Chapter One
A Crowded Service Area

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting there?"

I looked up from the report I had been reading. The man was my sort of age (mid-to-late 30s) wearing my sort of attire ("smart casual") and carrying a briefcase almost identical to my own. For a second or so I had the eerie feeling that he was my doppelganger, but the moment passed.

The service area was as full as I could remember, so of course I said, "Be my guest" and gestured to the empty seat.

I examined him a little more closely. Of course, he did not really look like me at all, but he did somehow seem familiar. He read my mind.

"Do I look familiar to you? Because you certainly look familiar to me."

It transpired that we both made regular motorway trips for which this service area constituted the half-way mark, me to help develop an implementation strategy for a business my company had just acquired, he to visit his aged parents.

Neither of us was in a particular rush, so we lingered over our coffee for longer that I normally would. By the time we left I had established that his name was George Wilson, he was a widower with a young son and had recently been made redundant from a further education college. In return he learned that I was Ian Chappell (no, not the cricketer), head of corporate development at a medium-large consulting group, with two kids and an ex-wife who was so keen to have nothing to do with me or the kids that she had recently decamped to Australia with her latest lover.

Given that we both patronised the same service area at about the same time on the same day each week I willingly agreed to his suggestion that we should hold our Single Dads' Coffee Mornings (his idea) on a weekly basis. We talked mainly about the practicalities of being single dads and, in particular, how to make child-care arrangements that were reliable and trustworthy.

It was at our fifth rendezvous that I realised something was amiss. He arrived later than usual, flushed and with a vein pulsing angrily in his neck. His hands were so unsteady that I had to take his coffee cup from him as he was at risk of spilling it.

"Are you OK?" I asked.

"No I'm bloody not", this normally soft-spoken man spat out. "Peter," (his ten-year-old) "knows fucking well that on Thursdays he has to be ready for the child-minder to collect him at eight, but he wasn't even dressed then. I was so angry that I did what I have often wanted to do but have never actually done – namely hit him in the face – twice, and hard. His reaction? To inform me that he was reporting me to the police! I told him not to be so stupid, at which point the doorbell rang. I let the child-minder in and told her that she would have to wait a little until Peter was ready. As she had other children to collect this did not go down well. When Peter finally appeared he did not, as I half feared, tell her that I had just hit him but he…but he…"

George was crying. After he had calmed down a little, he asked if we could have a chat in his car as he had things to say which he really did not want other patrons of the service area to overhear. Intrigued as much as anything, I was happy to agree.

Once we ware ensconced in his car, George proceeded to relate the most extraordinary and arousing narrative I had ever had the fortune (or indeed misfortune) to hear.

"First thing I need to say," he started, "is that I used to have two sons – Peter and his three-years-older brother David. David was my favourite – and my wife's – there was never any doubt about that. Then one day when I was walking the boys to school Peter – ignoring every piece of road safety advice I had ever given him – ran out into the road where an approaching lorry would undoubtedly have killed him had not David run after him, throwing Peter to safety, and taking the full force of the lorry himself. It killed him outright. What a beautiful child, just eight years old and perfect in every way including being willing to lay down his life for his brother! What a waste!"

By now George was weeping again and I waited for him to compose himself and resume his narrative.

"My wife died less than a year later. The death certificate said cancer, but I know that she died of a broken heart. I had never particularly liked Peter but now I came to positively dislike him. No, "dislike" does not begin to describe my feelings. He was wholly responsible for the deaths of the two people I loved most in the world, and I loathed him for it.

"For six years I managed to keep my feelings towards Peter under wraps, punishing him firmly but by no means excessively for his many transgressions but otherwise trying to avoid his company as much as I decently could. He was turning into a selfish and sly child who would do his best to ingratiate himself with me if he saw any advantage in so doing but otherwise made it pretty clear that our dislike was mutual.

"Before I carry on, Ian, can I please ask you to swear that what I say now will remain between the two of us?"

I nodded my assent. My cock, which was running some way ahead of my brain as George was speaking, gave a definite lurch.

"About a year ago," George continued, "I started to appreciate that merely entertaining feelings of loathing towards Peter was unhealthy. I needed to give those feelings some meaningful expression. Peter had ruined my life and I had to think very hard about how I could ruin his. And so I entered an imagined world in which my sole purpose in life was to inflict the maximum possible amount of pain, humiliation and degradation on my son. I found to my surprise and pleasure that the terminus of these fantasies would be a massive orgasm. I was getting off, big time, by contemplating all the incredibly nasty things I would like to do to my boy. But, of course, I did none of them. Until today. The sense of liberation and exhilaration that I got from hitting my boy as hard as I could across his face was phenomenal and it took some effort to conceal the profile of my erection from the child minder. Once she and Peter had left, I treated myself to the best orgasm of my life, superior even to what I had sometimes achieved with my late wife. For I now knew that I had breached the wall, in however small a way, between my fantasy world and the real world."

I also strove to conceal the profile of my erection.

"Uh," I managed to say, "can you be a little more specific about these fantasies you entertain about Peter?"

"Well, the early ones now strike me as fairly tame to start with, mainly involving smacking him, but over the weeks progressing to belting and then whipping him. I would remove him from school in order to avoid anyone in authority witnessing the damage I was doing to his backside. Physical restraint became an increasingly important element of these fantasies, but it has only been in the past month or so that an explicitly sexual element has entered into the picture. I do not find my son sexually attractive – quite the opposite – but imagining the pain and humiliation I could generate by raping the child over and over again was guaranteed to produce an exceptional sexual response on my part.

"Then, a few months ago, my imagination started to head off in directions I had no direct control over. I found myself imagining torturing the boy, initially allowing him scope to recover but latterly exposing him to extreme forms of torture from which no recovery was possible. My imagined self would search out other men – and women – to assist me in ruining my son. The fact that he is only ten years old just served to make this fantasy life of mine even more thrilling."

I did not respond immediately. My slow brain was taking time to process the extraordinary information it had just received. But by the time that process was complete I knew exactly what I needed to say.

"First, George, thank you the privilege of hearing your story. It must have been hard telling it to someone you barely know, but I can say with total certainty that you chose wisely. I too live a fantasy life that centres on the abuse of children. The child in question is my own eight-year-old son. For whatever reason I do not entertain similar thoughts about my 12-year-old daughter. My son's abuse consists of multiple rapes by perfect strangers – never, as it happens, by me. My role is limited to that of facilitator and observer.

"Now, I have a proposal to make. Did you ever see the Hitchcock film, Strangers on a Train, or read the Patricia Highsmith novel on which it was based? No? Well, two total strangers get chatting in a train and it emerges that each of them wishes his wife were dead. But rather than kill their own wives, for which they would obviously be the prime suspects, they decide to kill each other's wife, for which of course they would have no motive while possessing a perfect alibi for the murder of their own wife. Does that suggest anything to you?"

George whistled. "Bloody hell, Ian, you're a genius. So you're suggesting that you get to torture my boy while I get to screw your kids. Jesus, that's so hot! You've just given my fantasy life one hell of a lift. It's just a shame we could never do it in the real world."

"No of course," I said. "It would be very wrong, very impractical and very risky."

George thanked me for hearing him out and we went our separate ways. Our weekly coffee mornings continued but neither of us made any reference to our conversation in his car. What George did not know was that I was working behind the scenes to make my plan (or rather Patricia Highsmith's plan) a great deal more practical and a great deal less risky It would of course still be very wrong but I'm afraid that was of little or no concern to me.

What George did not know was that I had a cousin called Jerry Hilton who was a convicted paedophile. He had only recently been released from prison after serving a long sentence. I was the only member of his family who had remained in touch with him, and I took him out for a slap-up meal on the day of his release. He made it clear that despite having been on a variety of courses whilst inside, his urge to abuse small children was as strong as ever, but his urge not to return to prison was even stronger. He simply had no idea how he could reconcile these two urges, but accepted that it would probably involve emigrating. I counselled extreme caution and reminded him that there were now very few safe havens abroad for paedophiles.

My fateful conversation with George took place a week later. What was clearly impractical was for George and me to try to implement my plan unassisted. But if we had help from one or more like-minded individuals, I saw no reason why we should not pull it off. It was time for another encounter with my cousin. We agreed to meet in one of London's many small, largely unfrequented parks.

Jerry assumed I had asked to meet him to further dissuade him from risking his liberty. I started by summarising the scenario of Strangers in a Train, as I had for George. Unlike George, Jerry had no way of knowing where this was leading and looked at me in some puzzlement.

"Now Jerry," I said, "I want you to imagine two fathers who want to submit their kids to abuse far more extreme than anything you did. But obviously they do not want to be caught. In light of the film, can you see any way to help these dads with their predicament?" Jerry may not have been the sharpest knife in the cutlery drawer, but he got the point at once.

I made it clear to him that this was not a jerk-off fantasy. There really were two dads who wanted to abuse their children in the worst possible way, and I was one of them. We would require assistance in implanting our plan but anyone helping us would be able to – indeed, would be expected to – enjoy the fruits of their labours. I asked him whether he knew any ex-cons with kindred tastes who would be willing to sign up for this endeavour. He could think of three straight away and there might well be a couple more.

