Zelamir

Slave Boy Hunter

A Tribute Boy Story

BOOK TWO
Chapter 1

Robert Jones had blurted out the question even before I had un-padlocked the double gates to let him into the yard.

He was sitting, one bare leg cocked over the bar of his beaten up old bicycle, his face flushed with excitement, his fair hair ruffled by the breeze, a near perfect example of the best sort of free boy.

I swung the gates open.

This was the moment I had been dreading for some time. I had promised him the new bike and I knew how much he wanted it.

I explained the whole thing to him. How the Burgeons, wealthy Americans, had treated Peter as their son despite his being a tribute brat. How he had runaway to his mother. How I had got the brat away from her and agreed with the Burgeons to return him to them for seven thousand five hundred pounds. And how finally everything had gone wrong finishing up with my being robbed and my car vandalised.

At fourteen Robert thought himself too old to cry but I saw his eyes fill with tears as it became clear to him that he was not going to get his mountain bike after all.

I hurried on to tell him about the frightened boy's voice pleading down the telephone and finally Peter's return. Naked, frightened and repentant.

"Why ever did he do that?" Robert asked, "He was safe away with people who'd spoil him rotten. Why should he come back to you."

I shrugged.

"I don't know Robert," I replied, "Once a brat's been tributed and properly broken he stops thinking or feeling the same way as you or I do. I think maybe they get cock hungry; it's like a drug to them, they must have it and they'll do anything and put up with anything for it."

"Anyway," Robert said an eager grin lighting up his face, "it doesn't matter why the slut choose to come back, the important thing is he's back. The little whore is going to get plenty of cock whether he wants it or not. He's just about the best fuck I've ever had."

I cleared my throat apologetically.

"I'm sorry Robert," I said sadly. "but I'm afraid Peter won't be much good for anything for a time."

Turning on my heel I led the way across to the row of open cages that lined one side of the yard.

I hadn't bothered to close the door of the cage in which I had left Peter – the slut was not going to go anywhere in the near future. He lay spread eagled on his face, blood welling from the multiple welts that the lash had scored across his naked shoulders and rump.

"I don't think this is fair." Robert complained., "you let me down over the mountain bike you promised me – you could have let me have the slut to fuck – you didn't have to whip him as hard as that or you could have left doing it until I'd had my fun."

"You can have Timmy if you want," I offered in an effort to placate the boy. Although I didn't think it would work, Timmy in his fourth year of service lacked the freshness and appeal of nine year old Peter.

I glanced across to where Timmy knelt by the door to the cage and just caught the flicker of a quick movement. He was now in the correct position for a tribute brat, back straight, arms down by his sides, knees spread wide bottom pressed down so that his balls almost touched the floor. His cut boy's cock with its swollen pink helmet erect and quivering and open to plain view, as clear an announcement of his sluttish and corrupt nature as the iron collar clamped about his neck and the tribute mark deeply incised into his bottom by the hotly glowing branding iron. But a second before his hands had been at his crutch his fingers busy playing with his prick.

"Timmy," Robert exclaimed his tone of voice making clear what he thought of the suggestion and then, catching sight of my face fell silent.

I stood for a moment gazing silently at Timmy, letting him wonder whether I had spotted what he had been up to. The silence lengthened and he shifted uneasily under my gaze.

"You had better bring me the ball tickler Timmy," I said with studied mildness.

With a stifle sob the brat started to his feet and darted into the house. He knew better than to argue or to plead.

I glanced at Robert and saw that the expression of sulky discontent that had marred his usual cheerful face had lightened to be replaced by a look of eager anticipation. This together with the appearance of a pronounced bulge in the front of his brief and very tight shorts – the long legged baggy abominations that had passed for shorts before the First Great Patriotic War having long since been replaced by very much more attractive garments – signalled his rising excitement.

I was naturally irritated by Timmy's misbehaviour. It was a flagrant transgression of one of the basic tenets of the Tribute Code that decreed that once a brat was tributed it existed only to serve and to please. It was a form of theft, if not of open rebellion, for he had chosen to please himself rather than me, his master. On the other hand I was quite glad to have something to distract Robert's mind from my failure to come up with a mountain bike.

We did not to have too long to wait before Timmy re-appeared. He ran towards us at the double and dropped panting to his knees at our feet. Panting for breath he reached out to me with both hands offering me the martinet that I used to curb his depraved instincts and those of any other brats that might pass into my care. A half dozen or so leather thongs each one about eighteen inches [50 cm] long with tightly knotted tips hung from a stout wooden handle. It was not to my mind a particularly fearsome instrument. The salesman when I had bought it had tried to sell me a similar item but with metal tipped thongs that cost half as much again and which he assured me if used with moderate force could rip the balls from a brat. I had refused it for my aim was to correct not to destroy. However from the tears that dampened the whimpering slut's cheeks it seemed that he thought it fearsome enough.

"Get your knees wide apart Timmy," I said gently.

I rarely see the point of shouting at a slut you are about to beat. Indeed I think it more effective to speak calmly and quietly, even perhaps kindly. That way they know that punishment comes not from anger or passion that may pass and be forgotten but is the deliberate considered and inevitable consequence of their inadequacies.

"Hand down by your sides," I continued, taking the scourge from him.

"Get your balls a little higher off the ground," I ordered, encouraging him by prodding him under his crutch with the toe of my shoe.

"Timmy," I said sadly, "I am sorry to find that you are an ungrateful little slut. I care for you, feed you, house you and what do I get in return. Nothing, you have nothing, you are nothing, dirt, scum like the rest of the lazy thieving tribute filth. All I get is the use of your miserable carcass and now you try to take even that away from me. You have been a bad wicked slut and I am going to have to punish you."

I looked down at the brat as he knelt head bowed, thin bare shoulders shaken by sobs.

"Master I'm sorry Master," he whined.

I sighed loudly.

"Timmy," I said sadly, "Of course you are sorry. You are sorry because you have been caught and you know you are going to be punished. You have got to be taught to be a better slut."

"Perhaps Robert," I continued, "you would care to give Timmy his lesson?"

Startled Robert pulled his hand from the front of his shorts and took the scourge from me. He moved round so he was standing squarely in front of the kneeling brat. Taking a firm grasp of the martinet he lowered it so that its multiple tips just swept the ground. Then he struck upwards into the boy's exposed crutch., the leather thongs licking around and behind the brat's hairless balls, their tightly knotted tips nipping and bighting the tenderest and most secret parts of his body.

Timmy howled shrilly. He clasped his hands to his balls and crashed forward head to the ground, sobs racking his naked body.

I do not demand the impossible of any brat and I left him a minute or two alone in his agony before I ordered him back into position.

Whimpering miserably he raised his head from the floor. Both Robert and I burst out laughing as we caught sight of his face contorted with pain and fear into a comic mask.

"Hands down by your side Timmy," I ordered fighting, back my mirth, as Robert enforced my instruction with a sharp crack of the scourges butt across the slut's knuckle.

Timmy jerked his hands away from his crutch.

"Master…" he began before Robert cut his pleas short by striking again this time downwards, bringing the leather thongs raking down the front of his crutch.

I had to move behind Timmy and pull him up to get him back in position.

"Please," he whimpered, "please Master I won't ever touch myself again Master please…"

"We have to be sure Timmy. We have to be sure," I explained to him quietly."

Taking a firm grip of the boy's arms just above the elbows I pulled them back forcing his hands away from his balls. Robert struck twice more, the underhand blows scouring the underside of the brat's crutch, his body jerking convulsively in my grasp.

I released my hold of the boy and he fell over on his side rolling himself into a naked ball of sobbing boy misery.

I glanced at Robert. The bulge in the front of his shorts had grown more pronounced. Slipping his left hand inside the waste band of his shorts he walked across to the open door of the cage where Peter lay. He stood looking at on the boy's battered body his fingers busy inside his pants.

"I know it would cost money Mister Warwick," he said attentively, "but Peter was a hot little slut. Would it be a good idea to get the vet look at him?"

"I don't know Robert," I replied doubtfully, "I could get him and the brat could still die on me and I've had had all the expense for nothing.

I prodded Peter sharply in the ribs with my toe and he stirred slightly and moaned.

"The slut's still conscious," I remarked, "I think I'll leave him a bit and see what happens. There are two possibilities, either the brat will get better or he won't."

"Though," I added gloomily, The ridiculous way things have gone now, there'll be a bit of paper work to do if he dies and a brat is quite capable of doing that just out of spite."

I paused a moment thinking glumly of the additional rules the damn fool bleeding heart liberals and dogooders had imposed in recent years. If things continued this way much longer you would before long have to get a licence to use a whip on a brat.

"Anyway," Robert I said rousing myself and looking pointedly at the front of his shorts. "I think you'd better let Timmy help you get rid of that."

I walked back to where Timmy lay sobbing on the ground. Bending over I took a grip on one ear and pulled him to his feet.

"I know you don't think much of him as a fuck," I continued, "but he's pretty good with his mouth."

"Timmy," I gave his ear a hard twist to be sure I had his attention, "you show Master Robert how grateful you are for the lesson he's given you and suck his cock good or you'll get some more schooling."

I twisted him round till he was facing Robert and, releasing his ear, sent him on his way with my knee up his arse.

Timmy staggered and then, recovering his balance, ran across to Robert and throwing himself at on his knees at his feet fumbled urgently at the fastening of his shorts. A few seconds later his face was buried in the Robert's crutch.

I looked at them, the free boy standing upright straight and proud, the naked brat huddled at his. Robert still held the scourge in his right hand, the thick strands of knotted leather tumbling over the naked slut's thin shoulders and down his narrow back, their knotted tips caressing the his bare bottom. They seemed in a way at that moment to epitomize the Tribute System, its strength and indeed its beauty.

It seemed to me that Timmy was applying himself to his task with admirable enthusiasm and commitment. Indeed I find a good beating often seems to improve a brat's performance, somehow its lips are softer and wetter, it's tongue quicker and more agile.

Robert's breath came in sharp urgent gasps. Then there was a moment of silence as the two boys seemed locked together as Robert pumped his boy juices deep into the back of Timmy's gullet. I could see the slut's throat muscles working desperately as he tried to swallow the flood of cum .

Then Timmy was kneeling back on his haunches his tongue cleaning the semen from his lips staring up nervously into Robert's face

"Well." I asked eventually, "how did the slut perform."

The expression on the brat's face as he waited for Robert's verdict was one of such comical anxiety that I almost burst out laughing.

"Not bad," Robert said

A broad grin of relieve mixed perhaps with just a touch of pride split Timmy's face.

"Thank you Master," he said and bent forward in a spontaneous gesture of gratitude to kiss Robert's feet.

Looking down at his raised and open bottom I saw beads of fresh blood glistening where the knotted tips of the scourge had curled and bitten deep.

I would have to clean and treat these. Timmy would not enjoy that for the disinfectant was strong and would burn and sting. However I was a responsible master and the job had to be done. That though could be left to the future after his days work was done.

"Come on filth," I said prodding him in the bottom with my foot, "this isn't a holiday camp for idle brats – there's work to be done get on with it."

With a final grateful grin over his shoulder at Robert Timmy scampered off into the house.

"Will he be badly marked if he does get over it." Robert asked.

He was back worrying about Peter. The little slut must have been good to make such an impression on the lad.

"Young flesh heals fast and well Robert," I said reassuringly, "I'll clean him up and a couple of weeks time or sooner there'll hardly be a mark on him. Just a few faint lines maybe on his shoulders and back but nothing you'd notice unless you looked really closely and he'll be a much better brat for it too."

"He was pretty good before Mister Warwick."

"He'll be even better Robert, quieter, more nervous perhaps but more attentive and eager to please. Brats are always improved by a good flogging. And, I tell you what, I'll get Timmy to try to get some warm milk into him. If we can get him to take that he'll make it and if he doesn't – well there are plenty of others where he came from."

"That's true Mister Warwick," Robert replied brightening at the thought.

He turned away and picked up his bike. I accompanied him to the gate.

"I don't mind too much about the mountain bike Mister Warwick," Robert said as he hopped on the bike.

A brat who was squatting at the side of the road outside the yard called out to him and held out his hands as he passed. No doubt begging for food, brats seem to think that just because they have empty bellies they have a license to go about making a nuisance of themselves.

Robert swerved close towards him and kicked him on the side of the head as he cycled past sending the slut sprawling. I smiled fondly, Robert was really a splendid lad, the best type of free boy.

I glanced at the brat. He wasn't a bad looking brute, getting on a bit, about fourteen years old, dark curly hair, a sturdy well built brat. Not fat, tribute brats don't get fat, but with that extra condition that domestic sluts with access to their masters' garbage bins seem to acquire.

"Master," he called out to me.

"Get off with you. Take your idle carcass out of here turd," I shouted raising my hand threateningly. If you show the slightest weakness you'd have hordes of the vermin round like flies round a jam jar.

"Master please… I got something for you," he called back.

Chapter 2

"Well be quick and deliver your message and then get your fowl carcass out of here slut," I snapped, "your master probably has some use for you but what that might be puzzles me."

"Please Master," the brat sidled closer grinning ingratiatingly if a bit nervously as he did so, "I haven’t a message it’s something I know that could make you a good deal of money and Master I got to be quick cos I was sent to take a parcel to the post office and if I'm not back quick they'll get suspicious and want to know what I've been up to."

I should of course have thrashed the boy for his insolence and sent him on his way but after the disastrous outcome of last business venture a great deal of money was what I wanted badly.

"Well what is it?" I asked.

The brat dropped to his knees.

"Please Master," he said and to do him credit there was a distinct nervous tremor in his voice as he spoke, "you got to do something for me before I tell you."

"Got," I exploded and this time I did hit him a resounding clout on the side of his head which knocked him sideways in the dirt. "'Got', you have the insolence to tell a free citizen that he has 'got' to do something. You need a lesson in manners. A taste of the lash will bring you to your senses fast enough. You wont be so cocky once your shoulders have been shredded by the whip."

