed features that suggested an element of sexual or sadistic arousal. The one sentiment that was wholly absent from the sea of faces was sympathy.

From the moment his name was announced John could feel his blood being pumped around his body at 200 beats per minute. His hands were shaking so badly that it took him an eternity to remove his pullover and tie. Tears were streaming down his face, caused at least as much by the news that his family had disowned him as by anything else the headmaster had said. Pullover and tie removed, he awaited further instructions. The headmaster bellowed at him.

"Did I tell you to stop undressing? ALL your clothes, you impertinent boy!"

John could hardly believe his ears. A naturally shy boy, he was embarrassed even when his little brother occasionally saw him naked. And now he was expected to undress in front of a roomful of teachers and schoolchildren – half of them girls. He found himself physically unable to move, but somehow the shame and fear combined to make him experience an anal orgasm for the very first time, quite spontaneously.

"Uh…uh…UH!" he cried as this entirely unfamiliar but surprisingly pleasing feeling overwhelmed him.

The deputy head turned to the headmaster. "I do believe the little pervert has just come," she said, sotto voce. "And he is still refusing to undress. He cannot be allowed to undermine your authority in this way, headmaster. I would recommend a severe caning, right away."

The headmaster needed no convincing.

Because the assembly took place in the school's gymnasium, there was no shortage of equipment and fixtures that could be used to immobilise an 11-year-old boy before flogging him. Whilst John tearfully removed his clothes, the deputy head and a colleague moved a vaulting horse centre stage. Four of John's sturdier classmates were then ordered by the headmaster to take him by his arms, drag him to the horse, drape him over it and hold his wrists and ankles firmly in place.

Technically caning was still illegal. But a society prepared to execute children for minor sexual misdemeanours was hardly likely to worry about that.

Chapter Three

Time seemed to freeze. John could see the salacious grins on the faces of the two boys holding his wrists and could feel the rapid breathing of the two boys holding his ankles. If he raised his head a little he could see the stern, gaunt figure of the deputy head, a snarl of quiet satisfaction on her face. And he could sense but not see the presence of the headmaster. After some time he heard a whooshing sound and braced himself to receive the first of an unknown number of blows. But his buttocks escaped flogging, for the time being at least. He was being teased. Unfortunately, the teasing was about to stop.

"Children," the deputy head said, "the headmaster needs you to help keep count now, so let's have a nice loud shout for each blow on this deviant's bottom."

For those kids who knew what the word 'deviant' meant, this was the first hint that John's offences were sexual in nature. Much excited whispering ensued, as they all knew what the current punishments for sexual transgression were. A boy – a boy in their very own school – was about to be imprisoned or even executed for a sexual crime! And furthermore it was a boy whom everyone despised! It couldn't get better than that. School did not get better than that. Kids as young as nine or ten were experiencing frissons of sexual sadism of which they would not have thought themselves capable.

The chatting and sniggering suddenly stopped. John tensed himself. This was it.

Whoosh!

For a while – the best part of a second – it hardly hurt at all. But then all the demons of hell were unleashed. The pain was worse – far worse – than anything John had experienced at the hands of his brutal father, whose slipperings had seemed painful enough in all conscience.

"One!" chanted the children in treble unison.

John was vaguely familiar with the term 'six of the best' and assumed he had to survive another five blows. To his mounting distress he found that he actually had to survive another eleven. Each blow was accompanied by a chant from the schoolchildren and a scream from the victim. The seventh and subsequent blows were delivered not to the boy's buttocks but, much more painfully, to the backs of his thighs. Once he felt quite close to losing consciousness but there was to be no respite until the 12^th blow had been delivered.

It was only then, as the four boys were lowering him from the horse, that he became aware of the most shameful feature of this whole experience. He had unknowingly developed a stiffie under the influence of the cane. The audience cheered and jeered.

"You filthy little beast," the deputy head cried. "We'll soon put a stop to that nonsense," whereupon she took hold of his genitals and squeezed them mercilessly. The treatment worked and John's erection completely subsided.

