Zelamir

Slave Boy Hunter

A Tribute Boy Story

Book Two, Chapters 7-12

Chapter 7

First of all I knew if I disappeared, even if it was fixed so that it looked I had drowned while skinny dipping in the sea , Mum and Dad would take a good look at my computer. Not that there was anything very much that was very bad but there were some e-mails to and from my friends about private stuff that they might fuss about if they read them so it was best to delete them.

So after supper I had a quick shower pulled on my pyjamas and settled down at my computer. First of all I tried going through my mail box reading each e-mail in turn and just getting rid of the doubtful ones. After a bit though I realised that would take too long so I just emptied the box altogether.

Then I had some other files and things which might have upset Mum if she'd seen them to get rid of.

It was well past nine o'clock by the time I ran Window Washer to clear the remains of the deleted files from my hard disk.

I deleted a few things on my mobile and then set the alarm for midnight before lying down on my bed.

My room was in the back of the house and overlooked the farm yard. It was still light so the yard was busy and I lay there listening drowsily to the familiar noise, the rattle and clank of farm machinery mingled with the rumble of wheels, the gruff voices of the men and, increasingly frequently as time passed, the sharp crack of their whips and the shrill squeal of a brat in pain. I thought it was funny how things change as the year goes round. In the winter the yard is noisiest at dawn when the brats have to be whipped out of their pens to work in the cold. In the summer the thing is the other way about. Roused at dawn by dusk the whip applied often and hard is the only thing that keeps the lazy brutes working.

My cock swelled and hardened, as it seemed to do with increasing frequency, as sleepily I remembered fucking Peter, the feel of the little slut's body under mine, the sounds of distress and excitement that my thrusting prick extorted from the brat as I drove into him. How, I wondered idly, if my cock, that was nothing to shout about, was so hard for a brat to take that he moaned and panted like that could it manage one like our foreman's Mister Morrison's. But they did and smaller brats than Peter too who was all of nine years old. I knew they did because Mister Morrison had first go at any newly tributed field boys Dad bought for the farm and they were only just eight years old. Mister Morrison said it was part and an important part of breaking them in. And he had a big cock. I'd come across him once in the middle of what he called breaking in and it was really big and the little brat was howling something terrible. It didn't take long though after he'd finished with it to get it on its feet and outworking in the fields. Just three or four swats with Mister Morrisson's belt across its little arse did the trick.

But Peter was Mister Warwick's boy so it would be Mister Warwick not Mister Morrison who would get to fuck his arse. I wondered how big Mister Warwick's prick was. I hadn't seen it but judging from the bulge in the front of his trousers that appeared when he was flogging a brat or at other times of high excitement it was a good deal bigger than mine but then Mister Warwick was a big man. I remembered him shirtless as he prepared to help me brand Davey, the broad shoulders and the thick pelt of dark red hair that covered his chest.

However I was going to be fucked by Mister Williams. The thought flashed into my mind jolting me as if I had been hit in the stomach and for a moment I was very frightened and I wondered if I should call the whole thing off. It was not too late to stop but then Mister Warwick would know I was scared and it would mean saying good-bye to all the money I stood to take off Mister Williams and I certainly didn't want that.

Anyway perhaps getting fucked by Mister Williams wouldn't be too bad . Tribute brats didn't seem to mind it too much after the first few times and they were usually much younger and smaller than me when they had it up the arse first. I thought back to the owner's paddock at the boy coursing and Mister Williams eying me up. He didn't look too bad then; a short stocky man with powerful shoulders, old of course, well over forty, but not fat or spotty or anything. I wondered how big his cock was. There had been no bulge in the front of his trousers to give a clue.

Surprisingly I found my cock was harder than ever. I reached under the bed for the packet of paper handkerchiefs I kept hidden there.

Afterwards I dozed a bit until the alarm on my mobile roused me. I padded down the corridor to the loo, had a pee and flushed the soiled tissues down the toilet.

Back in the bedroom I got my agreement with Mister Warwick from its hiding place under a loose floorboard under my bed. Mister Warwick was right I told myself. It was quite possible it would be found there and that would be the end of our scheme. Mum in particular would make an awful fuss. And of course I trusted him, we were in it together, he wouldn't let me down just as I would not let him.

I dressed quickly and slipped quietly out of the house. It was a warm summer's night and the tee-shirt and shorts I was wearing were perfectly adequate. The moon was almost full so there was quite enough light to cycle by. The brat pens were silent as I cycled by. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. Brats really were filthy animals. Even in the summer when they slept on bare concrete and the pens were hosed down daily a stench still hung around their sleeping quarters.

I slipped the agreement into the pot box outside the gates of Mister Warwick's place. I was a bit disappointed that he was not about. I thought he might have stayed up to shake my hand and wish me luck but probably it was better not. It was very important that people did not see us together that night.