Some weeks later I met George as usual for our Thursday morning coffee. This time it was I who suggested adjourning to his car so that we would not be overheard. He was clearly intrigued.

"I'm going to tell you a story, George," I started, in a mock-childlike tone. "Once upon a time there was a nice man who was saddled with a naughty son. He decided that the boy needed to be punished – severely punished – for all the nasty things he had done. But, for various reasons, the nice man could not administer the punishments himself. Luckily another nice man was willing to administer the punishments on his behalf, with active assistance from some low-life friends of his.

"The naughty boy would be abducted and driven to a secret location where nice man number two and his friends would make the naughty boy's life hell for days on end before dumping him, or what was left of him, on his daddy's doorstep.

"The story does not end there. Nice man number two had two little children of his own – a girl (Marina) who was frankly rather unappealing and a much younger boy (Felix) who was so cute and pretty that he just cried out to be abused sexually in the worst possible way.

"After the nice man's wife had left the scene, he naturally needed help in looking after the kids whilst he was at work. Fortunately, two doors down lived a nasty 15-year-old girl (Janice) who was more than keen to earn some pocket money when school was over. She had been minding the kids for the best part of a year and was now Marina's best mate. By contrast she bullied Felix mercilessly, punishing him for both real and imaginary misdemeanours by spanking his bottom – on the bare! 12-year-old Marina would hold the little boy firmly I place throughout these punishment sessions.

"The little boy would complain about his treatment to his daddy, but his daddy would simply tell him to be a man and stop misbehaving. Secretly the man was much aroused by the image of his little boy being routinely abused by a teenaged girl. He became obsessed with finding ways to enlist Janice in some far more serious abuse of his son.

"Handsome, wealthy and well-hung, the nice man had no difficulty in seducing Janice and then spicing up their sex lives by imagining the ever more extreme things they could do to little Felix. Eventually he decided it was safe to enlist her in his plan to have his eight-year-old son gang-raped. The teenager positively drooled with sexual excitement at this prospect.

"One evening, when the nice man was miles away on a business trip, the doorbell would ring. Janice would answer it and immediately find herself overpowered by a number (certainly four, hopefully rather more) of sadistic paedophiles. Having tied up both Janice and Marina they would proceed to rape the little boy for hours on end, interspersed with some corporal punishment if they were in danger of flagging.

"Eventually they would have had their fill and would depart, leaving a shattered Felix to untie his sister and childminder. Janice's main task now would be to convince Felix and Marina not to call the police, but instead ring up the nice man who would of course, make his way home speedily to witness the fruits of his fantasies and comfort his much-put-upon little son.

"The End."

As the story unfolded George's demeanour went through several distinct states. Puzzled to start with, he clearly wondered why I was bothering to re-tell the fantasies we had indulged in during our previous meeting. He became more interested at the reference to the abductions and the involvement of the nice man's friends. These details had not been in the original script.

Towards the end he had clearly concluded that this was not just me being a cock-tease. This was a manifesto to which I was inviting him to sign up. This was a plot to abuse and torture not one but two small children in conditions designed to minimise the risks of detection. To my surprise and delight, as I approached the end of my fable he unzipped his trousers, pulled out his cock and sprayed industrial quantities of semen all over his steering wheel and windscreen. (I think it was the words "dumping him or what was left of him" that really got to him.)

As George made desultory attempts to clean his windscreen, I reverted to my normal (non-baby-talk) tone of voice.

"George," I said, "the one big thing that has changed since we last spoke of these matters is that I have identified at least four accomplices which I think is the minimum we need to pull off this stunt. They have all served time for serious child abuse offences but as long as they leave no DNA or fingerprints there will no particular reason for the police to suspect them. They all have partners prepared to provide them with alibis. None of them has form for beating or torturing children, only for raping them, so for that reason too they will not be natural suspects.

"One of my new friends owns a terrace of boarded-up houses awaiting redevelopment which will ensue that we can do the worst things imaginable to our kids without being overseen or overheard. There are more details that I can share with you later. But first I must ask the obvious question. Are you up for it? And specifically, are you prepared to tell me and my friends exactly what you want us to do to your son? Because once we set the wheels in motion there can be no going back."

Chapter Two
Lifting Peter

Peter Wilson was taking his usual short-cut home after soccer practice when my new friends and I lifted him. One minute he had the entire back alley to himself, the next minute three of us in ski-suits and sunglasses had pounced, grasping the 10-year-old firmly and throwing him into the back of a stolen van before the child even had a chance to cry out. I held an ether-soaked rag to his face, removing it only when the boy had lost consciousness.

The boy eventually awoke to find himself immobilised by chains attached to his wrists and ankles which were fixed to hooks in the ceiling and floor respectively. His wrists in particular were screaming with pain.

"Ah, I do think our young friend has decided to join us."

My voice was massively distorted and amplified to produce a Darth Vader effect. A bright light was shining directly into Peter's face, making it impossible for him to locate the speaker. He would have been shaking with fear had his chains allowed him any shaking room.

"You will be wondering what you are doing here," said The Voice. "Well, basically you are here because my associates and I intend to mete out the strictest possible punishment for 10 years' worth of bad behaviour: disobedience, laziness, lying, petty theft, bullying of younger children – the list goes on and on. And of course there is the worst offence of all, running into a busy street without looking and consequently killing your older brother.

"In short, you are such a disgusting, stupid, selfish little prick that many reasonable people would say that you had forfeited the right to live. We are inclined to agree, but we have also agreed that we can assemble a suite of punishments that will make executing you look like an easy way out. When we are through with you, you will have just one purpose in life – to be physically and sexually abused day-in and day-out. You will never see your home again. You will never see your schoolfellows again – indeed, you will never go to school again, and you will certainly never see your father again. Your disappearance will of course be a source of concern to the authorities, but worry not – we have planted all the evidence necessary to convince officialdom that you simply ran away from an abusive parent.

"You are just a little 10-year-old boy so in your innocence you may be unaware of the fact that many grown men would pay a fortune to have free rein of your puny little body to do whatever they liked to it. And that includes snuffing you. Does that word mean anything to you? No? Well it simply means killing you for sexual pleasure. It can take plenty of forms but the most popular is strangling you whilst fucking you. I'm not saying that that is what will happen to you but don't be too surprised if it does.

"Believe me when I say that many men, including some in this very room, would like nothing better than to cause you extreme physical pain right now as preparation for raping you violently. We can keep the cycle of pain and sex going for days on end, so whenever you think that your worthless scumbag existence cannot get any more miserable, we will show you that it can.

"In an hour or so we will start this whole process by paddling you. This will no doubt be the most painful experience of your life to date, but I can assure you that you will experience worse – far worse – painful punishments before we are through with you.

"We will enjoy seeing you squirm as you attempt to free yourself from your restraints. We will listen to your pathetic pleas for pity, knowing full well that in a matter of minutes you will be unable to utter a single word, or to see what we are about to do to you, or to hear anything we are saying. Because after you have received your first paddling and your first fucking we will eliminate your capacity to speak, to listen and to see.

"As we want the process of your degradation to be drawn out as long as possible, we will employ temporary, reversible means to deprive you of your sensory faculties to start with – masking your eyes, blocking your ears and fusing your lips. But before we are through with you, we may allow ourselves the extra pleasure of making these measures permanent.

"Yes, permanent! If we feel so inclined, we will sever your vocal chords so you will never speak again, pierce your eardrums so you will never hear again and gouge out your eyes so you will never see again. The only faculties you will be left with will be the capacity to experience physical pain and sexual pleasure. And even that limited pleasure will be denied you if we eventually decide to cut off your cock and balls and remove your prostate gland.

"As you will have no possible further need for your limbs, we may well decide that they should be amputated, leaving you a mute, deaf and blind torso whose sole purpose in life will be to provide an outlet for the sadistic and sexually abusive passions of countless men – and probably some women as well.

"We will now leave you for an hour to dwell on what I have just told you and prepare yourself as best you can for the ordeal ahead. We for our part will be getting in the right mood for torturing and fucking you. When we return you will no doubt try to appeal to our better nature and beg us to let you go. But we will have been watching graphic films of boys even younger than you suffering the most appalling abuse and our rigid cocks will be drooling with pre-cum. We will fall on your skinny body like hungry wild animals. So good luck with your begging and pleading!"

At which point the bright light was turned off and Peter was left to contemplate his fate in total darkness.

Chapter Three
Peter Muses

Peter Wilson knew full well that he had been a grave disappointment to his father. His brother David had been the attractive, cheerful, intelligent, kind, sociable son whereas Peter was plain, sullen, stupid, inconsiderate, and antisocial. He also suffered from shockingly low self-esteem. Deep down he knew that he was the "disgusting, selfish little prick" that the disembodied voice had told him he was. However extreme the punishments these men had in store for him, part of him accepted that they were richly deserved.

He was deeply ambivalent about the imminent prospect of being beaten and fucked. Although he lacked the vocabulary to describe the psychological impact of his capture and prospective abuse, he knew that at some level he welcomed the abuse to come, not just because he deserved it but also because the scenario excited him. To find himself excited by the prospect of extreme pain and humiliation was a weird experience, but there was no doubt in his mind that that is what he felt.