Weeping, bleeding and racked with pain, the boy was dragged out of the gym, out of the front door and up to the gate. His erstwhile classmates held him in place while the deputy head fitted a halter round his neck. Panic overtook the boy as he really thought that she was about to hang him. Involuntarily he wet himself. Instead, the loose end of the halter was fixed to the gate. The headmaster approached with a placard which was also hung around John's neck, though he was allowed to read what it said first.

"This is how we deal with deviants while they await their full punishment."

John's blood chilled as he read the words 'full punishment'. He had heard enough reports of the new regime to know just how 'full' the full punishment was likely to be. Yet had he known what his actual 'full punishment' would entail he might have willingly settled for life imprisonment or even execution there and then.

John was of course far from the only person to read the words on the placard. The sight of a naked pre-pubescent boy, his backside a bright scarlet, tethered to a gate, drew spectators like moths to a candle. Women with toddlers in buggies, middle-aged joggers, old dears from the nearby care home – all stopped and goggled at the sight. But once again there was a total absence of pity. The headmaster was a popular figure in the town, so the passers-by naturally assumed that if he deemed the child worthy of a severe punishment, then that is what the child should get.

For some, adding to the child's misery by way of verbal abuse was a temptation hard to resist. Soon the word got around that this primary school boy was guilty of sexual abuse, and the shouting from the crowd reflected this.

"I hope they hang you from the school flagpole, you faggot slut!"

"You can tell he's a fucking pansy just by looking at him!"

"Hanging on its own would be way too good for the little cunt. Hanging, drawing and quartering like in the old days – now that should encourage pervs like him to keep their peckers under control!"

And then his dad sauntered up to deliver a script that the headmaster had given him. "I'm sorry to say that I am the father of his loathsome child. I cannot begin to describe the revulsion I felt when I discovered how he had been polluting his innocent younger brother. I just want everyone to know that I expect the law to be allowed to take its course without fear or favour. I never want to see this piece of shit again but just so he is left in no doubt about how I feel…"

Whereupon Mr Barton walked up to his tethered son, slapped him half a dozen times across his cheeks, hawked up a decent dollop of phlegm and spat it all onto the child's face.

"…and Mrs B feels just as strongly as I do."

Eventually the school day came to an end. The boy was untethered and dragged to the groundsman's cupboard. A bowl of water and one of dog food awaited him. The boy fell on them ravenously, only to recoil and gag when he realised that they had both been laced with urine. The boys who had dragged him there burst out laughing at his expression of disgust before kicking him a few times, pushing him into the far corner of the cupboard and locking him in.

Chapter Four

The regime's general attitude to punishment was epitomised by that Old Testament precept, 'an eye for an eye'. It was therefore regarded as axiomatic that a major element of the punishment of a sexual offender would be sexual assault. Rapists would be raped. Sadists would be tortured. And 11-year-old boys guilty of defiling their own brothers would be given a strong dose of their own medicine.

It was the end of day two of John Barton's ordeal, which had proved even harder to survive than day one. The sight of his own father spitting into his face had energised both his classmates and the passers-by to find ways of making his life even more miserable. Under the lustful eyes of a teacher detailed to make sure the abuse did not threaten the boy's very existence, children and adults alike proceeded to smack, kick and punch the child without pity and without remission. By the time he was dragged back to the cupboard, his eyes were discoloured and almost completely closed, and his body was a sea of welts and bruises. He would have been in an even worse state if the teacher had not reluctantly intervened to rein the assailants in. The school was, after all, contractually obliged to hand the child over in a serviceable state to his new owner. The odd broken rib would heal of its own accord, but more serious injuries might lead the purchaser to walk away from the transaction. No-one would benefit from that.

It was now time for the headmaster to acquaint Mr Barton with the next stage of his son's degradation, and to remind him of the role he was to play in it.