I bent and grabbing him by his collar dragged him to his feet.

"It's a lot of money Master and you can't make me tell you anything," he gasped as I hauled him through the gates into the yard.

Again the words "a lot of money" caught my attention. Though I rather doubted his assertion that with the facilities available to me I couldn't make him tell. Whips to tear his flesh, branding irons to burn his body, vices to crush his bones, pincers tear off his finger nails and draw his teeth were powerful arguments that could be freely applied to any recalcitrant brat. On the other hand they were arguments that took time to deploy and which gave no guarantee of veracity.

It was easier perhaps to find out what it was that he wanted and to promise it. It you made a promise to a brat it didn't mean you had to keep it. Promises were only binding between equals and brats were chattels rather than individuals.

"Well," I said pausing in my progress across the yard to the whipping post, "what is this great money making secret. Out with it boy and I hope for your sake it is good or I'll skin your back and rump with the lash."

"You got to do two things first and then I'll tell you."

I stood still thinking. I was astounded by the brat's temerity. However whatever he wanted would probably not be much. A belly full of swill at the outside, a tribute brat with its horizons limited by ignorance and privation would hardly think of anything more.

"Very well," I said after a moment's hesitation, it was distasteful lowering oneself to negotiate with a brat but still needs must. And it hadn't escaped my notice that the uppity little sod had stopped calling me 'master'. I promised myself he would receive a long and painful lesson in good manners once I had got the information I wanted out of him.

"First buy me from my present Master."

Well even with my current straightened means that shouldn't be too hard. He was a healthy looking young animal and quite nice to look at but nothing special. There were dozens of brats just like him. And he was getting on a bit by the look of him an probably had only about two years service to go before release. Fifty pounds should do it. All right I didn't have fifty pounds right then but the bank should be good for that. After all I was a fully authorised Agent of the New Order Property Recovery Unit and had a certain standing in the community.

"And who is your master boy and where does he live?"

"You can meet him tomorrow at the boy coursing he has a pair of running boys competing and the young master and me are to be there too."

I pricked up my ears. Boy coursing and running boys spelt money and plenty of it. It wasn't always that way. Of course before the First Patriotic War boy coursing was unknown. There was hare coursing but it was illegal and was carried on surreptitiously with a rather sleazy following. Boy coursing developed out of this shortly after the successful conclusion of the war. At first it retained its somewhat shady reputation not helped by the continued use of greyhounds which consistently out ran their quarry and deprived events of any sporting interest as the coursed brat was invariably quickly run down.. The replacement of grey hounds by running boys restored its sporting appeal and the appearance in Hello Magazine of photographs of a minor royal attending a meeting marked the beginning of the sports adoption by the rich and glamorous.

As the sport became fashionable it became expensive. A running boy, at first simply a strong brat, which meant a brat in the last two years of service, with long legs bought for a few quid, became a highly priced object, the product of up to four years intense training. Scouts for the top trainers and proprietors often now accompanied Tribute Masters on their regular visits to villages and towns eager to spot potential runners among the drafts of fresh brats. Top quality running boys at the peak of their form could fetch many thousands of pounds at auction. The logical consequence of this were an increasing number of people trying to cash in on this bonanza by breeding runners using boys with established records on the coursing grounds.

If the brat's master was into the boy coursing world and owned even just a single pair of coursing boys he was a very wealthy man. And it followed from that that if the brat's secret concerned his master it could be potentially very valuable indeed.

"You'll have to have a reason for wanting to buy me. You can say you've got the hots for me and want to fuck my bottom," the brat said with a smirk.

Well that would put the price up. What master would not put the price up if approached on that basis. However I could not think of any other reason to advance and the bank would surely stand to me and it looked increasingly as though the potential profits would dwarf the costs.

"He'll sell all right," the brat continued a hint of bitterness in his voice, "the mistress was onto him at supper last night saying I was getting too big for the house and eating too much as well. She said it'd safe them money in the end to sell me an buy a brat in the first year of Tribute. She said I was a strong brat and the colliery would pay a good price for me and I've been with them from when I was tributed."

There was no doubt now of the bitterness in the brat's voice but I couldn't see what reason he had to feel bitter. After all brats did grow quite a bit over the years even on the meagre rations allowed them and a slight eight year old at the moment when the Tribute Master's branding iron scorched his rump would be a good deal bigger six years later and still have two years of service before release. It was, in my opinion, you could hardly expect a householder to put up with a clumsy oaf of a fourteen or fifteen year old lumbering about the house breaking and bumping into things, when it could be replaced with a nice fresh little eight year old. Especially when there was a ready market for the older brat as the colliery companies consumed brats in their mines at almost as rapid a rate as the power stations consumed the coal that they produced.

All right life was hard and probably short too down the mines but he was only a brat. What did he expect? Anyway he should be grateful for the six years of easy living he had been granted up to now no doubt with two bowls of swill a day, light work, just being fucked from time to time by his master and the occasional flogging to keep him on his toes. And it wasn't as if he would miss much if he failed to survive to his release date. In the last decade not a single brat from the mines had survived the release process to enjoy his freedom.

Anyway what the brat thought or felt was of no importance. What mattered was that it looked as though there was money to be made.

"All right," I said, "and what is the second thing you want me to do?"

"Recommend me for as a Cadet in the New Order Constabulary."

"What," I exclaimed amazed. Cadetships were the only guaranteed escape route from servile status open to a brat and were reserved for those who had shown total commitment to their master's and who were in top physical condition.

"Recommend me for a Cadet in the New Order Constabulary," he repeated coolly.

With time the comforting thought occurred to me that I could promise the boy anything. I didn't necessarily need to deliver on those promises.

"Yes all right," I said, "I'll do that – now what is this secret that is going to get me a great deal of money?"

"You write a letter recommending me to the Recruitment Executive New Order Constabulary and after I've posted it I will tell you."

"How the hell do you know that's the way brats get recommended," I asked.

"It was in this month's issue of Slut Boy." (One of a number of brightly coloured poorly printed on cheap paper flimsy magazines specially printed for the brat market produced by the regime for indulgent Masters to give their brats filled with improving simply written stories about kind Masters and devoted brats.) "This slut saved his Master's baby son from being savaged by a pair of Doberman's which were with a broom handle despite being mauled himself and it said how the master wrote a letter recommending him but he didn't take it when it was offered to him cos he wanted to stay with the master he loved."

"Silly little plonker," the brat added. He really was an appalling little turd.

"How do I know if you have anything worthwhile for me at all?" I asked. "And what's more I write that letter and give it to you to post. What is there to prevent you taking off and my not seeing you ever again."

"I'm not going to bugger off am I. I'm not going to miss out on being a cadet am I? And before you ask how you can be sure that I've got something worthwhile for you. I have to stay with you till they come and get me for the cadets so I had better deliver or you'll take it out on me."

I didn't like the brat's tone but there was nothing I could do about it and the galling thing was that the brat's scheme would very likely work. A recommendation from an agent of the New Order Executive would carry great weight with the recruitment department. Unless that is I could phrase it in such a way as to render it worthless, or, the simplest thing of all, just put a blank piece of paper into a sealed envelope and give it to him to post. If I could get away with the last I could give the boy the beating he so needed and deserved as soon as he had told me the secret. If I had to fall back on sending a hopefully inadequate recommendation that would be refused, which would almost certainly occur if I failed to include any particular example of commendable behaviour on the part of the brat which showed a commitment to and an acceptance of what might broadly be called "New Order Values", I would have to wait until the actual refusal was received. It would never do to produce a boy recommended for and accepted as a cadet with his back all bloody from the lash.

I was determined though if I possibly could one way or the other to have the boy strung up by his wrists and flogged till the blood ran.

"All right," I said "I will write the letter now. You wait here and I will give it you to post when it's done."

"I'll come in with you," the boy replied coolly, "just to help you write the letter."

"You can," he continued as he followed me into the house, "use the Doberman story to show them what a good brat I am. It worked once so it should work again."

He was really a most detestable boy. I led the way to my study seething with barely suppressed rage at his impertinence.

I thought for a moment that my self restraint would be further tested by his insolently seating himself on a chair as I wrote my letter but he contented himself by standing immediately behind me breathing heavily and more or less dictating what I had to say which was bad enough.

When I had finished he reached across and taking the letter walked over to the window. He stood there in the light, his lips moving as he struggled with the longer words for tribute brats receive at the most only rudimentary schooling, reading it through with an expression of keen concentration. In other circumstances it would have been a hilariously entertaining spectacle.

"That seems all right," he said eventually, "now write out an envelope and put a first class stamp on it and I will take it to the post box on my way back home."

"I don't want you forgetting to post it," he added with an offensive sneer.

"I haven't got any stamps," I offered. I didn't think it would work but I thought I ought to try.

"Give me the money and I'll buy one at the Post Office." he replied.

I pulled a pound coin out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"Keep the change," I said grinding my teeth.

"I will," he assured me with irritating cockiness. He clearly thought he had got the better of me and I had to accept that for the time being at least he had.

I addressed an envelope to the Chief Recruitment Officer, Personnel Section, New Order Constabulary and passed it to him.

"Thanks," he said, "I'll see you tomorrow at the boy coursing."

He left the room and picking up the cane went off in search of Timmy. I had to vent my anger and frustration on some brat. Ideally it would have been the cheeky little shit I had just recommended for a Cadetship in the New Order Constabulary but he was not available. It was Timmy's bad luck that he was.

Half an hour later I walked back into the house leaving Timmy, his bottom even more vividly striped than before sobbing behind me. I felt relaxed and ready to meet the challenges of the day ahead.

I picked up the phone on my desk and rang Robert's father and delivered an invitation for the lad to go with me to watch the boy coursing the next day. I was sure he would enjoy it and he deserved some sort of treat from me to make up for his disappointment over the mountain bike.

Robert's father accepted the invitation on his behalf. I then settled myself down to arrange with the bank, what I was sure would be a mere formality, a small increase in my overdraft limit. I soon found I was mistaken in this assumption. Despite my long years of association with the bank, my responsible and prestigious position as an authorized agent of the New Order Property Recovery Unit, the fact that I was asking for the trivial sum of a mere five hundred pounds, the minimum amount I calculated required to tide me over and provide working capital until the considerable sums arising from my current business venture, commercial confidentiality prevented me from sharing the precise details of which with the grasping unimaginative bureaucrat with whom I had the misfortune of speaking; despite all this the damn pen-pusher would talk only about the size of my current overdraft and the need to take action to reduce it. The conversation ended with the man saying that he trusted I would make arrangements to considerably reduce my borrowings by the end of the week or provide further and substantial collateral.

No wonder the country is in a dire financial mess. It is really disheartening for an entrepreneur like myself to have his initiative stifled by some petty bank official, Now I was left with the unenviable task of telling Robert he could forget his promised day at the boy coursing. This was the second time I had disappointed him, first his mountain bike, now this. He would not I knew be very happy about it but the job had to be done.

"We can't go because the bank won't lend you any money?" he said when I had finished my explanations.

"Yes, that's right Robert. Getting back here and repairing the car after my little run in with the Burgeons cleaned me out completely and now the bank wont give me any credit despite what looks like an excellent business opportunity. And I was only looking for fie hundred pounds."

"I don't have five hundred pounds Mister Warwick but I have one hundred and twenty one pounds fifty six pence in my savings account. I could let you have that."

I made a quick calculation in my head. That should be enough to pay for Robert's and my self's day at the coursing grounds, to cover the cost of buying the brat with enough left over with luck to meet essential cash expenditure for a few days thereafter. Timmy would have to be put on a starvation diet but he wouldn't notice much difference from what he usually got. I didn't believe in spoiling my brats.

"Thanks Robert," I said warmly, "I'm very grateful. I'll pay it back the first bit of money I get. I am sure this new venture is going to pay out big time."

"I'll cycle down to Post Office now and get it out Mister Warwick," the young voice came down the line to me, "but I think rather than a loan I think I'd like a share in the profits."

"Robert," I said frankly shocked at so mercenary an attitude from one so young, "I'd strongly advise against it. The venture might be a failure and then you would loose all your money. Let me have it as a loan and I'll pay you back twice what you lent me. That would be much safer and better than having a share of the profits and quite possibly more profitable too. We have no idea at this stage how much say five per cent of the profits would be."

"I think I'd still like a share in the profits Mister Warwick. I don't expect I'll get the money back unless there is a profit anyway and since I'm putting up all the money I was thinking more of splitting it equally rather than five per cent for my share."

"Well, well," I said hastily, I found this discussion of money distasteful and I was frankly distressed to discover that my young friend had so mercenary a side to his character. "If you could let me have the money Robert we can sort out details like that at a later stage."

"My Dad's been talking to me about business Mister Warwick and he says it's always best to have things set out clearly from the beginning in writing so I'll bring the money with me tomorrow and you can let me have a letter then saying in return for it you'll give me half whatever you make. My Dad says an agreement always has to have something what it's for, valuable consideration he called it."

I said something under my voice about Robert's Dad and put the receiver down. Really it seemed to me he was risking depriving Robert of his boyhood innocence filling his mind with such sordid money orientated knowledge.

I wondered whether the agreement would be legally enforceable Robert being a minor.

Robert turned up early the next morning on his bike the money tucked into the back pocket of his skimpy shorts. As I wrote out and signed the agreement I could not help reflecting that it was sad that so attractive and pleasant a boy should be so money focused.

He insisted we should go and look at Pete to see how the brat was getting on after the severe and very well deserved flogging I had given him. The brat was conscious, which was itself an improvement, cringing on the bare concrete floor in a corner of his cage staring up at me with fear filled eyes. The beating had clearly an excellent effect on the slut.

"He'll live," I announced stirring him none too gently with the toes of my shoe.

Robert spoke softly and held out his hand to him. The brat nuzzled gratefully at his palm with his lips.