And then, even more scary and even more thrilling, was the prospect of being rendered deaf, blind, speechless and limbless. He half convinced himself that the men would definitely submit him to the temporary version of this fate but would draw the line at making his condition permanent. They never said they would do this, he reasoned, just that they might. Surely at least one of them would draw the line at dismembering him.

But perhaps not. Perhaps the men would get carried away and cross whatever line he expected them to draw. That prospect released feelings in his genitals and rectum that he had never experienced before. While mentally he was terrified, physically he wanted to experience those weird but wonderful feelings again. And for that to happen he instinctively knew that some at least of the men's threats would have to be carried out to the letter.

This realisation had one immediate effect. In less than five seconds the state of his cock went from totally flaccid to totally erect. And as his cock stiffened, he found himself thinking about the most important person in his life. His father.

Only his father could have come up with the list of grievances that The Voice had articulated – the disobedience, the laziness, the lying, the stealing, the bullying. Of course his father could have complained about his failing to someone else – a workmate, perhaps, or a drinking companion. It could have been some third party who had organised his abduction, abuse and torture, not his dad. Surely no father would consent to having his son whipped and fucked, let alone blinded and all the rest of it.

Unfortunately, Peter failed to convince himself. He was increasingly certain that his father must have been instrumental in setting this whole charade up. To the child's amazement, the thought that he was about to suffer extreme pain and degradation at the instigation of his very own father immediately added another quarter of an inch [0.5 cm] or more to the length of his cock, enough extra length to cause his foreskin to retract and expose his crown. And there, emerging from his piss-hole, was a drop of translucent liquid. It did not amount to much, but it was technically the first ejaculation of his short life.

"Daddy, oh Daddy," the little boy cried out as his body succumbed to its most all-embracing orgasm yet.

And that was the state in which the men found him when they returned from watching their pedo snuff films, snorting their cocaine and popping their Viagra pills.

Chapter Four
Felix is Visited

It was three weeks prior to the kidnapping of Peter Wilson that my own son found himself the target of some despicable perverts acting in consort with his babysitter. Don't ask me why I was so keen to see my boy fucked but not my daughter. That's just the way I am, I guess.

On the night it all happened I was, as per plan, closeted in a Premier Inn sixty miles [100 km] away, jerking off whenever my thoughts turned to what was about to happen in my son's bedroom any time now. Meanwhile I was about to have a ringside view of the proceedings on an unregistered smart phone that would be destroyed as soon as the entertainment was over.

The doorbell had rung at eight o'clock. Janice had answered it, only to be overwhelmed by six men in balaclavas and dark glasses. They roughed her up a bit, which had not been in the script but helped to suggest that she was as much a victim as anyone. She was quickly tied and gagged, as was Marina, who of course really was entirely innocent. All three were bundled into the back of a Transit Van and taken to the derelict house we had prepared for the occasion. The men were now free to do their worst to little Felix.

I had made it clear that I wanted him well fucked but at no lasting cost to his rectum and guts. Early recovery was essential if my plan was to come to fruition. I had not formally asked the men to chastise him in any way, but then again I had not explicitly told them not to do so, and rather suggested that they could if they wanted to, subject to the same health warnings.. So I was neither entirely surprised nor entirely disapproving when the first thing they did was to strip the little boy of all his clothing, drape him over a coffee table, tie him firmly in place, extract their belts and give my pretty little, innocent, well-behaved son a ferocious leathering. As they beat him so they rained insults on him, no doubt much to the eight-year-old's stupefaction. For instance:

"I don't think he's a real boy, more a girly-boy."

"Yeah, and that means he has no real need of a cock and balls, so feel free to paddle them – hard!"

"Look! Oooh, the little baby's crying. Let's give him something really to cry about!"

Someone – I'm fairly sure it was George – eventually decided that it was time to blow the whistle and move on to the main course. (Sorry about the mixed metaphors.) The men all stripped off. Every one of them was well-hung. Every one of them was erect to the max. And every one of them regarded the prospect of viciously raping a tiny eight-year-old over and over again as a lifetime's dream come true.

Felix had no doubt caught brief glimpses of my cock over the years, but never in the state of arousal. His eyes boggled at the majestic sight that now faced him. At some instinctive level he must have realised the use these magnificent organs were about to be put to. And he did not like the idea one little bit:

"No, please. Please don't hurt me anymore. My dad will be home soon. He'll stop you. He'll tell you to let me go. He'll…"

One of the men slapped Felix's face – hard.

"Shut your face, you fucking little cock tease. You're going to get what you deserve for being a queer little sissy boy. Shout and scream as much as you want – we're here to make you realise that your only purpose in life is to satisfy big cruel men with big cocks – men like us!"

At which point the gang rape proper commenced.

The men took to heart my injunction not to do my son any lasting damage (a stipulation, by the way, which George never insisted on in respect of his own son, Peter). They greased up their fingers and took turns in finger-fucking him, delaying the insertion of a second and then a third finger until they were quite sure that he could take them in his stride. They agreed that a fourth finger was neither necessary nor desirable at this stage in the proceedings. He was judged ready to receive cock.

And cock he duly received. With each completed fuck my cute little boy was presented with a shit, cum and blood-stained cock to suck to hospital standards of cleanliness. Some of the men came in his mouth, vouchsafing me the incredible sight of sperm emerging from my son's nostrils. Most, however, chose to save their sperm for their second, third and subsequent turns at fucking him.

Not the least of the pleasures of witnessing from afar my son being raped was the rich variety of noises that he made – the initial screams eventually giving way to pitiful weeping and then, as the pain wore off and his baby prostate received more attention, the weeping and wailing were replaced by whining and groaning. There was only one conclusion to draw. My eight-year-old son was getting his rocks off from being gang-raped by six well-endowed, pitiless men. Did life have anything richer to offer?

Well actually it did.

The leader of the pack (I was now pretty well certain it was George) called a temporary halt to the proceedings and after a brief (inaudible to me) discussion with his co-assailants, decided to go off script again. They untied the two girls and, ignoring their protests, stripped them. I assumed that they had rape in mind and indeed so they did, but not quite as I had envisaged.

The girls were naturally scared out of their wits – especially Marina who was hyperventilating. This was the first time I had seen her naked since she entered puberty two or three years ago and she now boasted burgeoning tits, pronounced genitalia and smatterings of pubic hair. Janice's buxom body was of course already familiar to me. I quite liked the idea of them both being raped but it was not to be. It was poor little Felix who was going to be back in the firing line.

For the next thing that happened was that George (if it was he) produced a strap-on dildo of impressive proportions – inches longer and thicker than anything Felix had experienced to date. He strapped it around Janice and ordered her to put it to good use. Her expression made it clear that this was not an unwelcome order. I already knew that she got her kicks from punishing and humiliating my son, so it was hardly surprising that she should be turned on by being obliged to fuck him. Which she proceeded to do with evident pleasure.

"Oh yes, you revolting, worthless little boy," she said, between groans.

"Fuck him harder!" Marina shouted, frigging herself shamelessly as she did.

"I'm fucking him as hard as I can," Janice responded. "that's all he's good for, the whinging little sissy!"

I thought that Felix was all screamed out, but not a bit of it. The dildo was reaching parts of his innards that none of the human cocks in the room had reached. The men cheered Janice on as she ploughed the tyke, whilst Marina continued to make it clear that she was looking forward to her turn on the dildo.

I have no idea how many orgasms Janice experienced whilst raping my son – from the sounds she made I would guess at least six. Eventually, and with some reluctance, she made way for my daughter who fucked Felix like a jack-rabbit. Both girls spiced up their physical abuse with the verbal kind. Among the choice endearments I recall were "you're nothing but a sissy faggot" and "yes, scream the house down, no-one is going to help you. No-one cares anything about you".

This was of course quite unfair. Felix was not a faggot and I for one did care for him. But I cannot deny that it was hot hearing my pubescent daughter calling her little brother all sorts of vile names whilst aggressively fucking him. When Marina was finally spent, male rapists were quick to take her place. As their cocks did not match the dimensions of the dildo this was probably something of a relief to poor little Felix who sobbed rather than screamed for the duration of his ordeal.

When the last rapist had achieved the last emission of the night, the men got dressed and left. As I had instructed her to, Janice immediately phoned me, managing to sound really upset as she summarised the events of the evening (apart from those involving a fake cock some 10 inches [25 cm] in length). I told her that I would be with them in little more than an hour and to talk to no-one – in particular not to the police – until I had arrived. On arriving, I discovered to my relief that Felix did not seem to have suffered any serious internal injuries and I had no difficulty in convincing all of them – Felix in particular – that involving the police would be a really bad idea.

"They'll take you away and subject you to unpleasant, intimate examinations. They will ask you all sorts of questions that you will really not want to have to answer. The rumour will get around school that you allowed men to have sex with you and you will be subject to all sorts of insults and abuse as a result. It will really be much better to forget this ever happened and get on with our lives."