"Well Fred – may I call you Fred? – so far so good. We have now reached the point where sex rears its ugly head. Remember that your son is being punished for sexual congress with his brother. The little lad is clearly too young to return the favour, so the responsibility to assault John sexually clearly falls on your shoulders. To remind you what I said when we talked before: I know you are a red-blooded heterosexual male, not a boy-fucking faggot, and I respect you for that. But you must see how much more we will be degrading the boy if he is publicly raped by his own father. Trust me, the townsfolk will be cheering you on and urging you to fuck him even harder. And when you have finished giving your son your full attention, men will be queueing up to take your place."

In truth Fred Barton did not need too much convincing as to where his duty lay. But he did have one question.

"Look, I don't know nuffink about Moslems and ISIS and all that but if they want my boy to serve as a sex slave surely they will pay over the odds if he is still a virgin?

The headmaster smiled. Fred Barton was not quite as thick as he looked.

"Good point, Fred, but in the particular case of your son his future master has explicitly asked for a boy who has been broken in – his phrase, not mine. Our enquiries have established that he has made that request for the simple reason that he is so well hung that no virgin would survive a night in his presence. So I do hope that you are not about to tell me that you too are the proud possessor of a 12-inch [30cm] cock as that would cause us some difficulty in meeting our client's request that he be eased into his new role relatively gently."

By the end of this exchange, Fred Barton's cock had grown to an impressive but tolerable eight inches [20cm] in length, with girth to match. From long personal experience of raping little boys the headmaster was fairly confident that John Barton would survive the experience and that this would help him to accommodate the much larger organ of his new master.

The next day John Barton was dragged out of his cupboard at the usual time but this time instead of being tethered to the gate he was tied, face down, by his ankles and wrists to a desk which had been brought out of the nearest classroom. Once again he was shown a placard that was about to be hung round his neck, but the wording this time was quite different.

'Deviants are to be punished by being sodomised'.

Once a decent sized crowd had assembled, the teacher supervising matters made a public announcement.

"After taking legal advice, the headmaster has determined that the next stage of this child's punishment should be forcible rape, this being one element, and by no means the harshest element, of the prescribed punishment for the sexual abuse of an infant, an offence of which this child is manifestly guilty. The responsibility for initiating this phase of the child's punishment falls to the child's father. Once he has done what the law expects him to do, all male citizens of whatever age will be allowed, indeed encouraged, to do likewise. Step forward Mr Barton!"

In his introspective moments, which were rare occurrences, Fred Barton recognised that he derived what could only be described as sexual pleasure from chastising his sons. The pent-up rage that he felt towards his sons, his wife, the whole world even – all of this would magically disappear as he thrashed the boys without mercy. His cock would stiffen and a wave of pre-orgasmic pleasure would enfold him. On many such occasions Mrs Barton would be urgently summoned to do her wifely duties as her children lay weeping on the floor.

But in all his years of fatherhood it had never occurred to him to actually fuck his sons. Now that the headmaster had more or less told him that this was his bounden duty, and that he would be doing so in front of a large and entirely supportive audience, all his inhibitions vanished. He was no paedophile, he was just a solid citizen doing what society expected of him. And his long thick cock was now longer and thicker than it had ever been.

The excitement felt by the crowd was palpable. To see a little boy being legally fucked would be a novel experience in any event, but to see him lose his virginity to his own daddy, with the full authority of the law on his side – well, that was undreamed of.

The teacher handed Fred Barton a tube of KY and told him to apply it liberally in view of the damage that an unprepared cock would surely do to his son's rectum. He duly applied it, but perhaps not liberally enough to judge from the crystal-shattering screams that issued from the little boy as his father's more than adequate cock made its initial assault on his sphincter. The screams, far from invoking pity, merely aroused the crowd to even greater heights of sado-sexual glee.

"That's the way, Fred," shouted one, "drill him with your big fat cock!"

"Pump him full of your hot spunk!" shouted another.

"Fuck him so hard that he can never walk again! Ruin the little faggot!" cried a third.

To John's mortification, women seemed to be as forthright in encouraging the vicious rape as men.

Fred Barton really needed no encouragement to fuck the bejasus out of his son.