There was nothing moving on the back roads to Nash beach and I got there without any problems. I left my bicycle in the car park at the West end of the beech. It was a still night and there was only the slightest ripple on the sea. The moon light formed a silver bar across the dark water.

I made my way through the narrow belt of low dunes that bordered the beach at that end, slid and scrambled down the pebble bank beyond them to the expanse of sand that stretched away to the East.

I kicked off my trainers and slipped out of my shorts and tee-shirt. I was warm from my scramble down to the beach and the night air felt pleasantly cool against my bare flesh. That's the last time I will wear any clothes until this whole adventure is over I thought and felt once again very scared. This time though I did not consider giving up for, as well as scared, I was very excited. My cock, which had shown signs of stirring from the moment I had got out of bed, suddenly sprang to attention jutting out eagerly in front of me.

I was almost achieving a constant erection. At least I thought that will help me pretend to be a Tribute brat. They too are hard almost all the time – filthy minded little brutes.

I walked straight down the beach leaving a line of bare foot prints running from my clothes down to the sea. Then I set off trotting Eastwards along the edge of the sea the small waves erasing my tracks behind me. Probably the tide would have risen to cover the beach before my absence was discovered but I told myself I could not be too careful.

The beach was a good three miles [5 km] long edged through out its length with a narrow band of low sand dunes. Behind these dunes the land rose with increasing steepness until the beach ended with high cliffs at its Western end.

Standing panting under the cliffs I looked inland. The land rose steeply dark and menacing under the night sky. Some where back there was Mister Warwick's friend tasked with capturing me, believing me to be a runaway brat. Our plan required him to succeed but I did not expect him to be gentle with me. Presumably he was back there on the hill with night vision glasses scanning the edge of the dunes waiting for me to show myself before pouncing.

I was warm after my run along the beach and the sea looked very inviting. The beach at this end was very safe. I decided Mister Warwick's friend would have to wait. I was going to have a swim. I turned and ran into the sea before throwing myself head first into the water. I swam out to sea and then rolled over onto my back floating and looking up into the night sky enjoying the last few minutes of freedom before I submitted myself to the fear and drudgery of life as a Tribute boy. But was it all fear and drudgery? Apart from fear I felt another emotion, excitement.

I rolled back over and swam slowly back to shore. When I felt the sand under me I got back on my feet and splashed through the shallow water to dry land.

Suddenly I was blinded with light. I was struck and held skewered by a beam of brilliant white light. A voice distorted by a loud haler boomed out at me.

"Bobby you horrible little brute, come here, your holiday is over."

Confused by the sudden light and noise I hesitated.

"Bobby come here. Don't bloody make me come and get you."

Blinded and confused by the bright light and startled by the sudden noise I began to stumble up the beach.

"Run you ghastly lump of dog shit," the voice thundered out again.

Heading straight into the beam of light I could see nothing but urged on by the booming voice, I forced myself to break into an unsteady run.

I was still on the sand when the voice yelled at me to stop.

"Kneel," it ordered and then a second later, "hands on your head and spread your knees. Let me see your balls. Back straight and get your head down. Come on brat you know what's required."

I heard heavy footsteps approaching as I struggled to get my knees spread wide and my bum forced down to the ground in the position tradition required of a tribute brat. The footsteps stopped close in front of me. Through the glare I could make out two heavy black boots pressing into the sand close in front of me. Unable to stop myself I tried to steal a glance upwards and got a vicious thump on the top of my head from something hard and heavy. As my head sang from the blow my wrists were roughly seized and pulled behind my back. I felt the touch of cold metal around my wrists as they were cuffed together. A few seconds later and the heavy tribute collar was locked around my neck.

A hand was slipped inside the collar and twisted. Half choking from the pressure on my neck I was hauled to my feet. I could feel the man towering over me and realised how much stronger than myself he was and how powerless I was in his grasp. "Come along brat," he said and began to half march, half drag me up the beach.

As soon as we reached the gravel bank that ran along the high watermark I realised there was one disadvantage of being a tribute boy that I had not foreseen. The souls of a brat's feet, with it being forbidden shoes along with all other clothing, soon get hardened and would not have even noticed the shingle. Indeed many parents both safe money and prepare their younger offspring for their future life by keeping them barefooted up to the moment of Tributing. My feet though were the soft and tender feet of a free boy. The pebbles bruised and cut them but I was forced forward. Beyond the beach lay the sand dunes and here the ground was soft and easy for me. Then the rough path rose sharply to the road through a mass of gorse and brambles. Stones hurt my feet and thorns tore at my shins as I was forced at a half run up the hill.

In the moonlight I could see a panel van parked by the side of the road. The man, with his hand still twisted in my collar, hurried me towards it. He slammed me headfirst into the rear doors. Pulled me back and deliberately smashed me into them for a second time.

