Chapter One

"So why is he called Little Donkey?" Janice asked.

"Three reasons," her friend Melanie replied. "First, he's not very bright. Second, like Eeyore the donkey in Winnie the Pooh, he always looks miserable. And third…"

Melanie whispered in Janice's ear. Janice blushed, and giggled. "How do you know?" she asked her friend.

"Because my brother is in his class and sees him naked whenever they shower after PE or games. He tells me it's totally out of proportion for a boy of 11."

At that point the subject of their conversation emerged from the station toilets. Most of the boys had congregated some way away to his left and most of the girls to the right. The boy avoided both groups and stood on his own in the middle of the platform. He hoped that he looked inconspicuous and would be spared the teasing and goading that had been his lot ever since he started secondary school.

Some luck! Kelly, the 15-year-old leader of the little girl gang of which Melanie and Janice were enthusiastic members, started singing the Nina and Frederick Christmas novelty hit. Pointing their fingers at the boy they chanted their familiar refrain: "Little Donkey, Little Donkey". Tears formed in the boy's eyes. A slight and frail 11-year-old, he barely looked pubescent, let along someone who was allegedly hung like a donkey.

As the excursion train pulled in, Kelly said: "I want to see this famous cock. He won't want to be with the other boys, they'll only bully him, so let's make sure he joins us at this end of the train. Mr Collins won't disturb us, he'll be far too busy trying to keep order at the other end of the train. And Miss White had to take Paula to hospital, so we'll be totally undisturbed. So – go get him, girls!"

All seven girls duly walked up to the boy who cowered at the sight of them. "Right, little boy, you're coming with us," they said, as they bundled him into a carriage at the very far end of the train. It was old rolling stock that did not even have a corridor, the train would not be stopping until its destination, and the girls would have over an hour to do whatever they liked with the boy.

"So, sonny, we hear you're the most famous boy in the first form," Melanie said. "We want to see whether what we've heard about you is true. Is it?"

"I – I – don't know what…" the boy stammered.

"Don't get all coy with us, sonny. You know perfectly well what we mean. Show us your prick!"

"No!" the boy shouted, "No I won't!"

"Oh yes you will," Melanie responded. "Girls, hold him down!"

Within seconds the boy's arms and legs were held firmly in place to allow unfettered access to his groin. Melanie pulled down his zip and reached inside.

"Christ, it's like a frigging tree-trunk. I can't even get my hand round it!"

"In that case," said Kelly, "there's only one solution. Down with his trousers and pants!"

Struggle though he might, the boy was quite unable to prevent his assailants from pulling his nether garments down to his ankles. Freed from confinement, and strangely excited by its enforced exposure, his cock instantly sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. But what a jack-in-the-box!

"Wow!" said Kelly. "That is some cock! Got a ruler anyone? I want to see just how long it is!

A ruler was duly produced. The answer was six and a half inches [16.5cm]. Rather more than twice the norm for a boy of his age.

"Do you think the freak's old enough to come?" asked Louise, one of the more sexually experienced of the 14 and 15-year-olds who had this well-endowed boy in their clutches.

"Surely with a cock like that…but there's only one way to find out for certain!"

Whereupon Kelly started to masturbate the boy, nice and slowly.

Despite his prodigious endowment the boy had never actually come before and indeed had never even played with himself. But his response to being tossed off whilst forcibly restrained was all too predictable.

"O…O…O…stop please, I'm going to pee!"

"Oh no you're not," Kelly said, "you're going to shoot something far more interesting than piss out of your cock. Just watch!"

The feelings the boy was experiencing intensified dramatically and within seconds he was consumed by the first orgasm of his life. He watched aghast as columns of sperm erupted from his cock. Kelly ensured that the sperm shot high into the air and descended to coat his face and chest

The boy might have thought that this marked the end of his indignities. But he could not have been more wrong.

Quite a lot of the sperm had landed on his jacket and pullover. "Fucking hell," said Louise," do we have to put up with the smell of his spunk all the way home?"

"What do you suggest?" said Kelly, almost absent-mindedly continuing to play with the boy's cock.