Chapter Five

A week to the day after that fateful school assembly when John's nightmare had begun, the headmaster approached him, bound as usual during the daytime to the desk, in the company of two men whom the boy had never seen before. They were conservatively dressed in smart but not overly expensive suits and each carried a leather briefcase. They looked like middle-ranking civil servants, which was hardly surprising given that that is exactly what they were – pen-pushers from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. They untied the boy, lifted him off the desk and proceeded to inspect him thoroughly from top to toe. One of them tut-tutted a bit at the distended state of his arsehole, until reassured by his colleague that that was what the purchaser had requested. Eventually they were satisfied that the goods were as specified, shook the headmaster by the hand and led John away.

Wherever they were going, the route took them right through the centre of town, guaranteeing that the nude boy would face a fresh onslaught of insults, taunts and catcalls. These were hurtful enough but nothing like as hurtful as the physical pain he experienced in the well-beaten soles of his feet as this seemingly interminable forced march progressed.

Eventually they reached their destination – a small airstrip with a single anonymous cargo plane revving up. One of the civil servants shouted at the pilot, "This is the last one, Joe. See you next month. Safe journey!" Meanwhile the second man was propelling John up the flight of steps that led to the rear entrance of the plane.

It was with difficulty that John adjusted to the gloomy interior of the plane after the sun-drenched forced march. Eventually he realised that the hold was full of little boys, some of them really young, none older than 12 or 13. All were naked, all showed clear evidence of physical abuse, and all were shackled firmly in place by their wrists and ankles. Some of them, particularly the little ones, were weeping piteously. The only other occupants of the cargo hold were two swarthy, heavily armed men.

One of them shackled John in place. "Where are you taking us?" he asked.

That was a mistake. The guard produced a pistol and used it to deliver two excruciating blows to John's cheeks. "No questions!" the guard said. "Be silent, or…". He had no need to complete the sentence. The pistol spoke for itself.

The flight lasted some five hours, the total monotony broken only twice when the boys were allowed to slake their thirst from a large jerry-can. That left plenty of time for John to review the appalling experiences of the past week. Being fucked rigorously by his own father was degrading enough, especially since it quickly became clear that the sizeable crowd were, to a man, woman and child, rooting for his dad and against him. But what was even more shameful was the growing realisation as his ordeal proceeded that there was pleasure as well as pain to be gained from being whipped and fucked.

He had had an inkling of this unexpected phenomenon the day – it seemed almost a lifetime ago – that the headmaster had beaten him in the gymnasium. He remembered not just the shameful erection he had displayed but stirrings of an unfulfilled orgasm as the caning progressed. And then there was the all-too-similar reaction to being fucked by his own father. This time the orgasm was not just fulfilled, it was repeated on at least three occasions as his father first exploded inside him and then stepped aside to give way to the lengthy queue of men who were waiting their turn.

Of course he was not just being fucked, though at times it seemed like a continuous process. He was also being smacked and paddled and caned and whipped, though with a teacher always in attendance as insurance against over-exuberance.

In the course of being fucked and beaten over the best part of a week, John experienced not just the physical pleasure of orgasms and near orgasms but something more profound – a sense that this was how it was meant to be. If he was being fucked because he was a slut or a whore (something many of the spectators told him in no uncertain terms that he was) it must be because he really was a slut and a whore, and that the only satisfaction available to him would come from opening his legs for anyone who happened to be passing by. Similarly if he was being fucked because he was a faggot or a queer it must be because deep down he wanted to submit himself sexually to big strong men. Whatever fate held in store for him could be no more than he truly deserved, and his only pleasure in life now would be to persuade all big strong men to give him what he truly deserved. These were advanced and worrying thoughts for a 10-year-old to entertain.

Eventually they arrived at their destination. The doors to the hold were opened and John was virtually blinded by the strength of the sunlight that poured in. The boys were unshackled one by one and led off the plane where they found themselves in a featureless desert landscape.

So great was the heat haze that John heard the fleet of Landrovers long before he saw them. When they finally arrived they formed a circle around the boys, not that there was any risk of escape. A man in traditional red-and-white keffiyeh headgear descended from one of the vehicles, a clipboard in his hands, and proceeded to administer a roll-call. When a boy's name was called he was instructed which Landrover to go and stand by. Eventually John heard his name called and he was given his directions. Moments a later anther boy's name was called out – Peter Warner – and he was directed to go and stand by John. The boy could have been no more than eight years old, and he was crying his little heart out.