Felix, still whimpering, nodded his assent.

So George had delivered on his half of the bargain. It was now up to me to ensure that his boy Peter was subjected to an even more brutal experience than the one that Felix had just endured.

Chapter Five
Peter's Purgatory

"Look," I said as we-re-entered the room, "the little bastard's expecting us!"

The sight of this chained and terrified child with a rigid three-inch [7.5 cm] prick pointing due north was one that my companions and I found both amusing and stimulating.

"Do your hands hurt?" I asked the kid.

"Yes, terribly," he replied.

"Would you like me to unchain them?"

"Oh yes please!"

"Very well then."

We duly unhooked Peter and he tumbled to the floor. However, he was clearly not expecting what happened next. His right ankle was re-chained, and he was hauled up by that one leg until he was well clear of the floor and swinging in the breeze. The pain in his foot was soon going to be a lot worse than his hands had experienced, but that was of no concern to us. We had a contract to fulfil.

There were six of us and we were each equipped with a paddle, not too large but studded for extra pain. With no further ceremony we laid into the little tyke. His screams, I realised, might prove to be the last screams he ever uttered, so we might as well make them last for a decent time. Only when he was numbed sufficiently to stop him screaming did we stop the paddling. It was now time to rob him of his virginity.

We started by hooking up his other ankle so that he was hanging freely upside-down., perfectly positioned for us to rape his mouth. It took several sharp slaps to get him to open his mouth as wide as possible; to avoid grazing our cocks with his teeth, and to tilt his head so as to allow unfettered access to his throat. He eventually did as he was told. I think that all my comrades had enjoyed oral success with (usually unwilling) small boys, but for me this was a first. Should I come in his mouth and force him to swallow every drop? Or should I spray his face with my seed (I particularly liked the idea of getting as much as possible into his eyes)? Or should I save it all up for his arse? I settled for option two and, bingo, when I came I was able to hit the bull-s eye, so to speak. By the time he realised what was happening and closed his eyes it was too late.

My main memory from this session was of an impassioned debate as to whether a boy could breathe through his nose whilst being throat-fucked. The consensus was that once a cock has closed the gap between tongue and palate breathing was impossible.

My reward for delaying my emission, and indeed for setting this whole stage-show up, was to have first crack at Peter's arse. First he was restrained by chains around his waist and chest. These chains were then elevated until his hands and legs were floating freely and his arse was deemed to be at the optimal height for fucking. Before his ordeal was over, a wide variety of other fucking positions were employed. I soon concluded that variety was indeed an essential ingredient of a successful gang-rape. Vanilla sex, even when ones partner is an unwilling primary schoolboy, loses its allure after a while.

Once we had all come inside the lad, and before anyone was allowed sloppy seconds, it was time to "desensitise" him. Masking his eyes was the easy bit. Deafening him involved placing two little buds in his ears, connected via Blue Tooth to a source of white noise. He was now blind and deaf, albeit temporarily. A debate ensued as to whether to shut his trap using superglue or a sewing needle. We compromised and decided to use both methods of silencing him. The guy who had brought along the superglue had (deliberately?) forgotten to bring along the solvent as well, but we decided to cross that bridge when we came to it.

Probably my favourite image from this whole affair was little10-year-old Peter Wilson, kneeling on the floor with his ankles chained to his wrists and a metal collar chained to an overhead beam, naked and erect, quite unable to see, hear or talk, but perfectly able to weep and also able to feel the large intrusive butt-plug that had been stuffed inside him.

His plugged arse was in fact the larder in which his only sustenance would be kept over the next few days. Before inserting the butt plug, one of his assailants had scooped as much sperm and faecal matter out of his arse as possible whilst I jammed a small funnel into his mouth via a small gap between his lips that had been left accessible for this purpose. The boy had no choice but to swallow the disgusting excreta whilst anyone in the room who felt the need for a leak now also had an opportunity to use the funnel to avail themselves of Peter's mouth.

Now the serious business started. Over the next three days young Peter Wilson was subjected to the following tortures (amongst others – I have probably forgotten a few and no longer have the phone on which they were all recorded).

Electric shocks were amongst the most commonly used form of torture. Extreme pain could be delivered without doing lasting damage, as long as one was careful not to overdose, so to speak. I have to confess that I applied a cattle prod to Peter's cock for so long that it was beginning to char. Excited beyond belief by what I was doing, I had to be pulled away before I spoilt the fun for everyone else.

Removing toe- and fingernails was a tried and tested recipe for pain and Peter was subject to this particular well-established torture for the maximum possible 20 times.

Genital torture came in a pleasing variety of forms. My favourite was the insertion of a heated metal knitting needle into the child's urethra. I was not previously aware that his urethra was as vulnerable to being fucked as his two more obvious apertures. My pleasure was greatly enhanced by the fact that the boy was erect the whole time I was plunging the needle in and out of him.

I also derived huge pleasure from the wide variety of ways in which weights and chains could be combined to cause the boy grief. My favourite involved him being chained around his waist and chest in a horizontal position, then hoisted until his limbs were hanging free and his arse was well placed to be fucked. But before any fucking took place a leather strap was fixed tightly around his pubescent cock and balls and a hook and eye contraption was fixed to the strap. Then we put weights in place, slowly, one after another, until his genitals were visibly lower than when the torture started. At that point I called an end to the proceedings before the boy's genitals were ripped from his body.

I then witnessed an even sterner test of his genitals' resilience. Peter was re-chained, this rime face up, lying on his back on the floor but with the same strap and chain attached firmly to his genitals. The chain had been linked to an electrically operated pulley. Very slowly – deliciously slowly – the boy was being lifted from the floor by his cock and balls! In the case of a grown man the body weight would surely have been more than his genitals could hold and he would indeed have experienced them being slowly torn from his body. But Peter was very far from being a grown man.

Eventually the seemingly impossible was achieved and the boy was no longer in contact with the floor. The thrill of seeing what we had done had the same effect on all of us. By unspoken agreement we each grabbed the instrument of chastisement nearest to us (a cane in my case) and rained blow after blow on his defenceless frame, including his face which until now had been left largely untouched.

That marked the end of proceedings for the night. In an act of unusual consideration, he was not required to spend the night suspended by his balls. Instead he was pushed into a cage, barely large enough to contain a small boy even when the small boy was bent double. No food or drink was provided for the tyke of course: his nutritional needs had already been met by the large quantities of semen he had ingested, and he deserved nothing more.

We men, however, were in serious need of both solid and liquid refreshment, and while feasting on them we started discussing where we went from here. We had originally talked about keeping the boy for two or three days and then returning him to his father. However, Jerry had identified a potential purchaser for our young prisoner, who could arrive to collect him at short notice (he provided no further details). I had no problem with this, but said that it would require George's approval.

For the final time I rang him on the burner phone I had acquired for the purpose. He had of course been watching the proceedings on his phone. Before I had a chance to raise the subject of Peter's future, he made it clear what he thought of the day's entertainment.

"Oh God, Ian, oh fuck. I've come so many times I've lost count. You guys were absofuckinglutely amazing. You found ways of hurting and shaming the little slut that I could ever have dreamed of. What are you going to do with him next? You can snuff him if you want, but for fuck's sake take your time over it. I just want to see him…"

I felt I had to cut him short. He could have carried on in this vein indefinitely.

"Listen, George. There are two options. One, we hand him back to you to do whatever you want to him. The other is we sell him as a sex slave. We have a purchaser lined up. I will say no more about him other than that he is prepared to pay you a five-figure sum which, in your present jobless state, is probably a welcome consideration. So, do you want the boy or the money?"

That was clearly a no-brainer as far as Gorge was concerned: "The money!" he croaked.

The ease with which he condemned his only son to an unknowable but almost certainly dire fate was frankly breath-taking. Not for the first time I mentally thanked Ms Highsmith for helping George to enjoy a perfect alibi for his crime. I stressed to everyone the importance of destroying all phones and we all agreed that as soon as George had received his money and the house had been cleaned up we avoid any contact with one another for the foreseeable future. Then we went our separate ways, leaving Jerry's friend – the owner of the house – to ensure the successful exchange of boy and money.

It fell to me to hand over £25,000 to George – £20,000 from the unknown buyer and £5,000 which Jerry and his friends insisted we paid George by way of rental charge for one day's use of the boy. I then made it clear that George and I could have to cease our weekly coffee mornings. He entirely took the point. He had been subjected to some thorough interrogation by the police when he reported Peter's disappearance, but they soon realised that his alibi was watertight and from then on treated him with all the sensitivity and consideration that a bereaved parent could have expected.

Epilogue

This is where I ought to be able to say that I am suffused with guilt and have recurrent nightmares about what we did to a boy whose only real offence as far as I could tell was sullenness. In fact I did have a dream recently about a small boy, who might or might not have been Peter, who was being continuously raped by gigantic green devil-men with erect cocks long enough to reach their necks, affording me the most stupendous nocturnal emission of my life.

I still give Janice a good screwing from time to time before paying her for baby-sitting and driving her home, but my pedo heart is really not in it. And I remain wholly unattracted to my bulimic and difficult daughter; though she is currently visiting her mother in Australia and may well decide to stay, which would suit me fine.