"Just throw his clothes out of the window!"

"What, all of them?" one of the quieter girls asked.

"Yeah," said Kelly, as she started to make the boy erect again. "All of them! Except his shoelaces. I have something in mind for them."

"Oh please no!" the boy wailed. "How will I get home? What will my mum think?"

Penny, the only girl in the group whom the boy actually knew, answered. "Everyone knows that your mum is a loony, she's only just come out of the loony-bin. Who gives a fuck what she thinks?"

Whereupon the girls descended on the boy like hyenas on a wounded deer and proceeded to strip him. Panicking, the boy lashed out against his assailants with all the strength he could muster. He managed to break the grip that one of the girls had of his left foot and kick her on the chin, hard. That proved to be a serious mistake.

"You little toe-rag," the girl said, "that really hurt!" Kelly glowered at the boy with sadistic lust in her eyes.

"We need to teach this toe-rag how to behave," she said as she squeezed his cock painfully. "Punch him in the stomach and balls, Louise. Punch him hard. And then punch him again." Louise was happy to oblige. She delivered a barrage of blows which constituted by far and away the most painful experience of the boy's life – so far. All the girls found the whole affair wildly exciting and within minutes the compartment stank of girl juices. However, they were nearing their destination and the boy wasn't naked yet. At Kelly's orders, the punching stopped and the stripping resumed. The boy wept piteously.

Once the boy was as naked as the day he was born Kelly removed the shoelaces from his shoes and opened the compartment window. Tantalisingly, she held one of the shoes out of the window.

"Well, girls, what do you think? Does he really need his clothes or are we happy to see him prancing around naked with his monster cock in full view? Unless anyone tries to stop me I'm going to let this shoe go after the count of five. One…two…"

"No, please!" the boy begged between wails.

"Three…four…"

"PLEASE DON'T"

"Five!" Whereupon Kelly let go of the shoe.

Within less than a minute all the rest of the boy's clothes had also been flung out of the train. Although the boy was bawling his head off, his cock had remained fully erect. To ensure it stayed that way Kelly tied one of his shoelaces around the base of his genitals whilst using the other to tie his thumbs tightly behind his back.

The train pulled into its destination. Whooping with sexually-charged pleasure the girls left the boy to his fate.

Chapter Two

The boy assumed that someone – a guard perhaps or a cleaner – would come by shortly. However embarrassing the encounter might be, it would surely result in him being freed, clothed and taken home. But no-one came. Instead after about half-an-hour the engine re-started and the train inched its way out of the station, eventually stopping in a siding. Then – silence. The boy decided to see if he could get out of the train. He found that if he backed up against the door he had enough mobility in his hands, despite the tied thumbs, to open it. He then had to jump for it, as there was of course no platform to step onto. In reality he fell rather than jumped and landed painfully in gravel. Wincing, he picked himself up and took stock.

The first thing he did was to find a sharp piece of gravel and use it to cut the shoelace binding his thumbs. This took a long time to achieve, but he managed to free his hands eventually. His genitals remained bound, swollen and discoloured, however.

There were fences separating the railway from a housing estate, but they were too high for him to surmount. Nevertheless he made his way painfully along the gravel track in the hope that he might eventually find a gap in the fencing.

He did. The gap was just large enough to allow him to squeeze into someone's back garden. And there, as if in answer to his prayers, was a clothes line replete with a child's clothing. He took down a pair of jeans and attempted to put them on, but they were clearly designed for an eight-year-old not an 11-year-old, still less an 11-year-old with an outsize cock. As he desperately tried to shoehorn himself into the jeans lights came on in the house. Taken by surprise, he fell over, his legs tangled in the jeans.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" a woman's angry voice demanded. "Bill, come on out. We've got ourselves an intruder."

A man, presumably her husband, approached the boy pointing a powerful flashlight at him. There, like a scared rabbit caught in a car's headlights, was a naked boy with his little daughter's jeans around his ankles and an adult-sized cock bound at its root by a shoelace.

"I saw him breaking in through the fencing. Well Bill, you're a policeman, what are you going to do about it?"