The sun was shining brightly and the day was working up to being one of those scorching summer days that very occasionally relieve the clammy chill of the typical Welsh summer when we set out in the car towards the coursing ground. Robert – as was customary with free boys in the New Order – was wearing the minimum of clothing consistent with comfort and modesty which on such a sunny day as this consisted of a pair of shorts made of some light shiny material cut very high up the thighs and trainers. I stole a glance at him as he settled himself in the passenger seat of the car beside me. He smiled at me white teeth flashing in his deeply tanned face. He was a striking boy with his mop of fair hair bleached almost white by the summer sun that had given a deep golden glow to his skin. Not for the first time I found myself fantasizing about having him as a Tribute brat, a collar round his slim neck the double curves of the tribute brand burnt deep into the tender flesh of his delectable bottom, utterly subject to my lusts.

Fighting back these thoughts I slipped the car into gear and moved off. As was usual driving off the motorways, from which they were excluded, the roads were clogged by crowds of heavily burdened tribute brats sometimes in long columns, occasionally in small groups, bearing weighty packages or harnessed in teams of up to a dozen boys – the sun glistening on their sweat soaked bodies as they strained between the shafts of heavily laden carts.

The series of oil shocks that had precipitated the First Great Patriotic War together with the subsequent evolution of the New Order had radically changed the economics of the transport industry. The ever escalating cost of oil had made motor transport (and many other power based industries) too costly except for the most expensive of luxury goods. It looked for a time in the immediate aftermath of the oil shocks that civilization, that depends so much on transport and manufacturing, would descend into chaos and destitution. However the amazing adaptability, resilience and ingenuity of the human spirit rose to the occasion.

And, as ever, it took a businessman and not a visionary to see in the very crisis of the old system a solution and an opportunity. While others saw the hoards of the destitute young, desperate and starving, that threatened to engulf our cities and towns as the prelude to an inevitable disaster he had the imagination and insight to recognise them as providing an opportunity and a solution.

Over the centuries our developing civilisation had been powered by a variety of means, the horse had been replaced by the steam engine, the steam engine by the internal combustion engine now with the near exhaustion of the fuel that powered the latter the time had come to find a cheap practical replacement. Alfonse de Curval, the scion of a distinguished and ancient French legal family, was the genius who saw both that the moment had come and what that replacement should be. Brat power was to replace the internal combustion engine, the New Order was born and civilisation was saved.

Generally speaking brats used in the transport industry were of mediocre or lower quality however there were always some quality stock among the naked dust caked sluts trotting doggedly along under the overseers lash to give interest to even the shortest journey. It was not long before the fantasies excited by Robert's close proximity were replaced by more legitimate imaginings.

The Welsh National Coursing Grounds lay just outside the small country town of Cowbridge some ten miles distant from my home. It took some time to reach them as, although brats were meant to clear the road for cars to pass, in practice it often took them sometime to get out of the way and although it was always a temptation to drive straight at any boy who blocked your progress a collision with even the smallest and slightest of the little brutes could put a nasty dent into the car. Really the most you could do was to sound your horn and nudge them fairly gently out of your way with the car's bumper.

Chapter 3

The coursing grounds were situated on the high down land to the East of Cowbridge. We slowly made our way up the steep hill leading out of the town until the road came out on to the open ground just short of the crest of the hill where the land fell gently away to our left to form a natural amphitheatre. I could remember this when it was covered by rough scrub and fern. Over the years gangs of Tribute boys had toiled to level and clear it and now after years of labour it was an area of smooth pristine grassland. Such works, prohibitively expensive in earlier times, are now easily undertaken when labour is plentiful and cheap just one of the many benefits that the New Order has brought.

An ever going crowd of spectators was grouped along the crest of the hill. Over to our right was the picnic area where the smoke from dozens of barbecues curled gently upwards into the still air. I hadn't brought any food so I bought a couple of burgers together with a pint of beer for myself and a coke for Robert at one of the many refreshment tents. We sat on benches in the sun outside the tent looking out over the gently sloping bowl of closely mown grass stretching away from us for about a mile and a half [2½ km] where the afternoon's sport would take place. In front of us a set of low rails divided the spectators from the coursing grounds proper. The owners' paddock, a hive of activity as a variety of trailers and livestock trucks discharged their loads of running boys, was on the other side of the railings to the left of us. The coursing grounds were dotted with people strolling about in groups chatting. Soon they would be told to clear the grounds but for the moment they were free to wander wherever they wanted.

"I can't see the bloody brat anywhere," I remarked.

"They parade the running boys before the coursing starts, I've seen it on TV, we'll probably spot him then," Robert said and then added excitedly, "what's going on out there?"

An old beaten up Land Rover towing a small box like trailer had driven out on to the coursing grounds and drawn up by a small brick built shed about half a quarter of a mile or so [200 m] away. The driver got out and strolled in a leisurely way round to the rear of the trailer seemingly intending to unload it while the casual strollers on the field began to hurry towards the shed with suddenly assumed urgency.

"It's the boy hares being delivered," I said. "That's where they are run from."

"Let go and have a look," Robert said eagerly swallowing down the last of his coke and cramming the remainder of his burger in his mouth.

He set off towards the brick shed chewing vigorously. I followed at a slower pace, stopping on the way to buy a 'card', in fact a quite bulky pamphlet giving the program for the day and details of the owners and their entries together with some background information on the rules and conventions of the sport. By the time I arrived Robert had disappeared into the crowd. Using my elbows and my not inconsiderable bulk I forced my way through to the front. One or two people turned to remonstrate with me but changed their minds on catching my eye. I found Robert in very front row of the crowd talking earnestly to a stocky red faced man who was occupied in liberally greasing the naked body of a skinny little brat stranding on a low wooden packing case. The child was clearly on the verge of tears and was shivering violently.

"I'm greasing him up young Sir," the man said, answering some quietly spoken question by Robert, with the good humoured false deference which is the hallmark of those who are employed in field sports, "so he has a chance to get away if the running boys catch hold of him."

"Why is he shivering? you ask Sir… because he's frightened and you would be frightened young man if you were in his place not that a young gentleman like you would ever be. Do you know what the running boys will do to him if they do catch him? He does. We've made sure of that. The brats are brought to lots of meets before they're finally run. They see a few boys run down and what happens afterwards. He's meant to be frightened – a frightened brat runs faster."

"Mind you this one knows all about it. He's run a few courses already. Two meets – that means six courses. These championship heats are all the best of three heats between two pairs of running boys. I set the same brat to be coursed each heat. Fare that way and as the brats are younger and smaller than the running boys they tire quicker and that means they get easier to catch. The ladies and gentlemen like to see a brat caught every so often and it's good for the running boys too, keeps them keen."

"What do I think the chances of this one being caught this time out. Well I don't rightly know but he will be sometime, this time, or the next time, or the time after., that's certain."

"What'll I do if the running brats get him? Put up another brat. He won't ever run again."

"That'll just about do that one."

"Get off that box slut."

This order was accompanied by a resounding cuff on the side of the brat's head.

"Tom put the little runt in the hutch for me would you."

Tom, a gap toothed youth with a broad grin and a greasy cap perched on the back of his head, grabbed the shaking boy by one thin arm and dragged him roughly over to a low wooden box like structure set about ten yards away out in the centre of the coursing grounds. It was just big enough to hold a small crouching boy. The side facing up the course was open but could be secured by a barred door that was hinged to the top of the hutch. Tom forced the boy into it and slammed the gate down.

"Now I better get another boy greased up just in case that one doesn't make it. Come along with me Sir, you can help me make my selection."

Looking over his shoulder into the shed I could see a dozen or more shaven haired brats huddled on the straw as far away from the door as they could get.

"Look at them there. Shit scared the lot of them. They don't want to be chosen to run. The one's with metal bands round their wrists aren't ready for running yet. Now let's see which shall I have."

He moved further into the shed the brats cowering away from him.

"This one perhaps."

He caught hold of a boy by the ear and pulled him into the light. Still keeping a firm hold of his ear he ran his hand down the brat's legs feeling the muscles in his thighs. He pursed his lips, shook his head, and released the boy.

"I think we can find a better one than that. Now let me see."

He moved back into the shed pulling boys out from the mass of naked bodies, subjecting them to a cursory inspection and releasing them.

"This one looks more like it," he announced after rejecting five or six other brats, I'd say he's got the makings of a strong little runner. Should show the ladies and gentlemen some sport this one."

"Name Sir? Name, they don't have no names Sir. There are too many of them and they don't last long enough to be given names."

"This one Sir is," he twisted the brat's right ear back and bent to look at it. "is 541 that's how we know them, by the number we tattoo on the back of the ear when we buy them. We don't bother with names for them."

"Now up on that box boy so I can get you greased up ready and you Sir, maybe you should get back to the spectator area. It won't be too long before the first heat is run."

"Can we just look at the hutch before we go back?" Robert asked eagerly. It was clear that he had been gripped by the excitement of the day and wanted to know everything there was to know about the sport of boy coursing.

"Of course you can," the man said good humouredly, "but don't go letting the slut out now will you. You mustn't cheat the running boys out of their chance of having it."

I walked across with Robert the short distance to where the wooden box to which the youth Tom had taken the oiled slut. Bending down I peered through the bars. The brat was hunched crammed inside it, his eyes wide with terror, whimpering with fear. I glanced up the course to its far end where the narrow gated enclosure stood where alone the slut would find shelter from the pursuing running boys. Even to me it seemed a long way away. I imagined to the small boy crouched behind the bars of the hutch , waiting for the moment when its gate sprang open and he had to race for shelter it seemed a very long way off indeed.

"God Mr Warwick," Robert remarked, "the little tyke is really scared. He's in a worse state than one of the farm brats strung up ready for a whipping by my Dad. What scares him so much?"

"Well Robert," I said, "While you were chatting with the man getting the brats ready for coursing I was taking a quick look at the coursing card and it has something to say on that. Originally boy coursing was run on very similar lines to hare coursing from which after all it had evolved with the running boys being kept muzzled and starved before they were run so that the quarry was really running for its life. In recent years though, with the progressive dilution of the original simple and clear principles on which the New Order was originally founded under assault from idealistic liberal do-gooders, it was felt this was no longer acceptable so another means had to be found to motivate both running boys and quarry. So they turned to sex. The running boys are denied orgasm for a week or more before being run and powdered Viagra is added to their brat swill. If they catch the coursed slut they will be whipped off but not before they have had a chance to rape him. That will of course be done without benefit of any lubricant and to give the prospect extra terror all running boys are circumcised and have a steel stud inserted in their cock just below the helmet. The coursing card says this revised and more humane arrangement does not appear to have resulted in any decrease in the keenness of the running boys to catch their quarry or the eagerness of the quarry to escape them."

Robert I strolled together back up the coursing field to where I had left the car. We reached the spectator area just as the running boys were being paraded. Nothing I thought could more clearly illustrate the journey the sport had made over a relatively short period of time from working man's hobby to fashionable spectator sport. The transformation from a more or less surreptitious meeting in a muddy wind swept field of a few cloth capped men with a handful of half starved brats selected more or less at random to the current costly spectacle attracting a great crowd of followers to a carefully tended coursing ground to watch specially selected and expensively trained boys run down their terrified quarry.

A plumy voiced commentary was being broadcast over the loud speakers as the brats were brought from the owners paddock to the start line.

"Ladies and Gentleman the Opening Qualifying Heats of the Welsh Division of the UK National Boy Coursing Championships are about to begin. The running boys are being brought out on to the coursing grounds by their owners. Are they not a fine sight."

And indeed they were. The running boys were brought out on leashes in couples, each couple trotting behind a handler on a pony with a tribute brat running at its head. The running boys were all whippet thin, long legged brats, their oiled and tanned skins glistening, like the painstakingly groomed coats of the ponies, in the sunlight. Their arms were secured behind their backs with a short wooden bar fastened to each elbow preventing them getting their hands to their cocks which stood erect bobbing and proud in front of them as they ran, the sun glinting on the metal studs that each of them sported set in the flesh immediately below the glans.

Each couple wore a diminutive brightly coloured numbered jerkin covering just their shoulders and the tops of their chests, each couple sporting a differently coloured jerkin. Otherwise they were of course naked.

"We must congratulate the owners," the commentator continued in his painfully upper class accent, "on the excellent condition in which they have produced their contestants all trained to perfection… And to be grateful to them as well for without them we would not be able to enjoy the day of exciting sport that lies ahead of us."

"The first couple in the plain blue slip are entered by Mister Clive Williams a name that will be familiar to every enthusiastic follower of the sport, their handler his son Richard Williams. Number 1 is Gripper, Number 2 Grasper."

"It's the brat," Robert said excitedly pulling my sleeve, "the brat who said he knew something that would make you a great deal of money. There running by the pony's head."

Sure enough the brat looked right to me. The same sturdy build and mop of dark curly hair. I focused my field glasses on him just to be sure. It was the same boy. I had to admit that he looked pretty good. Like the pony at whose head he was running care had been taken to turn him out looking his best. His strong young legs and lithe body glistened in the sun as he ran moving with easy grace. He looked a healthy young animal brought out in peak condition. I noticed that three livid stripes marred the smooth curve of the slut's tight rump. I smiled grimly. It was clear I was not the only person who had found the slut's manner less than respectful.

So the information that was to bring me and now Robert as well after his insistence on becoming my partner presumably concerned Clive Williams. It was not a name that meant anything to me but he must be wealthy to be, as the commentator had said he was, well known on the boy coursing circuit.

I had no way of recognizing him among the crowd in the owner's enclosure so I turned my glasses onto his son. He was a good looking lad about twelve years old. He was well turned out in riding boots, tight light fawn breeches, dark hacking jacket and obligatory hard hat whose brim partly obscured a tense young face. He carried a riding crop with a heavy lash looped in his right hand. I wondered idly whether he knew how to use it or whether he carried it purely for show. Anyway he certainly knew how to ride for he sat on his pony with practised ease.