The only problem I have is keeping my hands off my now nine-year-old son Felix who seems to me to grow sexier with each passing month. . I like to imagine that the gang-rape he experienced turned him into a cock-hungry slut, rather than a traumatised victim of extreme child abuse. Be that as it may, I am increasingly convinced that the child is a natural submissive and all-round sissy, who would probably not resist me if I tried to have my way with …

Stop press!!

I have just returned unexpectedly early from work and can hear animalistic noises emerging from Felix's room. I crept up the stairs and peeped into his room, to see my son lying face up on his bed being fucked by Janice with a dildo of scary dimensions. He is incapacitated by ropes which tie his wrists and ankles to the bedhead so as to optimise access to his arse. They are of course both stark naked. The sight of my little boy being fucked hard by his babysitter is exciting enough in all conscience; but then, as I tiptoe towards my own room, I realise that he is right now in the grips of a powerful orgasm and shouting shrilly at the top of his treble voice:

"Fuck me daddy, fuck me, fuck meeeee – AH! AH! AH!"

Chapter Seven
The Morning After the Night Before

To make sense of this narrative, I need to go back several months to the very day after Felix had undergone his multiple rapes. It was one thing to establish that he had not been physically harmed – God knows what I would have done if he had been. It was quite another matter assessing what emotional or psychological damage the experience might have cost him. I was concerned for my son's welfare, but of course I was also concerned for mine. The last thing I wanted was my cheerful, bright boy going all catatonic on me and inviting the inquisitive attention of his teachers. So we needed to have a good long talk. I duly rang his school and explained that he had a tummy upset and wouldn't be coming in that day.

"So how are you feeling?" I asked after we had cleared the breakfast things.

"It's all a bit sore, you know, down there."

"In your bottom?"

"Um, yeah."

So, do you want me to take you to see the doctor?"

"NO! Absolutely not! I'll be fine."

"OK. But I need to ask – a sore bottom apart, how do you feel after what happened yesterday?"

There was a long pause whilst my boy considered his reply.

"Um, it was very scary at first. I thought they might be going to kill me and Marina. Or if not kill us then hurt us badly. I don't know why but I did not think they were going to kill or hurt Janice.

(What a perceptive child!)

Felix continued.

"To start with I really did not know what was going on. But it soon became clear that what they wanted was to have sex with me. I know that there are men who like to have sex with boys and like putting their you-know-what up a boy's back passage. Kids talk about that sort of thing at school. So when it actually started happening I felt sort of prepared for it. To start with it hurt worse than anything I have ever felt before but gradually I got used to the pain so by the end it wasn't too bad."

Fuck, I thought, I'm right. My little boy is a natural sub! I was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. His confession that being fucked "wasn't too bad" was arousing, for reasons I could not entirely explain. But I was also aware of an undercurrent of disgust, now knowing that I had sired and reared a faggot slut. Rationally, I knew that the boy was an innocent victim of an elaborate orgy that I had helped to arrange and fully deserved my understanding, love and support. But there was also a part of me, located somewhere in the region of the groin, that wanted to punish the child severely for his moral delinquency.

I formulated my next question carefully.

"I'm so glad that it didn't hurt you too badly. Now I'm told that sometimes when a man puts his thing up a boy's backside, the pain eventually gives way to a sort of pleasure. Can I ask – did that happen to you?"

There was another long pause.

"At first, when I was really frightened about what they were going to do to me, I felt a really funny feeling, something between being scared and being excited. A bit like pins and needles, but stronger. And then while they were, you know, doing it to me there was a similar feeling except even stronger than before."

I pressed the child. "A pleasant feeling? A nice feeling?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess so." Felix was blushing with embarrassment by now. He might only be eight years old, but he knew that he was admitting something that he would absolutely not want to be spread around the schoolyard. I put my arms round him and did my best to comfort him as he lay, whimpering gently, beside me. But all the while, lust and rage were coming to the boil inside me.

As I have already said, my fantasy life had always centred on Felix being fucked, but not by me. I had already achieved the goal of a lifetime by witnessing him from afar not just being fucked but being comprehensively gang-raped by perfect strangers. Then for good measure I witnessed him having his sister and his baby-sitter fuck him with strap-ons larger than any of the cocks his male rapists possessed, large though those were.

I needed a new goal, a new purpose in life for my eight-year-old, and I was beginning to see what form it might take.

I was going to turn Felix into a fully-fledged sex slave and pain slut – a child who was totally submissive, receptive to all manner of perversions, certainly sissified, possibly feminised. This, I truly believed, was what the faggot wanted; and even if I was wrong and it was not what he wanted it was certainly what he deserved. The challenge would be to achieve all of this without alienating him from his ever-loving father.

Ideas were now tumbling around my head. Janice would have a crucial role to play in this plot. She was about to leave school and, with no job in prospect, would be receptive to assuming the role of full-time nanny, and would get up to who knows what sort of hanky-panky with my son during my frequent business absences. More generally, she was perfectly equipped to play the role of nasty cop to my nice cop. And finally, when my inclinations ran that way, she was a good fuck with a nice boyish body.

At some stage Felix would have to accept that a normal boy's life was not on offer for him. I would take him out of school, and we would relocate to a town where he knew nobody and where he would be effectively under 24/7 house arrest. The only people he knew would be his abusers. If I felt it was safe to do so after we had dealt with Peter, I would enlist the help of Jerry and his erstwhile cellmates in acquainting my son with his new role in life.

It was a complex and extremely risky plan, but I was determined to implement it or die in the attempt.

My beloved boy looked positively angelic tucked up against me. Part of me just wanted this moment to last. Part of me wanted to get on with the planning. And to my surprise, given that I had never entertained such feelings before, part of me wanted to beat him up, screaming insults and threats at him while doing so, and then fuck the living shit out of him.

First of all, of course, I had young Peter Wilson to fuck and torture. Once that mission had been accomplished, I would be free to turn my attention to my own little boy.

Chapter Eight
Tale of a Carrot

Three weeks had passed since we had consigned Peter Wilson to his fate. It is a terrible thing to have to admit but I still felt not a shred of remorse for what we had done to him. If his own father wanted him fucked, tortured and, presumably, sold off into sexual slavery, who was I to disagree? I was more concerned to ensure that Felix was experiencing no unwelcome after-effects of his, admittedly less extreme, ordeal.

I was soon to discover that there were after-effects, but they were not exactly unwelcome. Not to me at any rate.

I had just driven Janice home (stopping en-route for a quick shag) and on returning heard noises emerging from Felix's bedroom. He obviously had not heard me return, so I crept up the stairs to see just what was going on.

His door was ajar allowing me to see what he was up to but hopefully preventing him from seeing me. He was groaning volubly. With one hand he was masturbating, while with the other he was fucking himself with a carrot. I had great difficulty in stopping myself from laughing out loud. The sight was indeed a comic one, but it was also an arousing one given the disproportion between my very small son and his very large carrot. I tiptoed away and, once in my bedroom, had a good wank while processing what I had just seen.

Nice eight year olds don't masturbate, I reasoned, so my son was clearly a nasty boy. Or, to be more precise, I had every right to treat him as such. He had clearly been sexualised by George and his fellow-rapists and should now be susceptible to being steered in the directions I wanted to take him. It was no more than the little slut deserved.

My next step was to share some at last of my thoughts with Janice. The next day, when it was time to take her home, we both got into my car. To her surprise I did not turn on the engine. She looked at me quizzically.

"Janice, I know you are finding it hard to land a job in the present climate. But I have a job offer to put to you. How would you like to be Felix's full-time guardian, carer and home-schooler? Before you respond I should add that the job will be even more unconventional than it at first appears. Let me share some thoughts with you which you are absolutely forbidden to share with anyone else.

"For a start it is beyond doubt that Felix derived real pleasure from being gang-raped. To use an old-fashioned word, he has been debauched. The best example occurred just last night when I returned home to find him fucking himself with an outsize carrot. No, don't laugh. No, actually, do laugh. The sight was both funny and sexy.

"Whatever he may think today about his future – what secondary school will be like, what hobbies he should pursue, what friends he would like to spend time with, all the normal boy-stuff – none of that will now actually happen. I know better than he can possibly know what his future will be. Being raped – and enjoying it – marked a rite of passage for him, even if he hasn't acknowledged it yet."

I felt Janice up. No knickers – that was normal now – and a cunt that was already beginning to leak as she listened excitedly to what I had to say.

"His role in life from now on is to be a plaything in the hands of men and women who get their rocks off using and abusing little sissies who can no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain. And if you accept my job offer, it is you who are going to be a major instrument of his degradation.

"I know you get pleasure from mistreating him – no, don't interrupt. I'm not angry with you; on the contrary. I'll want you to turn up the heat in future. We can agree the details later but I will be asking you to hurt him and molest him on a regular basis, using all your wiles to enthral him to the point where he actually wants you to hurt him and molest him. In short, I want you to confirm my son as a fully-fledged pain slut."

She reacted as I hoped she would.