A sadist and closet pedophile, what Bill would have liked to say was, "I'm going to jerk off all over him with one hand while beating him senseless with my truncheon with the other", for in all his years in the force he had never seen such an – what was the right word? – such an arresting sight. But he decided to play it long.

"Ring the station, dear, and get PC Clayton and WPC Smythe to come here pronto. I'll see what this little trespasser has to say for himself."

Sergeant William Conway disentangled the boy, removed his daughter's jeans and hauled the boy to his feet. He produced a pocket knife. The boy cowered.

"Stop struggling, you little deviant. The lace you've tied round your cock is too tight to untie. Leave it much longer, depriving your cock of blood, and bye-bye cock." Bill held the boy firmly in place and cut through the shoelace, nicking the boy's scrotum in the process.

"Ouch! Please sir, I didn't.."

Bill cuffed him. "Shut your gob you little scumbag. You'll have plenty of opportunity to explain yourself after you've been formally arrested."

"But sir…"

Bill hit him again. The ability to strike a naked pre-teen boy with impunity was an unexpected perquisite of being a police sergeant.

"Now listen to me and listen good. We can charge you with trespassing on railway property, with breaking and entering, with burglary, with theft, with exhibitionism, with outraging public decency and no doubt several other serious offences as well. You'll spend the first 10 years or so of your sentence in a young offenders' institution before serving the remaining three or four decades in an adult prison."

The boy could not believe his ears. He collapsed to the ground and burst into tears. Bill hauled him up.

"But if you stop trying to lie to me or make pathetic excuses then I am prepared to offer you an alternative."

The boy stopped bawling and looked expectantly at the policeman.

"The alternative is what is sometimes called summary justice. My colleagues and I will take you to the police station, administer a birching, give you an official caution in case you reoffend and then send you on your way. Is that acceptable?"

The boy was not entirely sure what a birching was but surmised, correctly, that it was a form of physical punishment.

"Will it hurt, sir?"

"Oh yes, more than anything you've ever experienced in your life. But once it's over, it's over."

As the boy was to discover shortly, this was not altogether true. But as the alternative seemed so much worse, he accepted the option of summary justice.

At that point Sergeant Conway was joined by his two junior colleagues. It was a happy coincidence that they were on station duty that evening as Bill was fairly sure, from ribald remarks in the canteen, that PC Clayton shared his sadistic impulses and in particular his desire to hurt young children. In the case of WPC Smythe there was no doubt that she shared his inclinations: they had been having a torrid affair for over a year now, with fantasies about flogging and raping children central to the health of their relationship. Birching had been abolished some years previously in the UK, but for old times' sake a fresh birch was always maintained in a jar of brine in the station.

Once fully briefed, WPC Smythe held the boy's hands firmly behind his back while PC Clayton handcuffed him. The three police officers then frogmarched the child through the back gate and onto the street. The police station was only a few hundred yards away but that was far enough for the boy's shame and embarrassment to be intensified by the reactions of the passers-by. These ranged from amusement and excitement to perplexity and disgust. Not one person, however, questioned the police officers' right to have a naked 11-year-old in their custody.

It was PC Clayton, the oldest of the three, who reminded his colleagues that it was customary to have a doctor in attendance when a child was being birched, and that a certain Dr Carruthers had always been quick to volunteer for this particular assignment, for reasons which the whole station could easily guess at. It was agreed that he, PC Clayton, would visit the good doctor and invite him to attend the punishment session whilst the sergeant and the WPC prepared the boy for his ordeal.

Not that much preparation was needed. He was after all already buck-naked, and once in the police station it was a matter of a couple of minutes before he was rendered immobile on a vaulting horse, leather straps fixing both arms and legs firmly in place. A cloth was inserted into his mouth to reduce the risk of him biting off his own tongue – it had been known to happen – or making such a noise that passers-by would hear that something rather unconventional was going on.

WPC Smythe – too young to have witnessed a legal birching – was visibly excited by the whole scenario. Apart from anything else she had not been able to keep her eyes off the child's outsize cock. Left to her own devices she would happily have started to flog the boy there and then but her senior officer told her she had to be patient and wait until everybody was assembled.