"The second couple in the red slip are the property of Sir Roger Greene, a name perhaps more familiar to pop music fans than followers of our own noble sport but he has certainly made his mark this season with these two boys, Attila number 1, Alaric number 2 with their handler and trainer Mister Thomas Sykes"

"They will run in the first set of heats against Mister Clive William's brats and we may expect these to be keenly contested."

The commentator droned on as couple after couple of running boys were led out onto the coursing ground and lined up just short of the start line. They stood there behind there handler's ponies shifting uneasily in the bright sunshine.

Six mounted stewards rode out onto the coursing grounds and stationed themselves, three along each side of the field. A murmur ran through the crowd of spectators and the running boys fidgeted expectantly. It was clear that the coursing was just about to begin.

"Handlers please prepare Mr William's and Sir Roger Greene's boys and bring them up to the start line," the loudspeakers announced.

The two attendant brats quickly freed the running boys elbows from their wooden restraints and the two handlers eased their ponies forward the brats following on behind them. Gripper moved his hands down towards his swollen cock. Richard Williams who must have been looking out for such a movement turned in his saddle and lashed out with his whip. There was a sharp crack like a pistol shot followed by a high pitched squeal of pain. Gripper jerked his hands hastily away from his crutch. That at least answered one question. The lad knew how to use the whip.

"Handlers please bring the boys up to the start line."

Richard Williams and Mister Thomas Sykes swung down from their saddles and gripping the brats by their couples led them forward to the start line. They stood there, the brats crouched at their feet straining at their couples, hands touching the ground, heads up and bums raised high in the air ready for a quick start.

There was a shrill whistle blast. The door on the hutch flew open and the slut shot out running like mad towards the pen at the far end of the coursing track. At the same instant the two handlers slipped the running boys from their leashes and the four brats hurled themselves forward in a desperate race after their fleeing quarry. The boys were bigger and much faster than the slut and they were gaining on him by the second.

It looked as if they were going to catch him just short of the pen but the sound of their bare feet pounding on the ground close behind him seemed to give the slut an extra final burst of energy and he made safety with the gate clanging to behind him just ahead of his pursuers.

The brats surged around the closed gate shaking it and reaching through it in an attempt to get at the slut cowering within until their handlers trotted up the course on their ponies to collect them. Coupled together again they were led panting back to the start line. A steward extracted the slut from the pen and dragged him back down the course and forced him back into the hutch.

The handlers brought their boys back trotting panting behind their ponies. They were given a few moments to rest before being brought forward again to the start line.

"They almost had him Mister Warwick," Robert said eyes shining face glowing with excitement. "Do you think they will get him this time. I hope they do and I hope its near this end of the course so we can see it clearly."

"The first heat was a dead heat. The second heat will now be run. Handlers bring the boys up to the line again please."

The boys were led forward again. They crouched once more at their handlers feet bottoms raised heads, back eager for the chase.

The whistle shrilled and the slut darted out from the hutch running once again towards the pen and its offer of brief sanctuary. He ran hard but his running was more laboured and he noticeably slower than before.

The boys raced after him gaining on him all the time. It was clear they would be level with him well before he reached the safety of the pen. The boys obviously sensed this. Gripper, who was clearly the faster of Mister Clive Williams's boys, split to the right while Sir Roger's Attila moved out on the opposite side. They spurted forward getting ahead of the slut and blocking his way to the safety of the pen.

The brat veered off to the left running hard towards the boundary of the coursing grounds. A mounted steward galloped hard forward drove him back with vicious cuts of his heavy whip. Screaming the terror stricken brat twisted and turned in a desperate attempt to escape his pursuers. Time and again they appeared to have him only for him to slip from their grip. Then suddenly somehow he was past the four boys and inside the pen with the gate closed after him.

"Another dead heat. Please bring the boys forward for the final and deciding heat."

"They will get him this time. Surely they will," Robert's voice was almost cracking with excitement.

And indeed they did. The brat did not have a chance. It was clear that his desperate efforts to escape during the running of the last heat had exhausted his reserves of energy. He stumbled as he came out of the hutch and had hardly got himself fairly back on his feet before the running boys were on him. He screamed shrilly as they bowled him over and continued screaming as he was submerged in a mass of struggling naked brats' bodies. Through my glasses all I could see was a jumble of wildly flailing bare limbs,

The mounted stewards trotted up in a leisurely way clearly seeing no reason to hurry themselves. They sat on their horses looking down at the boys as they rolled about on the ground fighting each other over the slut. Then at last they whipped the boys off and I saw the slut's body lying face down on the ground blood oozing from his bottom.

The handlers got their boys coupled up again and led them back towards us. Sir Roger's Attila's crutch was smeared with fresh blood.

"Heat three was won by Sir Richard Greene's Attila and Alaric and they therefore go forward to the next round of the competition."

Richard Williams's face was dark as thunder as he led his two boys past us back towards the owners' enclosure. The boys trudged glumly along behind his pony heads bowed shoulders slumped, sunk in misery.

Down on the coursing field the injured slut struggled to get to his feet. Failing he began to crawl, dragging himself painfully along the ground towards the boundary of the coursing field. An ancient Land Rover drew up beside him and he was thrown into the back. A fresh slut was dragged out to take his turn in the hutch.

"We had better," I remarked to Robert, "find Mister Clive Williams and make an offer for the brat of his. I doubt if he'll stay long now his brats have been eliminated. I am afraid he will be in a bad temper."

Chapter 4

We eventually ran Williams down in the car park behind the enclosure. He was with his son Richard and his trainer. The repeated sharp crack of the whip and shrill squeals of boy pain led us to an open area behind where the brat trailers had been parked. There he was standing, a fat man dressed in an aggressively checked tweed suit, a homburg hat square on his head, a cigar clamped in his mouth, watching his son giving the two running boys a working over with the whip. Still coupled together a thick set man, obviously the trainer, red in the face and sweating with effort, held them on a long plunge reign while Richard touched them up with explosive snaps of the lash against their naked legs and rumps. The two boys leapt and capered in a desperate attempt to escape but all too often the pistol shot crack of the whip was followed by a sharp howl of agony.

"Mister Williams," I said and he turned to look at me small bloodshot piglet eyes hostile and calculating.

"That's me," he said, speaking with the flat nasal accents of the Thames Estuary, and then fell silent, not giving anything, leaving me to explain my business.

Raising my voice to be heard over the sounds of the running boys punishment which continued with undiminished vigour as I spoke I began my explanations.

"I am sorry Mister Williams," I began smoothly, "to bother you at what perhaps is not a very good time."

"Don't waste my time," the man snapped. "Tell me what you're after for you're surely after something and if there's something in it for me maybe I'll be interested. I don't like time wasters."

"It's your brat," I said bighting back my anger, "the brat who held your son's pony out on the coursing field. I was very struck by him and wondered if you would be prepared to sell him."

Williams' eyes widened momentarily in surprise.

"Davey you mean," he said quickly recovering himself, "I'm not surprised you've taken a fancy to the slut. He's been with us since he was eight and both my wife and I have grown very attached to him. Become quite a member of the family. We'd be very sorry to part with him but that being said I'm a business man and if the price is right… Now where is the little turd – never about when you want him. I know I sent him to get the brat truck ready to get those two idle tykes that my son is busy with back to their stables."

"Davey where the hell are you, you useless lump of dog shit," he roared not finding him, "get your idle arse over here quick."

"He'll be here in a minute and you can look him over then," he said turning back to me. "You're welcome to give him a close inspection. I wouldn't ask you to buy anything sight unseen. I'm sure you find on detailed examination he lives up to your first impressions."

I noticed something behind me seemed to have attracted his attention and his eyes kept on straying away from me.

"I'm not a rich man," I said, "but I'm prepared to pay a reasonable sum for the brat."

I wasn't too happy with the way the man was talking up the value of the boy and I thought it best to make it clear there was a limit to what I was prepared to pay. Of course what he was saying about how fond they were of the slut and how reluctant they would be to part with him was completely at variance with what the boy himself had said about their planning to get rid of him to a mining company and replace him with a younger model but that was quite understandable. He was the seller and it was only to be expected that he should talk up the value of the goods on offer. I would have done the same in his place.

"Oh you're not," he said glancing at me with a look of utter contempt, "I'm surprised you're here then. This is a rich man's game."

"All right," he said turning his attention to his son, "you can stop that now. Get the idle bastards back home and get them out on the exercise track harnessed to the harrow, five hours and drive them hard. They're due to run again next Saturday and they'd better win."

He turned back to me but his eyes soon wandered off again to focus on something behind me. Before I could turn to see what was attracting his attention Davey appeared from among the parked trucks. He ran across to where his master stood and threw himself to his knees. He bent forward pressing his face to the ground at Mister Williams' feet his bare bottom raised in the air. It was hard to imagine a more humiliating position and one that more clearly symbolized the tribute brat's total subjection to its master.

"Up on your feet slut," Mister Williams ordered prodding the boy none too gently with his toe, "let the gentleman take a good look at you."

Davey stood head bowed, his hands open against the side of his thighs. He gave every appearance of being the very model of a humble well schooled tribute brat in complete contrast to the bolshie little git who had stood up to me and bargained with me the previous day.

The broad metal band clamped tight about the base of his testicles held his small boy's balls out proud from his hairless crutch. His hard little cock upright and quivering its pink tip just short of his belly button signalled he shared the lusts and depraved tastes common to the servile classes.

"You see," Mister Williams said reaching out and stroking Davey's upright prick with the back of his hand, "that he's a hot little whore."

The boy moaned and shuddered with excitement under the man's touch.

"And a pretty one too," Mister Williams continued cupping Davey's chin in his hand and tipping his face back so I could look down into it. Davey pouted his lips, moistening them with the tip of his tongue, eyes filled with lust.

"A pretty hot boy tart, what more do you want?" Mister Williams said summing up the brat's virtues.

"You're cock hungry aren't you boy? Nothing you want more than Master's cock up your bum or deep in your throat. Tell the gentleman boy and let's see a smile. You know I don't like sulky boys."

"Master fuck me Master please. I'm a good fuck Master. Let me show you Master," the boy's voice was a mere whisper he looked up at me with a smile in which sexual excitement and fear were nicely blended.

"There you are," Mister Williams said, "check him over. Don't be afraid to handle him. He's here to be used."

I stood back and walked slowly round the boy getting a general impression of how he was put together, the proportions of his body, the set of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, the length of his legs and so on while the naked boy stood passive under my inspection.

Satisfied I began a detailed examination of his body. I parted his hair to examine his scalp, twisted back his ears to check behind them.

"One of his back teeth are missing," I remarked peering into his mouth which I had forced open by pinching his jaws.

Mister Williams laughed.

"I did that with a pair of pliers a few days after he first came to us. He couldn't have been much more than eight then and he kept on whimpering on about missing his Mummy or some such nonsense. Told him to stop and beat him a couple of times but it made no difference, sob, sob, sob selfish little tyke. So I lost my patience with him and decided to give him something to really cry about. It took a hell of a time and a surprising amount of strength to get it out and he struggled and screamed like mad. Did the trick though. I never caught him crying for his Mummy after that."

I nodded. I could only admire the firmness and ingenuity Williams had shown in bringing a young brat to accept its fate.

There was no swelling of the glands in the side of the brat's neck and no sign of ring worm or other infection under his arms.

I tweaked one of his nipples, the boy gasped and shifted slightly.

The brat's ribs were slightly more pronounced than one would expect with a free boy but there was sufficient flesh on him for me to be able to take a pinch of it between my finger and thumb showing that he had been kept, as tribute boys should, hungry but not starved.

I moved round the boy. Placing the flat of my right hand between his shoulders I pushed firmly forwards.. He sighed slightly as he bent down. It was clear he knew what was going to happen next. Reaching round him I took a firm grip of his balls with my left hand, small and hairless I gripped them between my finger and thumb.

"Come on slut," I ordered, "push your bum back, get it up in the air, and pull you crack open. Help me a bit. You know what's needed."

Pushing his bottom up higher Davey brought his hands behind him and pulled the cheeks of his arse apart exposing his anus. His bottom, as were those of all tribute boys in direct contact with free citizens, was spotless. For it to be anything less would have been viewed as disrespectful and result in exemplary punishment.

I thought I could see the scar from an old tear and the marks of some rather clumsy suturing. Touching the spot with my finger I felt a slight roughness.

"You've had a repair job done on him?" I asked.

"Almost inevitable. I like generally to get them when they're tributed. That way you can train them the way you want and you can be sure they wont have picked up any foolish ideas or bad habits that you have to whip out of them. But at eight they're pretty small. I know some people say leave them a couple of years before you fuck their bottoms but why should I? I've paid my money and I like to get my moneys worth. If they tear bad just stitch them up, it doesn't cost much, you don't even have to get the boy vet."

I sucked the index finger of my right hand before pressing it against the brat's anus. There was a moments brief resistance. I increased the pressure and slowly forced my finger into the boy. I felt the heat of his body as his guts seemed to close around it seeming almost to be trying to draw it further into him. I eased it out. He knew there was more to come and it seemed as though the lips of his anus quivered in anticipation of a grosser invasion. I did not keep him waiting long. This time I used two fingers. A low moan escaped the boy as I forced them into him. It took a little more force and a little more time but it was not too long before they were buried knuckle deep in the brat. Pressing hard down into the boy's bottom I twisted my fingers inside him. At the same time I began to massage his hard little prick with my other hand feeling the blood throbbing in the stiff tube of flash and gristle. The muscles in the boy's bottom quivered and tightened. He threw his head back and his breath came in short rasping gasps. His cock jumped in my fingers. Warm sticky fluid jetted from it into the palm of my hand.

I made a show of examining it, apparently trying to make a judgement as to the quantity and quality of the boy juice. I had no intention of trying to breed from the boy but Williams was not to know that and it was essential I felt that I should act in the same way and undertake the same checks as any other person would examining a boy with a view to purchase.