"Oh, Mr Chappell, that's so fucking hot! I frig myself at night thinking about the things I would like to do to your little boy. Some of them are really extreme, so you'd have to tell me what limits there are – if any! – to what I can do to him."

"I'm afraid there have to be limits, Janice," I replied. "Nothing life-threatening, obviously, and nothing which would result in irreparable physical damage unless I have explicitly authorised it. Otherwise, once you have moved in with us, you will have a free hand."

Chapter Nine
Putting Felix in his Place

The sadistic minx accepted my job offer; I never doubted that she would. I duly set in motion the process of moving house and removing Felix from the school system to be home-tutored, counting on the system losing touch with him once we had relocated to our new home. During this planning phase my relations with Felix remained on a normal father-son footing. I think he had truly no notion of the nightmare that was about to engulf him.

I was looking forward to seeing Janice do her worst with my son, but I wanted more than that. I wanted cruel men to take over where Janice left off, and of course I knew where to find them. After a couple of months had passed, and my plans had been laid, I decided that it was probably now safe to contact Jerry again and ask whether he was in the market for afters, so to speak.

"I thought you'd never ask," was the burden of his reply.

I told him I would be in touch when we were established in our new home.

It was now time for a long and painful (for him) conversation with my son. A smirking Janice accompanied me as I entered his bedroom.

"Put that comic aside and get out of bed," I ordered.

"Why do you….?" he began, but a sharp slap on the cheek ensured that the question was never put. He got out of bed, tears already starting to trickle down his cheek.

"Now take off your pyjamas."

He was about to question that command but saw my clenched fist and immediately thought better of it. He started to whimper as he removed his night-clothes.

"Janice and I are here to tell you that the childhood you have enjoyed for the past eight years is now over. The reason is very simple. You are such a little pervert that you selfishly and licentiously allowed yourself to be raped and that makes you damaged goods."

"But…but…I didn't allow myself to be raped. They just did it. I couldn't stop them!"

"You could obviously have stopped them if you had really wanted to," I lied, "and you told me yourself that you found the whole experience pleasurable."

"No I didn't! It was only towards the end that…"

I cut him off.

"Don't you dare contradict me. You are damaged goods and let me tell you what that means. It means that normal, decent people no longer want anything to do with you. You will never again make any friends. You will never again go to school. You will basically be confined to the house."

The boy was really blubbing now.

"Allowing yourself to be gang-raped, and enjoying it, means that you are not just damaged goods. You are a slut. How do you think it makes me feel, you selfish little fuck, to know that I have reared a debauched slut?"

(Licentiously…debauched…I was aware that Felix would probably never have heard these words before. But he would doubtless get the drift of their meaning.)

"Do you know what a slut is, boy? Well let me tell you. A slut is someone, usually a girl, sometimes a boy, who so enjoys dirty, raunchy sex that they will go out of their way to get as much of it as they can. That describes you perfectly. And you're not just a slut. You're also a whore. Do you know what a whore is, boy? A whore is someone, usually a girl, sometimes a boy, who earns a living selling their body for sex. That is how you will be paying for the board and lodging that I provide you with from now on.

"Finally, you're a faggot. Ah yes, I see you know what that means. It means that you have a perverted lust for having sex with men. In fact, it means that your only purpose in life will be to submit your puny body to the rough attention of big hairy men with long, thick cocks.

"Tomorrow we will be packing up and the next day we will set off for our new home, which has some interesting features specially installed for your use. I shall increasingly be away from home on business, so I have appointed Janice as your guardian. You will obey her every command without question and without hesitation."

I then changed my tone of voice to something altogether gentler.

"I am your father and I love you dearly. I promise you that you will come to no lasting harm. But be in no doubt that your sole purpose in life from now on is to give adults sexual pleasure. Nothing else in your life matters at all. And to show you very clearly what your new life is going to be like, I shall now spank you and fuck you."

And so I did. Janice accompanied me vocally, telling me to "fuck the little sissy until he's bow-legged", to "ruin him so he'll spend the rest of his life in diapers", and to "scream the house down if he wants, coz the more he screams the harder you'll fuck him".

I did my best to comply with her every request.

Chapter Ten
A Learning Experience for Felix

Raping a chained Peter Wilson and robbing him of his virginity had given me huge pleasure, but frankly nothing to compare with the pleasure I now got from despoiling my own son. I had only intended to spank him at first, but I got carried away and soon swapped my palm for an altogether harsher instrument of chastisement.

My spanking had been the cause of little squeals of displeasure, but the caning had an altogether more dramatic impact. I never knew an eight-year-old could scream quite so loudly. Between screams he managed to utter, over and over again, the one word:

"Why?"

I eventually felt that he deserved an answer, so stopped the caning for a while to provide him with one.

"I am not caning you because you've done anything wrong. I'm caning you to prepare you to submit yourself to men who will want to cane you, amongst many other painful things, whether you have done something wrong or not. I thought I had already made this clear: your pain will be their pleasure. So you'd better get used to it."

Whereupon I resumed the caning.

And then once his whole backside was criss-crossed with the evidence of his caning, I mounted him and fucked him without benefit of KY.

His arse had obviously loosened up somewhat from the severe stretching it had received from George and his companions but was still a tough nut to crack for me. Inserting my entire cock inside my son's skinny body eventually proved, however, to be within my competence. Felix's screams helped to ensure that I remained rock-hard, as did words of encouragement from Janice. I seemed to recall her ordering me, more than once, to "fuck the pussy as hard as you can", and, once I had done so, begging me to let her fist-fuck him. That, I told her sternly, was a pleasure she would have to forgo for a while.

I have subsequently often wondered why I derived quite so much pleasure from fucking the pussy as hard as I could, as Janice put it. There is of course the pure pleasure of the fuck, whether the object be a man, woman, boy, girl, or goat. In this case, the pleasure was magnified by the fact that my son had been opened up enough to permit access without endangering him, but was still tight enough to allow my cock to rub up against every inch of his rectum. I read somewhere that it is safer to fuck an eight-year-old than a fourteen-year-old, the younger boy's pelvic girdle being the more elastic. I have no idea whether this is true, but the fact is that Félix did not seem to suffer all that much from the pounding I was giving him.

Other aspects of the pleasure I was getting from caning and fucking him were more psychological than physical. There was pleasure to be had in thinking about just how many taboos I was now ignoring. Society might now tolerate homosexuality and extra-marital sex but by and large it did not condone non-consensual sex, violent sex and sex involving minors. And society certainly did not condone fathers enjoying forcible sex with their pre-teen sons, let alone flogging them and pimping them out to be abused by others.

Then there was the pleasure to be had from the knowledge that I was about to flood my baby boy with sperm from the very same sperm factory that had helped to create him some nine years previously. There was also the pleasure from contemplating the contrast between my rather large body and his rather small one, which seemed to undermine some natural law of proportionality.

I must confess too that his screaming and weeping and begging for me to stop worked like a powerful aphrodisiac on a cock which had never been as stiff and charged in all its prior existence. My power to despoil him and reduce his status to that of a glorified sex toy seemed limitless.

Yet if my plans came to fruition, the abuse he was currently suffering would very soon be dwarfed by the abuse he would suffer from others. And I got great pleasure from knowing that too.

Forty-eight hours later we left my old home, never to return. Naked, gagged, masked and hog-tied, my son was confined to the boot of the car for the long journey to his new home, and conveyed to the cellar that would be his home from home for, possibly, the rest of his life.

Chapter Eleven
A Dog's Life

"You're a bad puppy, aren't you?

"ARF!"

"Yes you are! And you won't spill your dog food in future, will you?"

"ARF! ARF!"

"Because if you do your next whipping will be much worse than the one you've just had. Do you understand?"

"ARF!" the child croaked, his voice distorted by all the screaming he had done in the weeks since his arrival at his new home.

"Arf" for yes and "arf" for no was the only vocabulary Felix needed when performing his role as Janice's pet dog. Her training methods were a great deal harsher than those recommended by the Kennel Club but seemed to be successful in getting him to do whatever she wanted him to do, at once and without question. Reluctantly, she had agreed that he would wear kneepads when in canine mode. But otherwise I gave her a pretty free rein.

Business took me away from home for days on end. On my return Felix would be more than willing to come to bed with me. I would hear him out as he complained about how Janice had treated him in my absence, not least because I found the eight-year–old's description of his treatment at her hands got me in the right mood for giving him a gentle good-to-be-home fuck. After that one occasion when I had smacked and caned him, I never raised my hand to him again; others would soon be filling that gap in his life. But I made it clear that everything Janice did to him in my absence, including smacking and caning him, she did with my authority. Felix now knew better than to question this ruling.

I loved it that Felix was turning into such a compliant bed partner and submitting without too many objections to the pain and humiliation he was receiving on a daily basis from Janice. But it was not enough – not nearly enough. Torturing and raping Peter Wilson had liberated a blood-lust the existence of which I had never previously suspected. As far as Felix was concerned, my real pleasure had come from seeing him raped by total strangers. I either needed to find more men to abuse my son or more boys for me to abuse. (Ideally, both.) And of course I needed to do so without my nefarious deeds seeing the light of day.