So they settled for a quick fuck instead. Sergeant Conway was amazed, and mildly annoyed, at just how sodden his lover's cunt was. Why, he couldn't help wondering, did she not have discharges like this when the two of them were alone? But he had to agree that having a good fuck in the proximity of a bound 11-year-old weeping piteously as he awaited the flogging of a lifetime made their sexual congress more than usually satisfying.

Having made vain attempts to free himself, the boy now seemed to be resigned to his fate. It was not long before PC Clayton and Dr Carruthers arrived. The doctor, now retired, was a short fat man who sweated a lot and wheezed a lot. He deeply regretted the abolition of corporal punishment, though it would rarely if ever have been applied to an 11-year-old. But here were three respected police officers ready to take the law into their own hands and inviting him to observe them do so. In the good old days the police had always invited him to spend some time alone with a youth after a birching "to make sure there were no complications". His stubby cock erected at the recollection of what the police had allowed him to do to a culprit back then and what he sorely hoped they would allow him to do to this frail child now. When summoned by PC Clayton, he had made sure to stick three crisp five-pound notes into his back pocket to remind the officers of his traditional rights.

"Six strokes should be about right for such a little boy, don't you think?" said the sergeant. "We can each deliver two." It was clear that WPC Smythe found this proposal disappointing and suggested that in view of the catalogue of heinous offences the child had committed a dozen blows would be in order.

Dr Carruthers was in two minds. Part of him would frankly have been happy to see the boy flogged to death. But part of him realised that such an outcome would give rise to all sorts of inconveniences. After some discussion about what the boy could be expected to withstand, they settled on nine, with the doctor checking up on him after every third blow.

On the principle of ladies first, WPC Smythe had the honour of delivering the first three blows. To her disappointment the boy did no more than grunt after the first blow. "Don't worry," said the sergeant, who knew how birching worked, "that will have forced the air out of his lungs. I can assure you he will start screaming his head off soon enough." And he did.

The boy fainted twice, but on each occasion he was quickly brought back to consciousness by a mug of water in his face, and deemed fit enough for the flogging to resume. Eventually – too soon for WPC Smythe – it was over and the officers were able to survey their handiwork. His whole backside was discoloured – red lacerations against a background of purple flesh. He might be in agony, and there had certainly been some loss of blood, but he was not going to die any time soon.

"Well," said the sergeant to his colleagues, "I don't know about you two but I've got a home to go to." Doctor Carruthers, you will no doubt wish to render professional services to this miscreant in your own inimitable way. We'll leave you to it. A nice five-pound note? Why, thank you very much. Pull the door firmly behind you when you leave and hand the boy over to Clayton who will be waiting in a police car to drive the boy home and see that he's tucked up nicely in bed – I don't think!"

Chapter Three

Never in his 65 years had Dr Carruthers been so excited. The youngest boy he had fucked in these or any other circumstances had been 14. Ideally the culprit would have been eight or nine, but 11 would do nicely.

From his immobilised position, the boy could not see the doctor but he could hear the sounds of an elderly man wheezing with effort and pleasure, of shoes being hastily removed and thrown to the ground, of a zip being pulled down, and even of two buttons pinging across the room as the man was over-hasty in removing his shirt. The boy knew that something terrible was going to happen to him at the hands of this naked man but in his innocence he had no idea what.

He was to find out soon enough. As well as the fivers, Doctor Carruthers had remembered to set off with a tube of Vaseline in his pocket. He now proceeded to prepare the boy for deflowering. First one, then two, then three Vaseline-coated fingers were roughly inserted in the boy's arse. In and out they went until the doctor concluded that the boy was as prepared as he would ever be to be raped. So he raped him.

Before the night was over the boy would be raped by cocks a great deal larger than this one, and by rapists willing and able to spin out the abuse for a great deal longer. So in a way he was quite lucky, but of course he did not know that at the time. And if he thought that he was all screamed out, the doctor quickly proved him wrong.