Apparently satisfied I wiped my hands clean on the side of the brat's rump and turned my attention to his legs and then his feet.

"Well," I said turning to Mister Williams, "he's a nice boy and I'd like to buy him from you but I can't offer you much for him. I'd say he's coming on fourteen and well grown and you know there isn't much of a market for that sort of stock. Even those people who fancy older brats prefer to buy them young when they're easier to train. Of course you could always sell him to one of the mining companies. They always need more brats the wastage rate is so high but they won't pay more than twenty pounds a head. I could justify paying a small premium for him. Twenty five pounds."

The negotiations were long drawn out and wearisome. It was clear that we were dealing with sums that to Williams at least were the smallest of small change but like many wealthy men he plainly adhered to the principal "that a little bit added to the little bit you already have makes just a little bit more." However after some heated words and my threatening to walk away from the deal altogether we finally agreed on a price of thirty five pounds. This I thought was bordering on extortionate but Williams would not settle for less.

Leaving Williams counting his money Robert and I set off for the car with Davey trailing behind us.

Robert of course rode in the passenger seat beside me. Davey wanted to get in the car behind us but I ordered him into the brat cage in the boot. This meant that we were not able to ask him about the secret that he had promised to tell us until we had got back to my place. This was intentional on my part. I felt the brat was about as trustworthy and reliable as barrel load of monkeys. I wanted to be able to look him in the eyes while he told his tale and to have my hands free so that I could use them on him if it seemed appropriate.

Indeed Robert was shooting questions at the brat even while he was scrambling, eyes blinking in the sudden light, from the boot. I noticed his cock was once again jutting upright despite his recent orgasm; no doubt like all tribute boys he sported an almost constant erection, a sign of their general depravity.

"What's the secret you promised us. What do you know about Mister Williams?" Robert demanded.

"Before I tell you I would like…" the brat began but broke off short when I clouted him on the side of the head.

Caught in the act of clambering out of the boot he was off balance and the blow senr him tumbling to the ground. I smashed the toe of my shoe into his side. I wasn't going to tolerate nonsense like that from a piece of tribute trash like him.

He lay on the ground staring up at me. There was a look in his eyes that in other circumstances would have been enough to have him screaming under the lash. Now I had to content myself with milder measures. I placed my foot on his knee and pressing down said "answer the young master's question boy."

We traded glares. I could see the resentment in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to defy me and then he dropped his eyes.

"Richard isn't Mister Williams' son," he said sulkily and then added a belated and reluctant, "Master."

If ever a brat would have profited from a session at the whipping post I thought.

"And that's your big secret," Robert exclaimed in disgust, "so what."

I could hear the disappointment in his voice. No doubt he was thinking of his savings that he had lent me so that I could buy Davey all being thrown away.

"Hang on Robert," I said hastily, "I think there may be something in this for us."

"If he's not Mister Williams' son who is he and how does he come to be treated as his child."

"He's Mister Williams' brother's second son and he adopted him because he couldn't have children and to save the boy from being taken for tribute."

"That's illegal," I said. "There were so many second sons being adopted in the early days that it was threatening to undermine the whole idea of the New Order so the practice was abolished."

"It wasn't done legally. The Doctor was a family friend and he fixed it so that Mister Williams just registered the baby as being his son but it wasn't. That Richard is a second son and ought to be a tribute boy for all his throwing his weight around and showing off and everything."

"Still what's the big deal," Robert grumbled, "he's broken the law. So what. What's in it for us."

"There could be a great deal," I replied. "Clive Williams and his brother entered into a conspiracy to subvert a basic law of the New Order that requires all children other than the first child of any partnership or marriage to be tributed. The penalty for that is exclusion. You loose all your rights and privileges under the New Order and your property is forfeited to the state."

"Out of that forfeited property a reward of up to ten per cent of the total value of the property forfeited can be paid to anyone who has played a part in securing a conviction. . Clive Williams is extremely wealthy. It is probable his brother is so also since money tends to run in the family."

"So inform on them and get lots of money," Robert said enthusiastically.

"We'll maybe get even more if we don't inform on them at all," I said smiling. "If we inform on them they stand to loose everything but the most we'll pick up is ten per cent. I think there is room for us to make some sort of business deal with the Williams brothers. Don't you Robert?"

A broad grin split the lad's face. I could see him looking forward to a future of uninterrupted boy coursing.

"But before we can approach the brothers we need to have some sort of evidence against them. How do you know all this?" I asked Davey.

"Cos I was told," the brat said and then seeing from the expression on my face this was probably not enough added, "there was this old woman living in the place an she told me when she was drunk."

The thing you've got to remember when dealing with tribute brats is that they don't think like us and they don't see the world like us. We expect order and look for the reasons behind things and try to guide and influence events as they unfold, brats just accept the world as it comes along, after all they have no choice but to do so.

"And how did she know all this. Did she tell you?"

"Yes."

"Well how did she know? Tell me."

"She was the midwife."

"And what was she doing in Mister Williams' house. I suppose it was Mister Williams' house."

"I dunno. She just lives there. They don't let her out though."

"Well," I said to Robert, "that's probably all we're going to get out of the brat and it's been pretty hard going to get this far. I would guess the family doctor supplied what he thought was a discrete and reliable midwife to assist at the birth and she turned out to be neither, maybe because she had a weakness for the hard stuff. To protect himself and his brother Williams has taken this woman into his house and that's where shit face here ran into her."

"I'm surprised, considering what's at stake, he didn't just shut the woman up permanently. Though maybe he thought the safest thing to do was to keep her under wraps while she drank herself to death."

"So when do we tell Mister Williams we know all about it and he's got to cough up big time?' Robert asked eagerly.

"Not yet is the answer to that Robert. We need to be able to show Williams that we have sufficient evidence to persuade a magistrate to order DNA testing of himself and the boy. We haven't got it at the moment. Remember under the New Order Legal Code what a brat says is evidence of nothing. No magistrate would dare order DNA tests on the basis of the unsupported allegations of a tribute slut especially after all that hot air about civil liberties that led to the cancellation of the universal DNA data base of all free citizens."

"If we could produce the midwife herself before a magistrate or even a free citizen who would be able to say convincingly that she had told him that the boy was not Clive Williams' son. That would be enough. But not what we have got for the moment."

"Well what are we to do now Mister Warwick?"

"I don't know, I'll have to think. There's too much money in this just to walk away from it."

"Well anyway," Robert said after a moment's thought, "as we've got all the slut's got to give us out of the turd can't we string him up and give him a good whipping?"

Chapter 5

"You promised," the kneeling brat whined. He clearly found Richard's suggestion less than attractive.

I back handed him across the mouth bringing his protests to an abrupt halt.

"Shut up filth," I snapped at him. "you speak when you are spoken to and if you think a free citizen is bound by a promise made to a lump of dog shit like you, you're even stupider than you look."

"Robert," I continued in a more reasonable tone, "I'd love to give the little turd a good flogging. If ever a brat deserves and needs one he does, insolent brute, but I've recommended him for a cadetship in the brat police. I had to. It was his price for telling us about Mister Williams. The recruiting officer may be round soon and if I produce him with his shoulders and rump ripped to shreds by the lash it wouldn't look good. A few bruises will be neither here nor there. What brat in the tribute world doesn't collect a few bruises from time to time but a flayed back would be another matter."

"Oh well Mister Warwick if we can't do that I think I'll be off maybe Dad could do with some help on the farm. He always says the farm brats need extra driving at the end of the day."

I walked Robert to the yard gate.

As he was mounting his bicycle he said, "I'll think about what we can do to nail Mister Williams over night. I'm sure we'll come up with something between us."

"I'm sure we will Robert," I said smiling. I found the young boy's enthusiasm engaging but I didn't share his optimism. I certainly didn't expect him to come up with anything useful.

Davey was still kneeling where I had left him, knees spread wide, bottom pressed down to the ground, back straight, head bowed. It would seem that he had decided that it was safest to play the well schooled tribute brat for the time being. No doubt he thought it would save him from a few thumps until he escaped from me for good. I was prepared to go along with the charade although I thought that maybe the boy was going to be in for a nasty surprise in the near future.

I stood for a moment looking down at the him. The broad metal ring fastened tight round the base of his testicles held his balls out from his body giving them extra prominence, The disgusting little brute still had an erection. Tribute brats are really quite shameless. He stole a glance at my crutch and then quickly dropped his gaze.

Well I'd paid good money for him and he wasn't a bad looking young animal. I might as well make use of him while I had him.

I reached down and with a hand under his chin tipped his head back. He looked up at me lips slightly parted, eyes filled with lust.

I pulled him up and bending kissed him hard on his open lips sending my tongue darting into his mouth.

"Master," he moaned, "fuck me Master."

I released his chin and with a jerk of the head summoned him to follow me.

I led the way into the house, Davey following a few paces behind me. At the last moment he darted ahead of me to open the door into the house sinking to his knees as I walked past him. I had to admit the brat had been well trained. It was unfortunate though that although he had learnt how to behave he had not learnt the most important lessons of submission and acceptance. I wondered whether it would be too late to instil them into him now. It would be a challenge I might relish if the opportunity arose, It would have been easier to have done so when he was younger but he was a sturdy lad and could take firmer handling now than he would have been able to survive a couple of years earlier.

I led the way upstairs, Davey barefooted padding behind me. In the bedroom I turned and pulled him roughly to me. I kissed him fiercely on the lips while his hands fumbled with the clasp to my belt.

I walked him backwards to the bed and threw him down on it. My trousers tumbled loose about my feet. I kicked them clear of my ankles and pulling off my shirt joined the brat on the bed. His arms locked round my neck his lips pressed hard against mine. I rolled on my back and putting my hands on his shoulders and pushed firmly downwards. Responding to the pressure he began to work his way down my body. He nibbled gently at one nipple. His tongue explored my belly button. Spreading my legs I bent one knee affording easier access to the recesses of my crutch. Taking full advantage of the opportunities offered his tongue caressed and teased the sensitive area immediately behind my balls, exploring the creases at the top of my legs.

The most delicious sensations flooded my body. Blood pounded in my head. I felt his lips sucking at my balls. Then his tongue was caressing my cock, licking the throbbing column of swollen gristle and flesh, teasing the slit at its top. He took my cock into his mouth, swallowing it. I felt his throat contract around it fighting against the intrusion. Grabbing his head I drove the fill length of my cock into his gullet. I held it there and only relented when I felt the strength flowing from his body. I began to pump his throat with my cock driving into him with long brutal thrusts. Just before I climaxed I pulled my prick out of his mouth. Grabbing him by his collar I hauled him up the bed and flipped him onto his face. The brat, with the skill of a practised boy whore spread his legs and raised his bottom inviting me to penetrate him. I thrust down into him hard. The boy cried out in pain. There was a moments brief resistance and then I felt his guts close hot about my swollen prick. I rode the boy, the way a boy should be ridden, hard. The brat whimpered and moaned as I pumped his bottom, ramming the full length of my shaft into him. He pushed his bottom up seeming to urge me to go deeper.

"Harder Master harder," he moaned.

Blood roared in my head. My body went rigid as I pumped my seed deep in the boy's guts. I felt the fierce cruel joy of possession and conquest that only is only truly achieved when a slut lies whimpering beneath you his pierced hole oozing cum. Then I rolled off him onto my back.

For a moment he lay quietly on his face beside me. Then, with a singe lithe movement of his naked body, he was back with his face buried in my crutch busy with his tongue and lips trying to tease my shrivelled cock back into life.

I was feeling the first stirrings of reawakened interest when the phone on the bedside table rang. I reached out and picked it up while Davey, like the consummate little whore he was, continued to work away at my crutch and balls.

"Hello," I said bending my knees so that he could his tongue up behind my balls.

"Hello," the voice at the other end replied, "Giles here Richard. Have you gone crackers man sending that recommendation to me. Surely you've been in the service long enough that nominations for cadetship go to the Cadet training barracks at Shrewsbury. Do you want me to forward it there? I can't do anything about it."

Down between my legs Davey laboured away with undiminished vigour oblivious to a conversation that signalled the failure of his crooked little scheme and of all hope of escaping from his obligations as a tribute boy of unquestioning obedience and service.

"No," I said quietly, "don't bother to do that Giles. Just bin it and then forget about it."

"OK… see you sometime," and with that the line went dead.

Aroused by the thought that the little whore, currently so enthusiastically nuzzling at my testicles, was now totally in my power my cock sprang to attention. I reached down and grabbing a handful of Davey's hair pulled him up the bed. I kissed him hard on the mouth tasting traces my own cum and, truth to be told, other less salubrious substances on his lips. Dave, no doubt thinking that this was a tribute to his skill as a whore responded enthusiastically throwing his arms around my neck and hugging me tightly. I ran my hands down his back and over his buttocks. I thought of the smooth skin and firm flesh broken and torn by the lash and my excitement grew and hardened.

I would make the brat pay for his insolence in daring to bargain with a free citizen but, I thought as the slut pressed his naked body against mine and moaned in lust induced ecstasy, not immediately. He was a good little whore and I was enjoying myself. There was no need to bring the fun to an end immediately. The brat's ignorance of his ultimate fate gave an added edge to my enjoyment.

"You're a good little whore," I whispered as I nibbled his ear.

Let him think that my reawakened lust was wholly down to his efforts, even that I was growing fond of him, such delusions increased my secret pleasure and would make his eventual terror and despair all the greater.

"Master," he whispered twisting round and pressing his bottom into my crutch.

I was woken next morning by Timmy with my morning cup of tea. I had fallen asleep while still inside Davey. I rolled off him and roused him with a sharp slap on his upturned rump. While I drank my tea he worked away with his head buried in my crutch so that by the time I had finished the cup I was once again thoroughly aroused. I took the brat bent over the bottom of the bed on the way to the bathroom for my shower.

"Stay down," I ordered as I pulled myself clear of the slut.

I glanced at Timmy who was gazing at me beseechingly. I nodded my agreement and a second later he was crouched behind Davey eagerly licking at the cum oozing from his hole.