"Shush," said John, "be brave. I'm sure nothing bad will happen to us. I'll look after you."

The boy seemed unconvinced by these assurances, as well he might, but snuggled up against John, and gazed up at him with doe-like moist eyes. "Will you?" the little boy asked. "Please say you'll protect me. I'm really frightened."

John was shit-scared himself but tried not to let this show. Shortly, the roll call was completed and all the boys were allocated to a vehicle, the two naked English boys were bundled into the first of the Landrovers which set off across the rolling miles of empty desert. John's attempts to get the driver to let him know where they were going and what was happening to them failed miserably.

Once little Peter had stopped weeping, John could not resist asking him how such a little boy as him had ended up being sold into sexual slavery. Slowly, between further bouts of weeping, the story emerged.

Peter had a five-year-old sister Trisha. They were still young enough to take a bath together, and in recent months to do so without their mother being present. They engaged in the usual sort of horseplay that kids do when bathing without parental supervision. It usually ended with their mum appearing in the doorway and bawling them out for slopping bathwater all over the floor.

And then one day events took a different turn. Peter, though only seven, had begun to experience erections on a regular basis. To his delight he found that an erect penis was considerably more sensitive to the touch than a flaccid one. So on the day that he first sported a stiffy in the bath with Trisha and she stared boggle-eyed at this unfamiliar sight he suddenly realised that he really, really wanted her to touch it, to stroke it, to pull that funny little flap of skin to and fro. Trisha was intrigued and more than happy to oblige. Some primal instinct must have told her that stroking it slowly up and down would feel really good for both of them.

So that is what she was doing when her mum unexpectedly walked through the door. The woman exploded with rage at the sight that greeted her, just at the very moment that her little boy experienced his first ever orgasm.

Trisha, predictably, shifted all the blame to her brother: "It was disgusting what he asked me to do mummy. I didn't want to do it but he MADE me!"

Their mother was enough of a feminist to willingly believe this version of events despite Peter's protestations. She dragged the boy from the bath, dripping wet and with his erection only partly deflated, shoved him into his bedroom and locked the door.

Peter could only vaguely make out the conversation between his parents after his dad returned from work, but it was clear enough that if his mum had been angry he was incandescent. Eventually he made out what his dad was saying, and his blood chilled.

"You do realise what this little slut of ours has done for this family. I am a magistrate and obliged to report what you saw to the police. Peter will be summarily tried, convicted, and paraded naked through the town as an example to others before being slowly hanged. Oh God, the shame, the indignity! God, I could throttle him right now with my bare hands."

To his amazement these words had an electric effect on the seven-year-old. His cock stiffened again and without even touching it he experienced his second orgasm in less than two hours. The thought of being throttled, whether in public before an audience or privately by his own father, was at once absolutely terrifying and thrillingly exciting.

After he had been incarcerated in his room on a bread-and-water diet for three days, two policewomen turned up at the door, handcuffed him behind his back and frogmarched him, stark naked, down the road to the magistrates' court. Despite his tender years, he faced exactly the same mixture of insults, jeers and threats as John had experienced. The court proceedings lasted barely a minute before the death sentence was pronounced. Life imprisonment, the chief magistrate said, was far too lenient a sentence for so heinous a crime. Peter wailed in despair as he realised that this was it, he was about to be executed. He looked around, hoping to derive some reassurance from the presence of his parents. They were present, but the expressions of grim satisfaction on their faces showed that any parental affection had long since withered and died. Peter turned back as he realised that the chief magistrate was still speaking.

"The death sentence will remain in force until such time as his period of overseas servitude has expired and he is returned to our jurisdiction. As the townspeople will be denied the immediate satisfaction of witnessing his well-deserved capital punishment, his expatriation will not take place for a week. During this time he will be held in confinement in his school for his fellow pupils and their parents, as well as his teachers and anyone else they choose to invite, to subject him to whatever physical chastisement and abuse, naturally including sexual abuse, they see fit. In deciding on the degree of severity I remind these participants that the convicted prisoner is guilty of the worst case of child-on-child abuse that this court has yet been required to try. Take this loathsome brat away!"