To his disappointment the doctor came within less than 30 seconds. He got dressed, uncuffed the boy and helped him down from the vaulting horse. It was then that he saw the boy's outsize genitals for the first time, not to mention the pool of semen that had been released as a side-effect of the flogging or the raping, or both. The doctor found the sight so thrilling that he just had to fuck the boy all over again. This time he lasted a full minute.

Once dressed (again) he escorted the boy out of the police station where, as agreed, PC Clayton was ready to drive the boy home. Mimicking a taxi driver, he asked: "Where to, squire?" Between sobs the boy managed to give his address.

"Can't go there, squire. Manor Road is up and I'd have to do a three mile detour. I'll drop you off at Gladstone Park. You can easily walk home from there."

The boy beseeched the policeman to drive him home. The idea of walking nearly a mile across a public park, stark naked, and with the evidence of physical and sexual abuse all too apparent, terrified him.

As well it might.

Chapter Four

"Harder, Stanley, fuck me harder!"

It was now late at night and all the cottagers who frequented Gladstone Park had gone home, some with new friends, others on their own. But brawny, bald, moustachioed Stanley Wilkins was enjoying ploughing his favourite sub too much to be thinking of going home. The contrast between the muscular labourer and the weedy railway clerk could not have been starker.

On his hands and knees, Sydney Gummer grunted with pleasure as his dom pounded away at him. And then he saw something which made him wonder if he was hallucinating.

"Stanley, stop a minute, please stop! Look over there!"

Intrigued, Stanley stopped doing what he had been doing and looked in the directions that Sydney was indicating. There, a hundred yards or so away from the secluded grove in which they had been screwing, was a naked boy walking slowly towards them. Stanley withdrew from his catamite and the two men crouched side-by-side as the boy approached.

"Ooh Stanley," Sydney whispered, "look at the cock he has on him. I want that cock up me! Please, Stanley, as a special treat."

Stanley was a jealous lover and no pedophile. His first reaction was to knock Sydney about a bit for his impertinence. Subs should know their place. But the bizarre situation in which he found himself and the prospect of some unconventional troilism made his stiff cock even stiffer. With the boy only a few yards away, Stanley pounced.

Once they had subdued the boy, the two men surveyed their catch. Two things became immediately apparent. One, the boy had been whipped. Two, the boy had been fucked. As a matter of principle, both men would have preferred to land a virgin. But in their different ways each of them found the prospect of abusing a boy who had already been seriously abused a thrilling one.

The boy meanwhile was pleading with them to let him go. He should have saved his breath. Both men were now sporting huge erections which they intended to put to good use. Stanley held the boy firmly in his bear-like arms whilst Sydney took his cock in his mouth. Once it had been sucked to its full six-and-a-bit inches [16.5cm] the men took up their new positions – Sydney on his hands and knees with his ass nudging up against the boy's cock whilst Stanley trapped the boy in a man sandwich with his even larger cock jammed right up against the boy's arse-hole. With a grunt of effort, Stanley forced himself inside the boy. Although the boy had already been fucked twice, leaving his arse well lubricated with Vaseline, sperm and blood, the labourer was very much better endowed than the doctor, as the boy's screams attested.

Whilst working his cock ever deeper into the boy's bowels, Stanley managed to use his right hand to feed the boy's cock into Sydney's arse. And then the double-fucking began. The boy was in agony and Sydney in ecstasy as the pressure of Stanley's cock forced the boy's own cock ever deeper into the clerk's skinny arse. As if choreographed, all three came together.

No extensive recuperation was required for the two men to be ready to fuck the boy all over again. It was unusual for Sydney to be the fucker rather than the fuckee, but even he could happily play the role of dom when his sub was so young and so small. "I need a piss," Stanley announced as Sydney was shoving his modestly-sized cock up the child's arse. "Oooh," said Sydney. "Piss on us! Pump your stinky manly piss all over us. Do it now! And make sure it hits his face!" Stanley was not used to taking orders from his sub, but on this occasion he was happy to oblige.

Having sodomised him conventionally they made a tentative attempt to double-fuck him but had to abandon the assault. Instead, Stanley swatted him on his already well-beaten arse and sent him on his way.