That is why, after establishing our new household, I breathed deeply, crossed by fingers, and once again telephoned Jerry. He answered so quickly that I wondered whether he had been sitting by his phone waiting for me to call for the last month or more. Yes, he had been able to put together a list of some 20 paedophiles who showed an interest in abusing pre-teeners like Felix. They included the half-dozen or so who had been involved in our previous escapades and were more than happy to enjoy an even more protracted and painful encounter with my son.

Chapter Twelve
Christmas Comes Early for Jerry

The first customer was of course Jerry himself. Despite his being my cousin I felt the need to conceal the location of my new home and torture palace. He was quite happy to submit to being blindfolded for the journey, and so in time were the rest of our clients. Only once we were inside the house did I allow him to see.

What he saw would have turned an ascetic monk into a raging paedophile. There was my criminally pretty eight-year-old son, ball-gagged and blindfolded, but still managing to whimper with fear, suspended by chains attached to his wrists and ankles, with his ankles high enough to permit ready access to his arse

Jerry did not stand on ceremony. He picked up the leather belt I had left strategically placed below the suspended boy. After 20 or more unrestrained whacks, he threw the belt down, stripped off, aligned his cock with my son's (ready-lubricated) arsehole and let rip. I have to acknowledge that Jerry's cock was a more formidable weapon than mine and I suspect that Felix's screams would have been ear-piercing had he not been well-gagged.

It did not take Jerry long to come, and like a child in a sweet-shop he made it clear that he wanted more. He retrieved the belt and thrashed my son for a further 20 or so times before fucking him again, this time making the rape last much longer. And still, when he had come for a second time, he was not satisfied.

Still sounding like a petulant child, he made his request clear.

"I want to waterboard him!"

I was pleased to hear his request as I had spent time and money setting up a board, raked at about 20 degrees, to which we duly strapped my son. I had of course read the reports of waterboarding in America's locations for extraordinary rendition and at Guantanamo Bay. Here was an extraordinarily potent torture that was known to reduce hardened terrorists to gibbering wrecks whilst leaving no physical evidence of abuse. I could only imagine what effect it would have on an eight-year-old child and was more than happy to find out by granting Jerry his request.

We duly placed a sodden cloth over my son's (ungagged) mouth and nose and proceeded to pour water slowly over his face from a watering can.

There could be no doubt that this process was causing my son extreme distress. It was also potentially life-threatening, so we had to call a halt every few minutes, to allow Felix to gasp in some air, and then waterboard him all over again. I think that if we had kept it up for long enough, we could literally have driven my son mad. But after the fourth session Jerry asked for a break, as he had a compelling need to fuck Felix again.

Eventually I called a halt and showed Jerry to his room. I unstrapped Felix and led him to my bedroom. It was just the two of us – I had made it clear that Janice was off-duty that evening. Not surprisingly Felix was a gibbering wreck at this stage and it took quite a lot of TLC to get him to talk coherently about what had just happened.

"Please", he entreated, "never do that again. I thought I was dying. It was terrible – far worse than anything else that you've done to me."

I did not believe in making promises that I might break, so I had to tell my son that this might not be the last time he was waterboarded. Terrified at this prospect he made no attempt to fight me off when I proceeded to fuck him, his terror merely augmenting my lust.

As I withdrew and ordered Felix to suck me clean, I realised that it was nearly 12 hours since anyone in the house had eaten. I steered Felix downstairs, both of us still stark naked, calling for Jerry to join us as I passed his room. Supper was beans on toast, which Felix doubtless welcomed as a change from the dogfood that Janice had been making him eat for several days now. But I still required him to eat his beans from the dog bowl on the floor without using his hands.

Left to himself I think Jerry would have been happy to carry on torturing and fucking my son until the crack of dawn. But I made it clear that fun and games were over for the day. I did, however, allow Jerry to give Felix's balls a firm squeeze whilst French-kissing him good night.

The next morning Jerry presented me with requests straight out of the Spanish Inquisition's songbook – bastinado and strappado. Jerry was intrigued to see that the chains in the cellar were electrically operated, allowing speedy and effective reconfiguration of Felix and his limbs. For the bastinado, I had him chained by his wrists and knees, presenting Jerry with a clear view of the immobilised soles of the boy's feet at just the right height for a severe lashing.

It would be extremely boring if I attempted, in this narrative, to convey every last groan, plea and scream that issued from my son's mouth. But it is worth recording that the first blow of the cane on the soles of his feet brought forth a scream that was higher in pitch, louder in volume and more protracted in duration than anything we had heard the night before. And that was just the first blow of many.

Jerry only stopped when Felix fainted. I decided that time out was in order. I allowed Jerry to unchain Felix and fuck him once he had regained consciousness, but nothing more before lunch.

Chapter Thirteen
No-One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

After lunch we progressed to the strappado.

I had vetoed Jerry's wish to apply what I believe to be the most authentic version of this torture. This would have involved placing Felix on the top rung of a ladder with his hands tied behind his back and a taut chain running from his hands to a fixture in the ceiling. Once he had roughed the boy up a bit Jerry would kick the ladder away. As the boy fell so his arms would be forced up and away from his boy. At the very least his shoulders would be dislocated, but there would probably be irreparable damage to muscles and ligaments. The pain would of course be off the scale.

With some regrets I informed Jerry that he would be playing a milder version of this game. Felix's feet would remain firmly on the ground. Slowly – ever so slowly – Jerry would use the remote control to raise the chain that was fixed to his tied hands. He would carry on raising the chain, forcing Felix's arms ever further upwards and outwards behind his back, until his screams suggested that he was on the brink of dislocation. In that excruciating position he would then be perfectly exposed for Jerry to flog his front.

After the third iteration of this torture, Felix fainted – again. Perhaps more by luck than judgement we had just about managed to avoid dislocating his shoulders, but I could see why those 16th century Catholic zealots were so enamoured of this particular punishment. The boy regained consciousness just as Jerry was reconfiguring the chains to allow him to give my son a good fucking. We fed him (from the dog bowls, naturally) and sent him to bed (my bed, naturally). Jerry and I did some serious drinking, in which we were eventually joined by Janice who had been out clubbing. The next day I drove Jerry (blindfolded, naturally) to his home. He would have willingly stayed on to torment my son further, but I had other customers queueing up.

Chapter Fourteen
Customer Number Two

Joel had been one of the abusers of Peter Wilson but turned out to be quite a gentle soul by the standards of most of Jerry's chums. At Joel's express request I had decked Felix out in the uniform of a cub scout and tied him to the four corners of a vaulting horse.

"So, they tell me you've been a bad boy," said Joel. "You've allowed lots of grown men and at least two girls to fuck you. I think that deserves a pretty severe whipping, don't you?"

I don't know how my son was meant to answer that question as he had a formidable penis gag stuffed in his mouth.

"I think I'll take that as a yes," Joel said, smirking the while.

He picked up a martinet and proceeded to lash Felix's backside.

You might have thought that Felix would have been all screamed out by now, but not a bit of it. There was no let-up in his muffled protests as Joel laid into him. The whipping did not, however, last long as Joel was clearly in the mood for some more intimate activity. He untied Felix and led him, gently but firmly to the day-bed I had installed in the far corner of the cellar. He stripped off and lay down next to the boy, once again highlighting the stark difference in the sizes of the two lovers.

I masturbated slowly as I watched their coupling. They frenched for about ten minutes, with Felix putting his tongue to good use like an old pro. Joel then tongue-fucked his arse, which I think was a first for the child, and something he genuinely seemed to appreciate. There were a few token squeals when Joel mounted him, but soon enough the child was grunting and groaning like a two-bit whore. For the first time I felt totally confident that my project to sexualise and enslave my son was on track.

There was further confirmation of that when we went to bed that night. Before giving him his paternal good-night fuck, I asked him how he was coping with his new regime so far. My cock lurched as I listened to his answer.

"It really hurts being beaten and the torture thing with my arms was terrible. But when Joel was whipping me, it started getting less painful after a while and I started getting that tingly feeling in my bottom. Also, my penis became stiff."

I decided not to explain how a whipping anaesthetises the nerve endings in the backside and how some of the flow of blood into the beaten area makes its way into the neighbouring erectile tissues. It was enough for him to know that tortures – not all tortures but certainly some – could be pleasurable.

It occurred to me for the first time that eight was probably the ideal age for the adventure on which Felix had embarked. An older child would have had some added attractions, of course – bigger genitals for a start and the ability to produce sperm – but he would also be more acutely aware that I was robbing him of his childhood.

By contrast, Felix was too young to appreciate the full enormity of the future I had mapped out for him – the schooling he would never receive, the friends he would never make, the birthdays he would never celebrate. As his only role in life was to be a faggot pain slut, I would of course deny him these and most of life's other pleasures.

The boy was continuing to prattle away whilst I was having my reverie, and his words made me feel even randier, which I would have hardly thought possible

"I find myself looking forward to being abused," he was saying, "especially being fucked and especially being fucked by you. Oh daddy, I love you so much and I just want to do whatever you want me to do. If that means being your slave and having strange men doing dirty and painful things to me, then I'll put up with it. I'll even put up with Janice treating me like a dog. You see, I know you won't let anything really bad happen to me. Oh, please fuck me now daddy. I'm all tingly!"