I shrugged to myself. Brats ascribe all sorts of powers to their Master's cum. It gives them strength, makes them attractive, cures them of colds and worms and so on. They are of course stupid filthy little animals but there you are, brats will be brats and there's nothing that can be done about it.

I let the joke run while I ate my breakfast. I had Davey kneel beside me on the floor and treated him as a favoured brat, making a fuss of him, feeding him scraps from my plate, pulling his ear, pinching his cheek, stroking his hair, telling him that he was a pretty slut and a good fuck. He lapped it up, wriggling close up to me, resting his head on my thigh, nuzzling the palm of my hand when I fed him. It was clear that the conceited little tart believed that I had fallen for him. I promised myself that I would disabuse him of that notion in due course. However the longer I postponed that moment the greater the boy's shock and distress when he discovered the truth. I smiled to myself as I imagined the brat's despair at the moment he realised that all his hopes and plans were destroyed.

I finished my second cup of coffee and crossing to the scullery filled a bowl from the locked pale of brat swill that stood on the floor there. The swill, a mixture of maize porridge, boiled cabbage and leftovers, did not look to me very inviting. The brats however seemed to like it well enough as was shown by the fact that the pale had to be kept locked to keep the thieving little wretches from helping themselves.

Carrying the bowl and taking the crop from its hook behind the backdoor I set off across the backyard to the row of cages that lined one wall.

The night had been quite a warm one but no doubt to Peter, lying naked on the bare concrete floor of a cage open to the elements, it had not seemed so. He was huddled shivering, curled up in a ball, in one corner of the cage He stirred slightly as I approached and raising his head stareing at me through eyes dulled with misery and despair. It looked as though the beating followed by the days and nights exposed in the open cage were having their desired effect.

I un-padlocked the cage's door and pulled it open.

"Come on slut," I said not unkindly as I placed the bowl of swill on the yard floor just outside the cage.

The boy got up onto his knees and gazed uncertainly at me. Clearly fear of what I might do to him and hunger were competing with each other. I took a step back.

"Food," I repeated, "if you don't come now I'll take it away and you won't get a second chance."

The boy stiff from the cold and still weak and sore from the whipping I had given him staggered to his feet and took a couple of uncertain steps forward. Then, finding strength in his hunger, darted forward, shot past me and falling to his knees reached out to help himself from the bowl.

Looking down at him as he crouched naked at my feet his shoulders and rump blotched with dark bruising I thought how effective a good whipping could be in improving a brat's attitude if inflicted with sufficient force and severity. All the spirit and fight had been beaten out of the boy leaving just a terrified little animal.

But although the brat was broken it did not mean his ordeal was over. The deeper the humiliations inflicted on him, the more he was forced to recognize and accept his inferiority, the better for myself, his master, society as a whole and indeed the brat himself. It followed that I as a responsible Master, indeed a caring Master, had both to maintain an iron discipline over the brats in my care and to strive constantly to tighten and strengthen that rule. And I proposed in Peter's case to do just that.

Before he could plunge his hand into the glutinous mess I slashed down hard with the cane catching him a searing blow across his right wrist He howled and grabbing hold of his injured wrist in his left hand he knelt nursing it, rocking back and forward as his body absorbed the pain.

"Mister Warwick."

It was Robert standing at the gate to the yard calling to me to let me know he was there. I sent Davey to unlock the gate to let him in and turned back to the whimpering brat kneeling at my feet.

"Peter?" I asked mockingly, "aren't you hungry? Don't you want your swill? If you don't I'm sure there are plenty of other brats that do."

"Master please Master I am hungry. Please I do want it, please Master."

He looked up at me beseechingly tears flowing down his cheeks.

He must have thought he saw some softness in my eyes for his hand crept out once more tentatively towards the bowl. This time I caught him across his knuckles with the rod.

"What ever is the matter Peter?" Robert asked amusement and a degree of affectionate contempt apparent in his voice.

He had propped his bicycle against the yard wall and had come over to stand beside me.

He glanced quickly round his eyes taking in the loudly sobbing boy nursing his hand kneeling beside the full bowl of brat swill and myself standing over the brat, smiling coldly, the cane ready in my hand.

"Oh I know," he said laughing. "Peter you silly little slut, you should know better. You've been tributed long enough but I suppose you were spoilt by those stupid Burgeorns treating you like you were a free boy."

"But you're not a free boy are you Peter?"

"No Master I'm not a free boy Master," the slut said quickly knowing delay in renouncing a claim to such a status would be dangerous in the extreme.

"Then what are you Peter… tell me…"

"A tribute boy Master."

Robert lashed out with his foot catching the brat on his ear with toe of his shoe.

"Don't call yourself a boy Peter. I'm a boy Peter. You don't think you're the same as me do you Peter.?"

"No Master I'm not the same as you Master," Peter whimpered his hand clasped to his injured ear.

"No you're not. You're a slut, an animal and how do animals eat Peter."

The brat knelt staring up at the free boy towering over him, tears streaming down his face, his eyes wide with fear, not daring to speak in case what he said got him into deeper trouble but scared that silence also was not acceptable.

"I'll tell you, you stupid little shit, on their hands and knees with their faces in the bowl and their dirty arses stuck up in the air. That's how animals eat so get your bottom up in the air and your face in the bowl."

Peter started forward eager to get the swill into his empty little tummy whatever the humiliation involved. I cut him hard across his chest with the cane raising a scarlet weal across the tightly drawn skin and bring him up short.

"You ungrateful little turd," I yelled at him furiously, "the young master takes the trouble to explain to you what you are doing wrong and you think only of filling your belly. It doesn't occur to you to thank the young master you ungrateful brute."

I was so angry that I cut him across the rib cage a second time raising a second scarlet welt from which beads of bright red blood welled and gleamed wetly.

"Master I'm sorry Master," the brat howled cringing away from me, clasping his hands to his injured chest. "Master I am grateful Master. Thank you Master. Please don't hit me again Master…" His voice tailed off into incoherent whimpering.

"Oh get on with it," I ordered my impatience showing in my voice, "if you don't get it into you fast I'll take it you're not hungry and I'll take it away."

Even before I had finished speaking the brat's face was buried in the bowl his bare bum wriggling as he eagerly gulped the swill down.

Robert moved round the boy till he was standing directly behind him. Putting the toe of his shoe between the brat's legs he pushed upwards lifting the boy's bare bottom higher.

"Looks funny, doesn't it Mister Warwick, almost like he is piebald," he remarked laughing.

Indeed the Peter's bottom and shoulders were heavily discoloured by the bruising after the flogging I had given him. His flesh was blotched by colours ranging from black to reddish purple with a hint of yellow round the edges where the whip had raked his body.

"It's just bruising," I replied, "at least he's stopped bleeding and the open cuts are healing up nice and cleanly. In a week or so there won't be a mark on him that you can see and if you fancy the slut you can fuck him now. He'll be a bit sore but that would probably just make it more interesting and you wouldn't get blood all over you which you would have done a couple of days ago."

"I don't know Mister Warwick," Robert said looking down doubtfully at Peter's raised bottom, "he's a good fuck but I think his bum looks like there's something wrong with it like that. I think I'll see how I feel later."

"OK Robert," I replied indifferently. "It's up to you but if the brats fit enough to eat he's certainly fit enough to work. However I'd better clean him up and check him over first."

"Davey you idle little sod," I snapped at the older brat who had been standing quietly in the background. "Get a bucket of warm water, some rags and a bar of carbolic soap from the house. Quick now slut don't keep me waiting."

"I've got something to tell you Mister Warwick," Robert said as the brat set off at the double on his errand.

"And I've something to tell you Robert," I cut in hastily. I had little compunction in interrupting him. It was important that I got my message across to him while Davey was out of earshot and probably all he wanted to do was to tell me about some farm brat of his father who had managed to get himself crushed under the wheels of a tractor or some other triviality of like nature. Robert was a good lad but like many twelve year olds he had difficulty in distinguishing between the important and the unimportant.

"Good news," I said, "that brat will not get to be a police cadet. I deliberately sent it to the wrong department of the ministry in the hope it would be referred back to me and that's exactly what has happened."

"So you'll sell him to one of the mining companies?" Robert asked.

"No, not for the moment at least. I had sex with him last night and he was really good so I'll keep him for the time being anyway but that won't mean he's going to have an easy time."

"But that's for later. For the time being I'm letting him think that everything is OK and it's only a question of time until he's accepted. After we've finished with Peter we'll walk him over to the whipping post and disabuse him. I think his reaction will be amusing to observe."

"Meanwhile anything you can say to build the slut's expectations up the greater will be the shock when he eventually discovers they are baseless."

There was a clatter of noise at our feet. It was Peter rattling the bowl on the paving slabs as he pursued the last fragments of stew with his tongue.

"Up." I ordered prodding him with my toe.

He scrambled to his feet and stood hands down by his sides, head bowed. Slut-like he was unable to stop himself stealing the occasional glance at Robert's crutch. His small prick jutted erect from his hairless balls strained upwards, its tip quivering in the air almost level with his belly-button. A clear indication that he was as oversexed and as degenerate as every other tribute brat.

I tilted back his head and began to swab the remains of the brat swill from around his mouth. Warm water trickled from his face down his bare chest and shoulders glittering silver in the sunlight as it flowed over his bruised and discoloured flesh.

"Master Warwick told me that you're a really hot fuck."

Behind me Robert was following my advice and building Davey up so that we could have the fun of destroying him later.

I could here the brat shifting about nervously behind me as I worked my way down Peter's lithe young body with the sponge. Hampered by a limited vocabulary and no doubt fearful of saying the wrong thing he stammered some sort of confused reply .

"I am sure he'll miss you when you go off to be a cadet. I told him he ought to make the most of his opportunities while you're still around."

Absorbed in my task I missed Davey's reply. I dipped the sponge in the bucket and then pressing it against Peter's crutch squeezed it sending lukewarm water streaming over his genitals and down the inside of his legs. He murmured and shifted but, like a well disciplined slut, kept his hands down by the side of his thighs. He had, as most tribute brats do most of the time, dirty minded little brutes, an erection. He had not been cut and rolling back his foreskin I sponged the accumulated grime away.

"I'll have this off you soon as I have time," I said giving his foreskin a pinch, "it just collects dirt."

The boy whimpered quietly and I laughed. It was clear he did not look forward to being cut but he knew that protest or argument was useless. Under the Tribute system the master's decision was final.

I turned the brat round and swabbed down his back still tender and deeply discoloured from the lash. Placing the flat of my hand between his shoulders I pushed forcing him to bend forward.

"Legs apart filth," I ordered flicking him on the inside of his thighs with the back of my hand.

I ran the damp sponge down the cleft of his rump. The little whore moaned softly and pushed his bottom back, lifting it up and opening it to me. I pressed the sponge against the lips of his anus. Thre was resistance.

"Pull your bum open for me brat," I ordered and the boy reached round behind himself and digging his fingers into his rump, pulled the cheeks of his bottom apart.

Once I had satisfied myself that I had got the brats clean enough to be allowed to be in the presence of free citizens I slapped him hard across his poor bruised bottom. He straightened with a yelp and I ordred him to turn and face me.

I reached out placing the butt of my hand against his erect prick. He pushed his hips forward and I felt the blood throbbing in his cock. Yet again his eyes strayed shyly towards where Robert stood watching him with a smile that mingled contempt and indulgence in equal measures.

"You love the young master don't you slut?" I demanded.

It was a safe question to ask. For one thing the correct, that is to say the safest answer from the point of view of a tribute brat, was so obvious that even the stupidest of the little brutes could hardly fail to give it. For another the brats in any household which included a teenage free boy among its numbers more often than not regarded him with awed and fearful devotion. It could hardly be otherwise when you considered the great gulf that lay between them. The free boy confident, valued even pampered, well fed, properly clothed, enjoying the best education available. The brat frightened, hungry, naked and ignorant, the collar round its neck and the tribute brand burnt into its rump indelible badges and a constant reminder to the brat of its degraded and servile status. Envy and resentment were not an option. The slightest hint of either would leave a brat with a bloody bottom and shoulders. There remained fear and devotion. The free boy usually did not object to being worshipped but treated it as a matter of course and attached no value to it.

"Yes Master," the boy spoke so quietly,tremulously, that I could hardly hear him.

My eyes strayed to where Robert had left his bicycle propped up against the yard wall. It was old and battered and caked with mud and general filth. I remembered guiltily my promise, never fulfilled, to buy him a new mountain bike.

"Well," I said, "you clean that bicycle of his and you clean it so it's spotless. And you'd better do the job right or the young master will take the steap to that pretty little bottom of yours. Anyway you're a lucky little whore to be allowed to serve him and show how much you love him."

"Now get some waters and rags from the house and get on with your work."

Shooting a shy grin at Robert the brat scampered off.

Robert gazed after him with an indulgent smile.

"I think I probably will fuck the little tart before I go home Mister Warwick," he said.

"What ever you like Robert," I replied indifferently. "Now come along over here I want to show you something."

I really could not see why Robert thought I would be at all interested in such a trivial thing as whether he chose to penetrate the slut's bum or not.

I began to stroll towards the corner of the yard where the whipping posts stood.

"You," I snapped over my shoulder at Davey, "come along too."

"Now Robert," I said, "I want to discuss something with you…"

"I do too Mister Warwick," the boy replied, "I thought over how we could nail Mister Williams last night and I had an idea."

"Did you Robert," I said patiently. No doubt it would be some damn fool scheme but one had to be kind and not blunt the enthusiasm of the boy.

I glanced over my shoulder. Davey, who was tagging along a couple of paces behind us, was almost directly under the cross bar of the flogging gibbet.

"That will about do," I said and turning slammed my fist into his stomache.