Chapter Five

The boy completed his traversal of Gladstone Park with no further incident. Home was now within sight, at the end of a cul-de-sac opposite the park gates. He had no idea how he would explain what had happened to him to his mother. Her mood swings were quite unpredictable and she was as likely to berate him as to cosset him when she saw the state he was in.

He had to ring the bell, as his key was in his trouser pocket by the side of the railway somewhere. There was no answer. After ringing again, still with no success, he walked round to the back of the house to see if by any chance the back door was open. It wasn't, but what really chilled the boy's blood was the sight of a letter addressed to him in his mother's handwriting on the kitchen table. Twice before in his life he had come home to find letters to him on the kitchen table. Twice the letters had said that she could no longer cope with the pressures of being a single mother and needed the time and space to sort things out. The boy was morally certain that this was the third such letter.

There was only one thing he could do, which was to throw himself on the mercy of his next-door neighbours – Mrs Francis and her three daughters. They had taken him in on the first occasion that his mother had done a runner, when he was just seven, and although the girls were real bitches Mrs Francis was kindness itself. However, during his mother's most recent spell of hospitalisation she had been too ill to look after the boy and social services had fostered him out to an elderly couple instead. Mightily embarrassed by his nudity and evidence of physical and sexual assault, and mindful of how late it now was, he walked across the road and rang Mrs Francis's front door bell.

It was answered, not by Mrs Francis but by the eldest of her three daughters, Imogen. She looked in amazement at the naked boy, his cock still partly engorged and his whole body smelling distinctly of semen and piss. She found the sight strangely alluring. When the boy had stayed with them before they had been aware when bathing him that he was richly endowed for a seven-year-old. Now, four years later, he had clearly lived up to his early promise. She put her arm round his shoulder and ushered him in.

Haltingly, between sobs, the boy managed to summarise the events of the past evening. As she listened to the incredible tale Imogen could only hope that the boy was unaware of the moisture that was spreading copiously over her nightgown. She informed the boy that her mother had died of cancer three months ago, whilst he was fostered out, and that social services had given her, aged 19, guardianship over her 12 and 14-year-old sisters. She thought they still had a key to the boy's house, from the time when they looked after him four years ago, and would see if she could find it in the morning. Meanwhile she suggested that he have a nice long bath and then have a good night's sleep in the spare bedroom. The boy was happy to comply. Imogen seemed a lot nicer than he membered from when, age 15, she had found more and more painful and humiliating ways to make his life a misery. He was to find out soon enough that Imogen had not really changed at all. Her failure to supply him with any pyjamas should have been a hint, but the boy was too tired to register the fact. He slept the sleep of the dead in the nude.

Once the boy was safely in bed, Imogen woke her two younger sisters and summoned them to a council of war in the kitchen. After bringing them up to date with the evening's revelations she told the girls that they had a choice to make.

"Option one," she said, "is simple. We go to his house and if, as he suspects, his mother has deserted him again, we notify social services and they take him into care. Option two, however, is a lot more unconventional. We don't let social services, the police or anyone else know he is here. We keep him here as our little pet, our little slave, our little sex toy. We do whatever we want to him, punishing him severely if he fails to give full satisfaction. Bear in mind, girls, that he has a cock to die for and will make a nice change from mum's stock of dildos. Yes, Becky, I know that you know where to find them." The 14-year-old blushed.

There was little need for a debate. The girls all remembered the pleasure they had got from teasing and taunting the boy when he was seven. It would be even more fun now that he was four years older and their mum was no longer around to cramp their style. The vote for option two was unanimous.

The next morning Imogen, Becky and Jessica assembled by the boy's bedside before he was even properly awake. Once he had taken in his visitors he pulled his sheet up to preserve his modesty. Imogen, however, pulled it all the way down again, exposing his morning erection. The two younger girls gasped at the sight. They knew from his previous stay that the boy had a big cock, but this was right off the scale for a pre-teenager.