Within the hour, Peter found himself in an empty classroom at his primary school. His hands were still cuffed and the cuffs were fixed to chains suspended from pipework at ceiling-level. He was just about able to stand on his tiptoes.

Peter's voice cracked as he attempted to tell John what happened next.

"It was awful," he said between blubs. "After the teachers had chained me up they all punched me in the face, really hard. Then they punched me in the balls. Then they each got hold of a cane and used it to thrash my backside. Oh John, it hurt so badly! Then the men teachers undressed. Why were they doing that, I wondered. When they were all naked they all had stiff thingies. I must have looked really puzzled because one of them said something like: 'I don't think our little sex pest (that's what they called me) has any idea what's about to hit him.' And then another one said, 'He'll find out soon enough. Fuck him long and hard, Trevor, and show him what it's really like to be sexually assaulted'."

"Trevor Williams was my English teacher. I was always one of his favourite pupils, and he often gave me higher marks than I really deserved, but now he looked angrier than anyone I had ever seen. I could see the spittle coming out of his mouth as he pulled on his thingie to make it even bigger and harder. Then he stepped behind me and…and…"

The little boy burst into tears. John did not need the sentence to be completed. He now knew from bitter experience what happened when grown-up men with big thingies and evil expressions stepped behind you. John felt real pity for the younger boy, but it was pity tinged with other less expected emotions. The mental image of a boy several years younger than himself screaming as he was being punched and fucked by big strong men was a thrilling one, and all the more so because John convinced himself that Peter, like John himself, was at some level getting the treatment he deserved.

Peter did not dwell on the multiple whippings and rapes he had to endure during the past week, except to say that in many ways the worst part was the insults he received from people he thought liked or even loved him. By contrast with John's experience Peter's father did not actually fuck him – but his grandfather did, as well as two uncles, while his favourite aunt used a nine-inch strap-on dildo to show what she thought of her vile nephew.

"Am I a bad boy?" he asked. John did not know what to say, because he had asked the same question of himself many times. "I must be bad," said Peter, "to have been punished like this. But I didn't think I was bad." And he burst into tears all over again. John mused about his own fate, and found himself haunted by the jeers and catcalls with which his assailants had bombarded him, leading him to the inexorable conclusion that he was indeed the worthless piece of shit they said he was. And Peter was too. They were two little pieces of shit in a Landrover in the middle of nowhere heading towards who knew what fate.

Eventually they arrived at their new home. It was an opulent complex of buildings sited incongruously in the middle of the desert. Standing waiting for them in the open gateway was their new master. "He your boss now and your daddy," said their driver. "You do everything he ask you to do at once or…" and he imitated the slitting of a throat.

The boys were led towards their master and made to kneel in front of him. They found him less scary than they had expected. Far from looking like an extra from an Ali Baba pantomime, he could almost have been European with his light brown skin, blue eyes and smartly trimmed beard. He was dressed not in traditional Arab clothing but a smart Hugo Boss suit. And he was smiling at them. Both boys derived an unjustifiable amount of comfort from that smile. They would learn soon enough that that smile could be the harbinger of unspeakable torment.

"Welcome, boys!" the man said, "welcome to…well you don't actually need to know where you are because you are not going anywhere else anytime soon. My name is Ahmed, but you will call me master unless I tell you otherwise. In case it has not been made clear to you, I own you, just as surely as I own that Landrover you have been driven here in and the suit of clothes that I am wearing. Anything I want from you I will get from you. If I want to hear you scream, you will scream for me. If I want to hear you groan with lust, you will groan for me. I have many friends to whom I have promised unfettered access to my two new toys. You will obey them in every particular just as surely as you will obey me. Disobedience will prove fatal. Remember, it is I who effectively saved you from the hangman's noose, so I expect a great deal of gratitude. Disappoint me and I will have to choose between killing you here and sending you back to England where the noose awaits you. Do I make myself clear?