The blow with all my 174 pounds [90 kg] behind it lifted the slightly built boy bodily from the floor. He came down on his knees, his hands clasped to his tummy, his head resting on the floor. His breath rasped in his throat as he moaned and gasped for air. Robert with great presence of mind took a running kick at his upraised bottom driving him forward flat on his face.

I yanked his hands from under him and locked a pair of iron manacles round his thin wrists. A few seconds later I had him suspended by his wrists from the cross bar of the gibbet, his toes just touching the floor.

I back handed him hard across the mouth to get his attention. The blow split his lip and blood began to trickle down his chin.

"Listen filth," I grated spitting in his face, "you'll never be a cadet in the brat police. You thought you were clever. You thought in your stupid conceit that you, an ignorant little tribute brat, could bargain on equal terms with a free citizen. You hadn't a chance. You.re going nowhere slut. You'll remain a tribute brat till the end."

"What are you going to do with him Mister Warwick?" Robert asked eagerly. "After you've whipped him will you send him to the mines?"

"That was my intention first of all Robert," I said, "but really he's such a hot little whore that I think I'll keep him but of course he'll have to be retrained and properly schooled and if I get bored of him well then it will be the mines."

"Why is he crying?"

Indeed tears had welled up in the brat's eyes and were running down his cheeks.

"He's crying Robert because his evil little plan has come to nothing and all his wicked dreams of escaping a life of service have been destroyed."

Robert laughed.

"It's funny he even thought it was possible. He's just an ignorant little tribute brat."

"Look," he said puttimg his hand out and stroking the brat's cock which quivered and hardened at his touch, "he's just a whore really. He thinks about nothing but being fucked and shooting cum."

The brat sobs rose in volume.

"What puzzles me though Mister Warwick is Dad says that the tribute brand is burnt into a brats brain as well as it's rump and that helps keep them in their place. It didn't work with Davey though did it?"

"No Robert it didn't seem to. Maybe the brand didn't take the first time. Maybe I'd better brand him again."

"Do you have a tribute brand?" Robert asked eagerly, "I thought only Tribute Masters appointed by the government had them."

"No I have a replica. Magistrates quite often order that runaways should be branded on recapture and it saves time for me to be able to do the job myself. Also owners of runaways often ask for their brats to be branded for a second time before being returned to them. Generaly I put the second brand on the right side of a slut's chest just below the nipple or on his back on the right shoulder. Sometimes though I brand them on the face, on the forehead or cheek, but that is usualy only with low value stock like farm brats."

While I was giving this little lecture Robert made a number of attempts to interupt me but I ignored him. I regarded it as the duty of every free citizen to assist in explaining to the coming generation the workings of the Tribute system on the maintenance of which their rights and priviledges and indeed the future of civilisation depended. Now, given the opportunity, Robert broke in eagerly.

"That's good Mister Warwick, that you have a replica tribute brand I mean. Like I said I got an idea about how to fix Mister Williams but we'll need a tribute brand to do it and I didn't know how to get hold of one."

"You'd better explain you're idea to me Robert," I said wearily. It was going to be a waste of time I told myself but the boy was being persistent and this was as good as time as any to get it out of his system.

"It's quite simple Mister Warwick. I pretend to be a tribute brat and you sell me to him and then when I'm a member of his household I can get the evidence we need to show that Richard is not really his son and then we can give him the choice of either paying us off or being reported to the authorities."

I put my hand on Robert's elbow and drew him out of earshot of Davey. Nothing a he said could be used as evidence but brats have ears and mouths and can spread rumours. It was, as I had expected, a daft idea but you could not be too careful.

Chapter 6

While I thought how best to achieve this Robert ran excitedly on.

"I thought of it yesterday evening while I was watching "Bevis" on the Free Boy Channel (1). Bevis volunteerd to pretend to be a tribute brat to foil a plot by a band of liberals to get the servile classes to rebel which like Commander Collins (2) said "would threaten the very basis of our civilisation. Bevis had all sorts of adventures but he came out all right in the end and he got given a medal and his Mum and Dad were very proud of him. I don't suppose I'll get a medal but I'll make lots and lots of money and Dad will be very pleased about that."

The thought did occur to me that the more money Robert made out of Williams the less there would be for me but I pushed it to the back of my mind.

"I don't know Robert," I said breaking into what was threatening to become a monologue on his part, "I can see a few problems. For one thing you're a nice looking boy but there's no guarantee that Williams would fancy you and if he didn't your whole plan would break down."

"Oh but he does Mister Warwick. Didn't you see him at the boy coursing. He couldn't take his eyes off me. He fancies me all right."

I remembered how, while I was talking to Williams at the boy coursing event, he had seemed to be constantly looking at something standing behind me. I had glanced round but could not see anything to account for his interest. It had not occurred to me that Robert's presence was the explanation. Generally speaking free men steer clear of having sexual relationships with free boys.. Not because it was illegal. Under the laws of the New Order it was indeed perfectly legal provided the boy was not forced,. The Tribute system has no room for the ridiculous prejudice that outlawed such relationships in the past. It is just simpler and easier if you wanted a boy to settle for a brat. With a brat you simply did whatever you wanted with it. There was no nonsense of getting consent and there were no limits. Indeed some of the more old fashioned clergy taught that one of the advantages of the Tribute system was that it protected free boys from the contagion of vice for this very reason.

"Well maybe he does Richard but have you thought about your Mum and Dad? They won't let you do anything like that."

"I thought about that Mister Warwick. I don't ask them," the boy replied promptly. "I wait until they're all asleep tonight, sneak out of the house, ride my bike out to the beech at Ogmore, take my clothes off like I'm going for a swim and then you pick me up in the car and bring me back here. They'll find the bike and my clothes and think I have gone for a midnight swim and been swept away by the current."

"A bit hard on your parents Robert," I protested.

"Oh well they'll get over it," the boy replied, "and they'll forget about it all together when I come back with lots of money."

"Anyway," I continued, "have you thought what being a tribute brat involves even if it is only pretending and for a short time. You talk about being branded but that hurts. You know that Robert, look at the way the newly tributed brats howl when they are branded. You can hear there screams above the laughter and applause of the onlookers and you'll bear the mark for life."

"Bevis regarded being branded as an opportunity to show his courage Mister Warwick and his Dad said the mark on his bottom was a sign of honour."

"And you'll have to wear a collar and a cock ring and be naked all the time."

"And Williams won't know you are just pretending. He'll think you are really a tribute brat and treat you accordingly. He'll certainly want to have sex with you and if you don't please him he could whip you as hard or even harder than you have ever seen your Dad lay into an idle field brat."

"Then I suppose I had better make sure I please him Mister Warwick," Robert replied with a cheerful grin.

It was becoming increasingly obvious to me that Robert was not going to be persuaded out of his plan and I would have to resort to a direct order to stop him, if indeed he then took any notice of me. In addition I was beginning to think that hair brained though the scheme appeared at first sight there was just a chance it might work and if it did not nothing would be lost. Robert might have a very hard time but I would be in the clear provided I made sure there was no way I could be connected with his running away. That is not to say that I thought Robert would find it as easy as he appeared to think to play the part of a Tribute brat but once started the system would grip him and it would be very hard for him to draw back.

"Well Robert," I said thoughtfully, "I can't at the moment think of any other plan and if you are sure you want to try this…."

I do Mister Warwick. I'm sure it will work."

"Very well then but we must make sure that your Dad can't trace you and that means that there is no obvious connection between your disappearance and myself and between you and the pretty young brat," Robert grinned at that description of himself, "I sell to Williams."

"Now Ogmore beach is a long one and there are car parks at each end. You ride your bike to the West end car park and abandon it there. That's the end where the river enters the sea and the currents can be very dangerous so it'll look pretty convincing when they find your bike and clothes there. Strip off by the sea just above high water mark and then walk down into the sea and then along the each to its West end."

"I'm not going to collect you from there. To do so might provide a link between us. I'll ring a friend of mine in the same line of business to myself and ask him to do the job for me. I'll tell him that you are a runaway, a brat I had acquired for a song from its father who was in desperate need of money which I had arranged to sell on at a very advantageous price. You had run off before I could even get you branded and I have now heard that you are hiding out at the East end of Ogmore beach. I'll say I'd do the job myself but I've got other business I've got to attend to. I'll offer him half of what I get from Williams for you and he'll jump at it."

"How much do you think he will pay for me Mister Warwick?"

I paused to think before answering. It was a serious question and deserved I thought a considered answer.

"Well Robert on the one hand," I replied speaking slowly, "you've got a lot going for you. You are a good looking boy, fair haired with a good skin. You've a pretty face with nice soft lips. Altogether you're well made with a good rib cage, a firm round bottom and long strong legs. Against you is your age. At fourteen years a Tribute boy only has two more years of service in it. That must depress your value."

"But there are some things going for you just because of your age. For one thing you've got a virgin arse or I suppose you have. You haven't let anybody have you…."

"No I haven't Mister Warwick," Robert replied and then asked with a cheeky grin and his hands suggestively on the waste band of his shorts. "Do you want to check?"

"Well I think I can safely say very few if any Tribute brats at fourteen have not had their bums fucked, most don't last more than a few days after being tributed."

"And then most fourteen year old Tribute brats have done six years service and it shows on their bodies. They're thin and scrawny from being worked hard and kept hungry and marked by the whip. You're not fat but you're in better condition than any brat of your age I have come across and I don't think you have a scar on your body." "So how much will I get from Williams for you? It is difficult to say but he wants you so it's a sellers market so far as I am concerned. I'll start at four hundred pounds and I won't take less than two hundred."

"So that means your friend will get at least one hundred pounds just for collecting me from Ogmore," Robert said and then added. "Anyway I should have some of the money. It's me that's being sold."

I sighed. Robert was a nice lad but as I have had occasion to remark in the before he has a mercenary side to him which I cannot but deplore.

"Now Robert," I said patiently, "You can surely see that it's quite impractical for me to give you a share of the money. How would it look to Williams if having sold you to him I start handing you a share of the proceeds?"

"Well," Robert replied resentfully, "I think it's just unfair, me putting up with being sold and not getting anything out of it."

I decided that this train of thought had to be stopped.

"Robert," I injected a note of reproach into my voice, "we'll sort all this out when everything is over and of course you will be treated fairly. I am rather hurt that you could think for one moment that I would treat you otherwise. Surely you know me better than that."

"My Dad says that in business you should always be careful and not trust anyone."

"And of course he's right Robert but he wasn't thinking about the sort of adventure you and I are into here. We've got to trust each other. You think about it. I'm relying on you to find the evidence that will allow us to fix Williams. You will never be able to use the evidence without me to provide a way back into the free world for you. We have to trust each other."

"And Robert you'd better give me your copy of the agreement we signed dividing up the money we are going to get from Williams. It would be an absolute give away if it was found."

"I've hidden it somewhere it will never be found Mister Warwick," the boy protested.

"You can never be sure Robert. Your parents will turn the place upside down after they've found you gone and if did turn up it would me who would be in trouble; kidnapping and selling a free boy into Tribute. It's worse than murder."

"I don't know, my Dad says…"

"Robert," I broke into the lad's reply impatiently, "I'm afraid unless you're prepared to trust me I will call the whole thing off. The consequences if things go wrong will be far more serious for me than for you. I as the adult will be held responsible and I cannot take the risk of being caught. You give me that agreement for safe keeping or, like I said, I'll call it a day and you can kiss goodbye to your dreams of getting rich and owning a string of coursing boys."

"All right Mister Roberts, I know I can trust you really," Robert capitulated although he sounded far from convinced.

"Good, now the next question is when. I think the sooner the better."

I had come to the conclusion that this was the only scheme that was likely to yield results and I didn't want to give the boy time to get cold feet and to have second thoughts.

"I would suggest tonight. You can drop the agreement in the letter box at the yard gate as you cycle past on your way to the beach."

"I'll just telephone my colleague to check if he's free tonight to collect you."

"While I am doing that you can get the camping gas cylinder with ring out here. It's on a trolley in the lean-to outside the kitchen door. You'll find the Tribute brand hanging up on the wall beside it. Light the ring and put the brand in it to heat up. We'll just give Davey a reminder of what being Tributed involves and then if you like you can fuck Peter before you go home."

I thought I should give Robert an opportunity to enjoy himself before he got a taste of life as a Tribute brat which I was certain he would find a good deal harder than he expected.

Leaving Robert in the yard I went onto the house to make my telephone call.

"Hi Richard how's business with you," Chas's voice boomed at me over the line after I had introduced myself.

"Very slow Chas." I replied, "very slow but just as I was about to give up altogether two jobs have come along together and I can't take then on both at the same time so I was wondering if you can help me out."

"Well you know what they say Richard 'the labourer is worthy of his hire.' What's in it for me?"

"I'll tell you the deal Chas. It's one of those neat jobs that only come along once in a while and it was all going along smoothly when it blew up in my face."

"You're neat jobs usually do."

I ignored the comment and ploughed on.

A rich businessman I know slightly took a fancy to a free boy of my acquaintance. Now I tried but I couldn't get the boy to play along but I happened to know he has a cousin who is the splitting image of his and that cousin's Dad is in deep financial trouble. So I went along to have a word with the Dad and I was quite upfront with him like I always am in business dealings. I told him he had to face up to things. Everybody knew he was going bust and when he did go the boy would be sold along with everything else of he owned and the proceeds would go to his creditors. On the other hand if he sold the brat to me quietly he would get the money and not his creditors. Well he didn't like it but he saw the point and he was desperate."

"Because the creditors might have objected to the deal if they knew about it we didn't register it with the Tribute Master's Office."

"Very sensible," Chas observed dryly.

Once again I ignored his comment.

"Well the boy. Bobby he's called by the way, didn't seem to have any fight in him …. just blubbed and whined a bit….. so once he was stripped I just bunged him in the cage in the back of my car and set off for home but I made the mistake of stopping for a drink to celebrate the deal and while I was in the Pub the little brute managed somehow to slip the lock on the cage and when I came out he was gone."