"Don't play the innocent with me, child," Imogen said. We all know that in the past 12 hours you've been tossed off by seven schoolgirls, flogged by three policemen, fucked by a doctor, fucked again by two queers, made to fuck one of them yourself and finally pissed on from a great height. You have plumbed the depths of depravity and you will accordingly be treated with the contempt you deserve. For a start, we are not going to waste good money replacing your clothes. You will be naked at all times in this household. As our slave you will do all the household chores. You will obey any order any of us gives you immediately and without question. Any failure to obey will result in severe chastisement. And finally: your body is ours to do whatever we like with. You will meet our sexual needs or die in the attempt. You will be our toilet. You will…"

Imogen realised there was no point in continuing as the boy was racked with inconsolable sobs and incapable of taking in anything else the girls were proposing to do with or to him.

"Oh, one other thing," said Imogen once the boy's weeping had abated. "I found the key to your house from the time you stayed here four years ago. Your mum has done a flier and did leave you a note. It says that you're to blame for all her problems and she wishes you were dead. No, you can't read it; I've already thrown it in the fire."

The letter of course had said nothing of the sort, but in his febrile state the boy believed every word and howled with sorrow and betrayal.

The girls dragged him out of bed, frog-marched him downstairs, fed him on cereal and milk and then put him to work. As the school holidays had just started, all three girls would be around to supervise him, observe any lapses from the high standards expected of him and punish him as required.

Whimpering all the time, the boy did his best to obey their orders. His work satisfied them until it came to cleaning the oven where, even though provided with a specialist detergent, he evidently failed to meet the high standards they had set him. This was the cue for the first of many punishments which he would undergo over the coming weeks. The only consideration they showed was not to beat his back and buttocks until the evidence of his recent birching had started to fade away.

"Wh…what are you going to do to me?" he stuttered as he was frog-marched back up the stairs. "You'll find out soon enough," came the reply. He was made to lie face up on the bed. Imogen produced four lengths of rope which she waved sadistically in front of him. He started to squirm with terror but the other girls held him in place until all four limbs had been tied to the bed. Imogen next produced a long, thick leather belt and again waved it in front of him. His eyes followed it fearfully as if he were undergoing hypnosis.

All three girls – even the 12-year-old – were now damp with sexual desire and anxious for the thrashing to start. Imogen raised her right hand as high as she could and brought the belt abruptly down on the boy's tummy. His screams were every bit as satisfying as they could have hoped. The second blow was to his chest, the third to his thighs, the fourth to his calves and the fifth…

"Where do you think I should hit him next?" the 19-year-old sadist asked her two juvenile accomplices.

"On his cock and balls! "Becky and Jessica cried out in unison. "And make it really hard this time!" added Becky.

Imogen was more than happy to oblige. The last time she had chastised the boy he was just seven years old and the only weapon available to her had been the palm of her right hand. She could no longer remember what minor misdemeanour on the boy's part had landed him with a spanking on his naked bum but she did remember how, then as now, her sisters had egged her on to hit him harder and how the boy had howled with pain the whole time. Their mother was out shopping and Imogen was confident that the boy was too much in awe of her to tell tales. So the spanking continued until her hand was too sore to continue and the sight of the boy's bum was a treat. Now, four years on, she was able to evoke far louder and more desperate howls by slashing the belt across the boy's genitals with all the strength she could muster until they were red and swollen.

Red and swollen it might be, but the boy's prick had reacted involuntarily to the stimulus of the whipping and was clearly begging for release. Imogen played with it for a while, making it even stiffer, then asked her younger sisters which of them wanted the honour of being the first to take his (heterosexual) virginity. "Me, please!", both girls said. "Well, my guess is that he will be able to satisfy both of you before the day is out. So, you first Becky."

Gleefully, the 14-year-old hauled herself onto the bed, straddled the boy and easily worked his cock into her glistening cunt. She then proceeded to ride him like a veteran whore, unselfishly pulling away when she sensed he was about to have his orgasm and allowed her younger sister to finish him off. The 12-year-old managed to ride him for a couple of minutes before his orgasm blossomed anew and he ejaculated deep into her virginal cunt.

Few of the days that followed were any better for the boy and many were a great deal worse.