The boys nodded. That was not the correct response. Ahmed flicked his fingers and a bare-chested, pantaloons-wearing Arab – who really did look like an extra from an Ali Baba pantomime – stepped forward and without further warning delivered a ferocious blow of a cane to each of the boys' backs. They screamed from a mixture of shock and pain.

Without raising his voice, Ahmed said, "Ah, I see you have a lot to learn before you are ready to serve me as I would wish. The correct response to 'Do I make myself clear" is not a surly nod of the head but a loud and emphatic 'Yes, Master!'. So, once again, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes master!" the boys shouted in unison.

"That's better," Ahmed responded. "Now let me tell you what is going to happen next. Your main purpose in life from now on is to be fucked by me, morning, afternoon, evening and night. I make no secret of the fact that the pleasure I derive from doing so will be greatly enhanced by hurting and humiliating you in every way I and my circle of friends can think of. Our challenge is to so abuse you that you will not only accept pain and humiliation but positively welcome it. You will come to recognise that you were born to be slaves and that the only real pleasure you will experience in life from now on will be that which you gain by submitting yourselves completely to my will. Now, once again, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Master!"

"Good. Now, first things first. My agents in Britain assure me that you have already been well prepared to serve as my sex slaves. Indeed, they suspect that no boys in your country's long and noble history have been fucked anything like as many times as you have. But I am a cautious man with a gigantic cock and I do not wish to damage my merchandise irreparably before I have had a chance to appreciate it.

"There is also a little matter of your foreskins to attend to. Whilst Arab boys often retain their foreskins for a year or two more, I have decided to have yours removed here and now. So Abdul here will take you now to your new living quarters, which as you will quickly appreciate also serve as a rudimentary torture chamber, where after being well cleaned you will be strapped to a table and circumcised. Will it hurt? I can imagine you are thinking. Well of course it will hurt. Everything that happens to you here is liable to hurt. But let me promise you one thing. The pain will never be greater than you are able to bear. I have owned enough slaves in the past, some of them even younger than little Peter here, to be able to calibrate exactly the right amount of pain to deliver so as to ensure that my slaves know that death will not come to their rescue.

"Once you have ben circumcised, Adbul and his colleagues will rape you. If they judge that you need opening up to a greater extent than their cocks can achieve, then rest assured that they possess the equipment necessary to open you up even further until you are ready for me. They will receive a handsome bonus if they can get you first to scream and then to groan from their ministrations.

"Then, and only then, will they deliver you to my chambers. As a special favour I have allowed them to stay and watch as I force my huge cock into your tiny rectums and fuck you relentlessly. I expect to be able to delay my orgasm for at least an hour whilst I fuck little Peter and for nearer two hours whilst I fuck the somewhat bigger John. By that time I am sure that Abdul and his colleagues will be more than ready to take my place, even though by now your arseholes will have the dimensions of the cunt of a raddled 50-year-old whore. However, my people have time-honoured ways of speeding up your recovery so I fully expect that you will both be ready to resume your duties as sex slaves within two or three days and that you will show me how far you have evolved into juvenile pain sluts.

"Once I am convinced that you are well advanced on that journey I will introduce you to my instruments of torture. You will experience pain, assuredly. You will also experience pleasure, if only the ephemeral pleasure that results from having your prostate gland massaged. And if my skills have not deserted me you will eventually experience the condition which I have named pain-pleasure, where pain and pleasure are fused into one over-arching emotion. You will come to welcome the kiss of the whip, the thrust of the cock, the orgasms that you experience as you are throttled nearly but not quite to the point of death, the erections which harden perceptibly with each turn of the rack, and the all-embracing pain that comes when hundreds of volts of electricity are delivered to the most painful and sexually responsive parts of your anatomy. Enough for now! Take them away!"

Weeping piteously and trembling with fear, the two boys made no attempt to defend themselves as Abdul and his goons bundled them away from Ahmed's fearsome presence and towards their new lives as pain sluts and sex slaves.

The End

The End