How could I refuse a request like that?

Chapter Fifteen
Twelve Good Men and True

My approach to start with was to rent Felix out to one abuser at a time, but Jerry was soon telling me that an impatient queue was forming. The more I thought about it the more appealing I found the prospect of submitting my son to the attentions of many men at the same time. He had after all been gang-raped already by six men and two girls and lived to tell the tale.

So I agreed to let Jerry assemble as large a cohort of sadistic paedophiles as he could muster, make sure that they understood the rules of engagement (nothing life-threatening or permanently disabling blah, blah, blah) and to assemble at an agreed location whence I would convey them in a windowless van to my abode.

I took great pleasure in informing Felix of the size of the cohort that would be visiting him. There would be twelve of them. Twelve! He gulped, and tears started trickling down his cheek, but he neither wept nor protested.

I also told him, as Jerry had informed me, that amongst the twelve were a surgeon and a paramedic. Their presence would allow Felix to be subjected to more extreme forms of torture than he had previously had to endure. I gave him a flavour of what was in store for him.

"You remember the strappado? When your arms were pulled up behind your back until your shoulders nearly dislocated? Do you remember that?"

Oh yes, he remembered that. He burst into tears and between sobs managed to say, "Oh no, please Daddy, not that, anything but that."

Ignoring his protests, I continued.

"And you remember Janice asking if she could fuck you with her fist – well, to be accurate, her entire forearm? And I said, not yet? Well, with medics in place to stop you bleeding to death I can see no reason why she should not be allowed to dislocate your shoulder and fist-fuck you. Indeed, I see no reason why grown men with their much bigger forearms and fists should not be allowed to fist-fuck you."

I had naively expected this prediction to intensify his weeping, but not a bit of it. His tears dried up as if by magic and he looked up at me with hat I can only describe as lust in his eyes. I could only draw one conclusion. This eight-year-old son of mine had now been so sexualised that the prospect of being serially fist-fucked actually excited him.

I was massively turned on by my son's being massively turned on, so I threw him onto the bed and fucked him (conventionally, with my cock). The animal sounds he made convinced me that he agreed that was the right thing for me to be doing.

I then left him in Janice's tender care, with instructions about preparing him for his coming ordeal, whilst I drove to the pick-up point where 12 oversexed paedophiles were waiting to be transported to heaven and back. They were a motley bunch in terms of age, size, ethnicity and demeanour. The two slimmest and most mild-mannered of them proved, as I half expected, to be the doctor and the paramedic, who both came possessed with bags containing the tools of their trade. Everyone willingly surrendered their mobile phones – I did not want anyone using their location-finder whilst enjoying my hospitality.

I led them downstairs to a small basement annexe and invited them to strip off, mask themselves (I had provided a generous assortment of truly scary masks) and stroke themselves – or their neighbour – to an erection if not already in the aroused state. I then turned the lights out and opened the door to the main basement.

The total darkness was penetrated by the sound of a small boy screaming. I threw a switch and floodlights illuminated a scene beyond any of my guests' wildest expectations.

Chapter Sixteen
Some Preliminaries

A tiny naked boy was on his hands and knees, fixed in that position by short chains joining his wrist and ankle cuffs to strategically sited floor fixtures. Looming over him, and naked except for knee-length leather boots, was a girl in her mid-teens. One of those boots was pressed down on the boy's neck, further assuring his immobility. In this dominated position, the child was receiving his first whipping in over a week and boy did he not like it! She was whipping him nice and slowly, as the child was due to be abused over a lengthy period and it did not make sense to hurry things.

At least one of my visitors found the spectacle too arousing for his own good and ejaculated on the spot. I had to admonish him. He was denying the child much needed nutrition, I said, adding that he had not drunk anything for a day or eaten anything for a week. I stressed to all the men panting with lust that there were only two permissible receptacles for their sperm. If they wanted to come in his face or over his body, that was fine, provided the child was then forced to scoop up the sperm and ingest it.

It was time to formally start the proceedings. Janice stopped whipping Felix and stepped away from him. I removed the chains around his ankles and hands and, with Janice's help, chained him in the shape of an X and at a height appropriate for an eight-year-old about to be whipped and raped by 12 adult males.

The boy was of course absolutely terrified. Although no stranger to raunchy man/boy sex and physical chastisement, what he now witnessed was frightening beyond belief: the masked faces, the numbers from 1 to 12 stencilled on their chests, the erect cocks. These lions did not just want to lie down with the lamb, they wanted to devour it!

I divided the 12 men into four groups of three. Number One from Group One proceeded to subject the boy to a beating with an instrument of his choice, Number Two forced the boy to suck him off and Number Three fucked him. The baton then passed to the second group. After this group had had their way with my son the metaphorical whistle would blow for half-time. We adjourned to an upstairs room where Janice, now clad, provided us with food and drink.

After lunch, groups three and four had their turn. They took their time, there was no need to hurry, and the boy was all screamed out by the time they were done.

It had been a long day and my guests were content to make their way to the top story, a single large attic space which I had furnished as a dormitory. Some really wanted to revisit Felix, whom I had unchained before placing him in a cage barely large enough to accommodate his slight frame. With man/boy sex off limits for the night, a certain amount of man/man sex took place, audible to me and Janice in our bedroom one floor below. Those coupling sounds, and the sounds of weeping from my imprisoned son that drifted upstairs from time to time, provided us with all the stimulus we needed to engage in some rewarding coupling of our own.

After breakfast (for my guests; nothing yet for Felix) we adjourned to the basement where those who had beaten him the previous day now had a chance to fuck him or face-fuck him – their choice. The remaining two members of each group then ensured that he was well beaten and well fucked before we moved on to the next phase of the programme.

Chapter Seventeen
Phase Two

Phase Two started with a bang. I had previously circulated a long list of punishments from which each of the twelve was invited to nominate one that they particularly wanted to witness. Top of the list came, unsurprisingly, waterboarding. Told how his day was to start, Felix lost it. He screamed like a banshee, made valiant but futile efforts to break free of my clutches as Jerry and I led him to the angled plank, secured him in place, placed a sodden cloth over his face and applied the watering can treatment. That such simple ingredients – a plank, a cloth, a watering can – could have such a devastating effect while leaving not a trace of the torture once it was over was truly amazing.

I must try not to over-use the phrase 'gibbering wreck' but that is what we turned Felix into. I relied on the doctor in our midst to bring this particular event to a close before there was any risk of Felix actually drowning. As there were 12 rampant cocks in urgent need of release, we did not bother to re-chain him but simply unstrapped him, turned him over, re-strapped him and then gang-raped him for something in excess of three hours straight. Previously, it had never taken anything like as long for his screams to morph into orgasmic groans whilst being raped or thrashed, but on this occasion there was nothing to suggest that he was deriving any real pleasure from the experience.

The next torture to which we subjected Felix was a tried and trusted one. He was chained by his hands with his feet hanging about six inches above the floor. Half-a-dozen night lights were then plead underneath his feet. It took some time for him to be fully aware of the scorching his soles were receiving, but once he was aware – boy, did he complain! He attempted to escape the torture by raising his feet to his midriff, but this placed so much stress on his wrists that he could only maintain that position for a few minutes before he had to let his feet drop once again to just six inches from the flames. Only once his soles were blackened all over did the torture stop.

Many of my guests really wanted to fuck the child at that stage, but I decided that one more torture was in order before they were let loose on him. With Felix still hanging by his wrists one of my guests took a nine-inch-long file with serrated edges and proceeded to fuck the boy's cock with it. I could see that the doctor was not entirely happy with this turn of events, but as everyone else seemed to approve he kept his counsel. By the time everyone had had a go his urethra was in a bad way.

An orgy of fucking and whipping followed. I timed this one at nearly five hours. By now it was time for me to drive my guests home, leaving Janice to minister to my much-abused son. Finally, she got to do what she had wanted to do all along – namely to fist-fuck the tyke. Fortunately, my camcorder was still running so on my return I was able to feast my eyes on the compelling sight of a teenage girl sinking her fist and forearm inexorably into the rear passage of a screaming eight-year-old. Having viewed this, I could not wait to give Felix one final fuck before allowing him to cry himself to sleep.

The flashing blue lights outside the house meant that I never got to give him that fuck.

Chapter Eighteen
Retribution

My Probation Officer and my lawyer both maintain that if I provide a comprehensive and candid written report of my 'unprecedented' (the PO's word) abuse of young boys, it will tell in my favour when I come to be sentenced. From where I am, the difference between 30 years and whole of life doesn't seem all that great, but I recognise that I may feel differently in, say, 29 years' time. I have therefore had no compunctions about recording events with total frankness, naming names where I know them.

So this is my report, covering everything that happened from my first cup of coffee with George Wilson to the moment the police swooped and found Janet and me, both stark naked, passionately embracing prior to visiting Felix in his cage.

If more details are required, I will provide them.

The End