Chapter Six

Imogen had a problem. She had just received a phone call from Mrs Hammond, her social worker, who announced that she would be visiting the Francis's later that day to ensure that all was well. On no account could she be allowed to discover their little prisoner. Mrs Hammond tended to wander at will through the house on these visits, looking for any signs that things were not as they should be, so there was no question of confining the boy to his bedroom. Imogen was, however, confident that Mrs Hammond would have no occasion to visit the garden shed, so that was where she decided that the boy should be gagged, bound and stowed.

In her haste, however, she failed to tie him up as securely as usual and she also left the shed door unlocked. The boy had overheard the girls discussing the imminent visit of the case-worker and, once he had worked himself free and removed his gag, waited to hear her arrive. As her car pulled up, the boy pushed the shed door open and rushed to the front of the house – stark naked of course – where Imogen was welcoming her visitor.

"Oh please miss," the boy blurted out, "they're keeping me prisoner! They've made me their slave! Please, miss, take me away from them."

This was Imogen's worst nightmare come true. The prospect of a lengthy jail sentence for her and an awful future for her sisters loomed all too large. She started to gabble apologies and unconvincing explanations, but Mrs Hammond raised her hand to interrupt her.

"Listen to me very carefully, Imogen. Ninety-nine case workers out of a hundred in this situation would take this boy into care and provide a full report to the police. You can guess what would happen next. However, it is your good luck that I am the hundredth case worker. I shall take this boy into my own special sort of care and you and I will never talk about the matter again."

Imogen breathed a massive sigh of relief. Mrs Hammond turned her attention to the boy. "You, in the back of the car – now." This did not seem like the liberation that the boy had been hoping for, but he did as he was told. Twenty minutes later the car pulled up outside a large detached house in one of the leafier suburbs.

"Out!" said Mrs Hammond – the first word she had spoken since leaving the Francis girls. Placing her hand firmly on the boy's shoulder she shepherded him into the house.

"Wh…what are you going to do to me?" he stammered, not for the first time.

And the reply was exactly the same as he had received before. "You'll find out soon enough," the social worker said, as she picked up the phone and speed-dialled a number.

"Charlie? Can you get home as soon as possible? I have something I really need to show you."

She replaced the phone and addressed the boy. "Before we talk about anything else I need you to tell me exactly how you came to be hidden away in a shed with no clothes on."

Although deeply suspicious of the woman's intentions, the boy was overwhelmed with the need to relate his misadventures to an adult.

"Oh miss, it all started when a group of girls from my school stripped me, did things to me and threw my clothes out of a train window. They'd tied my hands behind my back but I got free and found a gap in a fence which led into a garden where there were children's clothes on the washing line. I tried to get into a pair of jeans but they were too small. That's when the woman who lived in the house saw me and called out for her husband who's a policeman and who took me down to the station where they b…birched me and did things to me before sending me home across Gladstone Park where two men pounced on me and…and…did things to me before they let me go home but when I got home my mum wasn't there and I couldn't let myself in because the girls had thrown away my trousers with my key in the pocket so I went to Mrs Francis because I'd stayed with her before when my mum was ill and she's nice but she had died and her daughters said they were going to turn me into their se..se..sex slave and they beat me and did things to me and…and…"

"Alright," said Mrs Hammond, "that's enough. Now, have you heard the phrase 'out of the frying pan and into the fire'? Yes, well, I think it could be said to apply to your situation right now. You are now a prisoner of my husband and me and this time there will be no escape. Imogen Francis may have said that they would turn you into their sex slave, but I can assure you that those girls have no idea what the fate of a real sex slave is like. And that is what you are going to experience, my precious. Pain and sex, sex and pain. This will be your lot until we get tired of you and throw you out with the trash.

"I should explain that my husband fully shares my taste in young boys and derives even more pleasure from hurting them than I do. What is more, he is a probation officer whose clients include a fair sprinkling of sexual psychopaths whose tastes in boy torture are even more extreme than ours. He can guarantee that these perverts will remain at liberty as long as they, let us say, perform certain services for us on request You'll be meeting some of them very soon. I imagine that several of them will derive particular pleasure from visiting exquisite pain on that impressive cock you are sporting. So, welcome to the rest of your wretched life, little boy."

The little boy howled.

The End