"That was a couple of days ago. Now I've just had word he's was seen last night at the East end of Ogmore Beach. Apparently he hides somewhere in the dunes there in the day time and breaks cover at night to steal from the dust bins in the village. I need to get there tonight to pick him up when he breaks cover before someone else catches him but I can't do it because I have another deal on and I wondered if you could get him for me."

"I could but what's in it for me."

Again the mercenary note. It is really depressing how everybody is out for money. However I fought off my distaste and continued. You have to take the world as it is.

"I want to push the deal through soon as I can so I want you get the boy prepared for sale for me. Get the collar and cock ring on him and get his hair cropped. I'll be around about 11 tomorrow morning to pick him up. Get a couple of good shots of brat juice (3) in him and work on him a bit, the better he shows himself the more we'll get for him."

"So that's what you want. What will you pay me."

"Well I thought I told you. I said 'we'll get' and I meant it, half and half, we'll be partners in this. Less of course the fifty quid I paid to the boy's Dad."

"And how much do you expect to get?"

"Four hundred pounds," I replied unhesitatingly.

Of course there was no certainty that I would get that amount and it was right at the upper limit of my expectations but there would be time enough for explanations after the whole deal had gone through. What was important at the moment was to get Chas on board. Equally I had not paid fifty pounds to Robert's Dad for the boy but it is I feel legitimate to include notional expenses in an account if they would give a more realistic picture of the commercial profit you would have made if all reasonable commercial charges had been met. Anyway when dealing with someone as unscrupulous as Chas you must look out for yourself.

I picked up a tub of fat from a shelf in the kitchen on my way back to the yard.

The ring on top of the gas cylinder was roaring nicely away with the Tribute branding iron glowing red in its heat. Davy, hanging by his wrists from the cross bar a few feet away from it, was whimpering loudly no doubt in terrified anticipation of what was to come. He was so near to the ring that he must have felt its heat on his bare flesh.

Robert looked up and smiled expectantly at me as I approached.

"I've got the branding iron nice and hot Mister Warwick," he said his excitement sounding in his voice. "are you going to do him now?"

"No Robert," I said smiling back, "you are going to. Have you done it before?"

"I've seen it done at Tributing (the regular monthly levy of new tribute stock raised from the area) and watched my Dad use it on a farm brat a few times"

"Then you know there is nothing really to it. Just decide where you're going to place the brand and then press the iron firmly against the brat and count three, not a hurried count, a steady slow count taking your time over it. Then take it away from him. OK?"

"O.K. Mister Warwick."

"So first you need to decide where you're going to put the new brand. The first brand is always on the left side of a brat's rump just below the hip. You have a choice with the second one; either on his back on the right shoulder or on the front of his chest just above the right nipple. Which do you think? Take a close look at the brat before you decide."

Ignoring the brat's sobs Robert moved nearer to it. He walked slowly round it. Somehow the brat managed to cower away from him despite being drawn up so tight by his wrists that only his toes touched the ground. Standing behind the whimpering boy Robert prodded his right shoulder with his finger tip apparently trying to judge the depth of flesh there to take the brand. He then moved round the boy's tightly drawn naked body and pinched him above the right nipple.

"I think we should do it on its chest Mister Warwick," he said his voice tight with excitement.

"Good choice Robert," I said stepping forward and smearing a handful of fat over the boy's deeply tanned breast. "You'll be able to see the terror in brat's face just before the iron burns its mark into his flesh."

"Now when I say take the iron from the ring and quickly, because you don't want it to lose any of its heat, press it firmly against his chest where I've smeared the fat and hold it there for a slow count of three to give the iron a chance to burn into him. I wouldn't stand directly in front of him when you do it. He's liable to pee himself or worse and you don't want to get splashed.."

"Why did you put the fat on him Mister Warwick," Robert asked.

I smiled. It was pleasant to see the boy retained his natural inquisitiveness even at moments of great excitement and that he was greatly excited was made all too obvious by the bulge in the front of his tightly fitting shorts. He was really a most intelligent lad.

"Well I'm not sure if it's right but it's said that greasing a brat before you brand it ensures the mark is nice and clear and clean. It prevents the flesh round the brand mark sticking to the iron. That's what they say anyway."

"Now I'll give you a hand by holding the boy steady."

Bending down I took a grip of the slut's hairless balls and pulled down. The boy howled.

"Stop that stupid racket Davey." I snarled, "You'll have something really worthwhile screaming about in a minute."

"I expect you've seen your Dad hold brats like this on the farm from time to time," I said to Robert.

"Yes, he says it's the best way to hold a brat steady if you are really going to hurt it. The only trouble is he says that so often their balls are so small there's not much to catch hold of."

"But Mister Warwick aren't you liable to get splashed if Davey pees himself?"

"So I am Robert. Good of you to think of that. Hang on a minute."

Relinquishing my hold of Davey's balls I straightened myself and shrugged off my shirt.

I saw Robert's eyes widen as he took in the breadth of my shoulders and the size of my biceps. He said nothing though and bending down took another grip on Davey's genitals.

"There isn't a hell of a lot to catch hold of here," I said with a laugh, giving the slut's balls a sharp downward jerk.

"Are you ready Robert. Take a grip on the handle of the branding iron. Now! Out of the ring and press it firmly into his chest."

The brat gave an ear splitting scream and his body leapt as the glowing brand etched its mark into his tender flesh. A stream of warm amber fluid gushed from his cock and splashed over my bare forearm. Glancing upwards I saw a wisp of smoke rising from where the hot iron was pressed against Davey's chest. The smell of scorched boy's flesh filled my nostrils.

I could see the concentration in Robert's face and the strain in his arm muscles as he fought to hold the branding iron steady, his lips moving as he slowly counted the time.

Satisfied he pulled the iron away. I was glad to see it came away cleanly. Success on this occasion would do so much to build up the boy's confidence.

Davey appeared momentarily to have lost conscousness. His body hung slack from his wrists. His breath came in short harsh gasps.

"His flesh is very red and broken round the mark," Robert said nervously.

"Oh that's nothing to worry about," I said reassuringly digging a finger tip into the slut's raw flesh and extorting a groan of pain from the semi-conscious lad. "It's normal. It'll hurt like hell, that after all is half its point, but it'll heal OK in time."

"Are you going to use the whip on him now Mister Warwick?"

"No I don't think so Robert. There's no point in flogging an unconscious brat. Indeed I think I'll probably take him down and lock him up in a cage for twelve hours or so to allow him to get his strength back and to give him an opportunity to think about what is coming to him."

"Now you're going to have plenty to do tonight so perhaps we'd better go and see how Peter has finished cleaning your bike so that you can go home and get some sleep."

Peter had Robert's beaten up old bicycle propped up against the yard wall and was busy giving its cleaning its final flourish by trying to impart a polish to the rust flecked spokes and rims of its wheels. We stood loking down at him as he worked away at his task with all the concentration and effort of which a nine year old brat was capable.

I saw that the bulge in the front of Robert's shorts had grown even more pronounced.

"You'd better get rid of that hard of yours before you go Robert," I said laughing. "As it is I think it'd make riding a bike very difficult."

"I was just thinking Mister Warwick that Peter has not made a very good job of cleaning my bike," his voice sounded oddly strangled and the bulge in his shorts had grown even larger.

Hearing these words and no doubt recognizing what they portended so far as his own already deeply bruised bottom was concerned Peter began to cry quietly.

I could see little to criticize in the brat's work but I knew from the tone of Robert's voice and the ever swelling bulge in the front of his shorts that this was irrelevant.

"I agree Robert," I said, "the lazy little turd has made hardly any effort at all. Look at the state of the wheels."

"Master please Master," the little slut sobbed twisting round as he squatted beside the bike and raising a tear stained face to gaze beseechingly into mine, "I've done the best I can. There's rust there Master not dirt. I can't clean it off Master…."

I lashed out with the toe of my shoe catching the brat on the back of his thigh.

"Shut up dirt," I shouted at him. "Don't argue with your betters. If the young Master says your work is not good enough it's not good enough. Fetch the cane from the house now you miserable lump of dog's shit, quickly."

Robert and I watched Peter as he shot off towards the house his thin shoulders shaking with sobs.

"Those shorts of yours Robert are tight enough at the best of times. I think with the size hard you've got on you'd be more comfortable with them off."

Robert hesitated and I laughed.

"Come on Robert, there's no point in being shy, tomorrow I'll see everything anyway."

The boy blushed and then hitched his fingers behind the waste band of his shorts and pulled them down. As had become the fashion with free boys he was not wearing underpants. For a moment he used his hands to shield his crutch and then with an almost defiant expression on his face let them drop to his sides revealing his boy's cock hard and quivering with eagerness, its tip almost touching his belly button.

"Well done Bobby," I said pointedly using the diminuitive of his Christian name which it had become the convention to apply only to of members the servile classes. "And tomorrow, I'll warn you now, once you've started it's not play acting, it's for real. There's no let up even if we seem to be alone together. You can never be certain someone isn't watching or listening or won't just suddenly appear."

"I know that Mister Warwick," Robert replied seriously and then said with a grin, "what sort of a tribute brat do you think I will make."

Before I could answer Peter came running out of the house carrying the cane. He dropped to his knees in front of Robert and holding the cane with both hands kissed it before holding it out for the older boy. Robert took it and the brat bent forward kissing the ground at his feet in the universal gesture of total submission.

No doubt the brat knew the punishment was unjust and that he was being beaten not for any fault on his part but to satisfy the cruel lusts of his betters. He also knew that arguments or pleas for mercy were pointless. His Master had decided he was to be beaten and there was no appeal against that decision.

"Get down over the bench slut," Robert commanded, his voice horse with passion.

Peter obeyed, bending down over the punnishment bench, pushing his naked bottom upwards, offering it to the cane.

"Three strokes should be enough Mister Warwick?" Robert asked doubtfuly.

I smiled and shook my head. I knew the foolish lad was allowing himself to feel guilty about getting pleasure from flogging the brat and curtailing his pleasure accordingly. He might think that three strokes laid across the sobbing boy's tender rump would be enough to satisfy his lust. The tone of his voice and the bead of moistiure welling from the tip of his upright cock asserted otherwise. That night he was to set out on an adventure which if not positively dangerous would certainly involve him in acute discomfort and suffering. I owed it to him see he did not short change himself on this occasion.

"No Robert," I said softly, "I fear three strokes would be hardly adequate. Instead of the little turd being properly grateful for the opportunity to serve you and making some sort of effort he just couldn't be bothered. I can forgive many faults in a brat, stupidity, clumsiness and so on but not ingratitude."

I paused and then speaking loudly to be heard over the sound of the child's sobs that had increased markedly in volume.

"Six strokes Robert and lay them on hard. Try and draw blood with the first cut."

"OK Mister Warwick I'll do my best," Robert promised grinning.

He laid the cane gently across Peter's bare rump and I saw the brat quail at its touch. Then Robert raised the rod high over his right shoulder, paused for the briefest of moments before bring it down with all his wieght and strength behind the blow. The rich urgent hiss of the descending cane was followed by the sharp crack of wood striking taughtly drawn boy's flesh. Peter's naked body jerked convulsively, his head went back and his heels flew upwards. There was a split second of total silence and then the brat screamed, his cry rivalling in shrillness if not in volume Davey's when the glowing branding iron was pressed against his flesh.

"Master please Master," the brat whimpered hopelessly for he knew he could expect no mercy.

"Get back in position slut," Robert commanded coldly.

Resting the flat of one hand on the small of Peter's back Robert, once the brat was again settled, bent forward to examine the livid stripe freshly scored across the curve of the boy's bottom.

"I didn't draw blood Mister Warwick," he said the disappointment clear in his voice.

"Don't worry Robert," I said heartily, "better luck next time. You know the old saying 'if at first you don't succeed try and try again.'"

"I will Mister Warwick," Robert promised cheerfully.

For some inexplicable reason the brat began to wail louder than ever.

I wondered looking at Robert standing there, towering over the whimpering child in all the pride and confidence of youth how he would adapt to the cruel realities of servile life. He was a fine strong young lad. I tried to imagine him as a tribute brat, schooled into submission, an iron collar locked around his neck, a metal ring clamped tight about his genitles and the tribute brand burnt deep into the flesh of his left hip, stripped of all the attributes of a free boy, no longer an individual but an object, a thing. Even with the boy naked it was difficult to make the leap in imagination required. The only thing that hinted that there might be some common ground between the proud free boy and an abject Tribute brat was the lad's erect penis, straining up towards his belly button, it's swollen pink head protruding clear of its foreskin, indicating a shared animal sexuality.

Once again Robert raised the cane above his shoulder. Peter tensing himself in anticipation of the coming blow sobbed out a desperate plea for mercy but mercy is another word for weakness and that is not tolerated in the Tribute world. Certainly Robert on this occasion showed none. He brought the cane slashing down across Peter's naked bum the rod biting deep into the helpless slut's tender flesh.

"That one drew blood," he shouted triumphantly.

"Well done Robert," I replied laughing, "now carry on with the good work."

I found the boy's youthful enthusiasm very engaging and I knew he really needed no encouragement.

Indeed he plied the rod with exemplary vigour bringing it cracking down four more times, the naked brat writhing and howling, as the cane ripped his bottom.

"Fuck Mister Warwick," Robert cried dropping the cane and grabbing his crutch, "I don't think I'm going to make it into the house."

"Take him here then Robert," I said, "I'm not sure I want him in there bleeding everywhere anyway."

I doubt though if Robert heard the last few words for he was already on top of the Peter pinning him to the bench, driving into his cock into the slut's bottom with short brutal thrusts of his hips.

Footnotes:

1. Free Boy Channel a public service TV Channel broadcasting programs aimed at free boys between 8 and 16 years old.

2. Bevis is a series on that channel following the adventures of a free boy who is a secret agent in the service of the New Order Executive under the direction of Commander Collins.
3. Brat juice: a red sickly sweet syrup heavily laced with Viagra much favoured by sluts.

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