I felt my knees giving away underneath me. I was picked up and thrown bodily into the rear of the van. The man clambered in after me and grabbing hold of my ankle shackled it to a metal bar that ran the length of the van. He climbed out slamming the rear door shut after him. The driver's door opened and slammed shut, the engine fired and the van rumbled off.

The inside of he van stank of disinfectant and brats. I lay nursing my bruises, the metal floor feeling hard and cold under my naked body. The only light was filtered through the stout bars dividing the back of the van from the driver's cab. Past the driver's head silhouetted against the light of the headlamps hedgerows flashed. After a time these gave way to the featureless prefabricated buildings of an industrial estate.

The van slowed and turned off the road to stop facing a set of double doors set in a tall blank wall. The driver sounded his horn once and the doors swung open. He dove through and stopped the van. The double doors at the back of the van were pulled open. A man reached inside and unlocked the fetter tethering my ankle to the central bar.

"Come on boy. Out." he ordered.

Before I could move he grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me bodily from the van. My body thumped down onto the ground, I saw the man's feet clad in trainers a few feet (a metre or so) from my head, and realised he was a different man from the driver, I lay on the ground wondering dazedly what was the point of giving an order without allowing time for it to be obeyed when the man's foot thudded into my side.

It's not easy to get to your feet quickly with your wrists manacled behind your back. Although I was as quick as I could that was not quick enough for the man, who managed to land two further kicks, one in my ribs and the other up my bum before I was fully upright.

"Go easy with that brat Peter," the driver said coming round the side of the van, "I don't want him marked up more than necessary."

"He's a runaway," the driver began.

"A runaway Chas," Peter interrupted him casually clipping me on the side of my head as he spoke, "why the hell do we have to go easy on the slut? Let's toss for who has first go at his arse and after that's done we can give the ungrateful little sod the working over he deserves for running away."

"No," Chas replied firmly, "I picked the brat up for Richard Warwick and the understanding is that we damage it as little as possible."

"Richard Warwick," there was an odd note in the man's voice as he said the name, "how does he come into this."

"He's got a customer who will pay well for the brat's virgin arse. He bought the brat from its father knowing this but the brat escaped. He traced it but couldn't collect it because he had another deal on."

"Warwick always has another deal on."

"I agreed to do that for him," Chas ploughed doggedly on with his explanation ignoring the interruption, "for half its sale price less what Warwick paid and we've got to get it ready for him to pick up to take to his customer."

"When?"

Chas checked his watch, "this afternoon. We have about eight hours so we better get on with it. We'll shear and dip the brat first."

The two men grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me forward. I could see we were in a large floodlit yard bounded by high walls on three sides with what seemed to be a large shed or warehouse on the fourth. In front of me I could see the dark waters of the brat dip glistening dully in the artificial light at the base of it's concrete lined trench.

I knew what was coming. The quarterly shearing and dipping of the farm brats was always a popular spectacle for us free boys. Dad and all the other local farmers herded their brats together and drove them down to the dipping pool. Dad said it was required by law and also a good thing, like the monthly worming, as it kept the brats clear of fleas and lice and other parasites which the filthy little brutes would otherwise be sure to pick up and maybe spread some disgusting infection to the free population. Still time spent dipping the brats meant time lost working so the farmers were always eager to get the job done and the brats back to where they belonged labouring in the fields. The brats on the other hand were frightened of being drowned and hated the strong chemicals in the dip. So overall there was a good deal of cursing and whip cracking by the farmers and screaming and panic stricken running about by the brats which was fun to watch.

I was only a few yards away from the pool. The strong chemical smell stung my nostrils and caught in my throat. I tried to dig my heels into the ground but the two men simply lifted me and carried me forward with my legs flailing.

The men put me down at the edge of the trench. Before I could make any attempt to get away Chas had my head firmly gripped in a neck lock under his left arm while he wielded the clippers with his right hand. I kicked and wriggled but I was powerless against his strength as he with practised sweeps of the clippers sheared the hair from my head.

The job completed he grabbed me by the shoulders with his left hand and between the legs with his right and hurled me bodily into the trench. My scream was broken short. The water closed over my head. Foul tasting astringent liquid filled my mouth. With my arms bound behind my back I could not swim. Panic gripped me and then I felt the concrete base of the pool under my feet. I kicked upwards. I broke the surface of the water and saw Chas and Peter standing on either side of the trench grinning down at me. Both men were holding long poles with forked ends. Chas thrust forward and I felt the fork pressing down on the back of my neck.

I was pushed down under the water. Again I felt the ground under me. I flailed about desperately but the fork on my neck forced me further down in the water till my face was pinned against the concrete. Panic seized me. Blood roared in my ears. My lungs felt as if they were bursting. Then the pressure on my neck was withdrawn and I kicked myself up to the surface. I rose gasping for air but went under again because I was out of my depth and with my hands bound behind my back I could not swim. Three times I surfaced only to sink again while the two men laughed at my struggles.

The fourth time Chas grabbed me by my arm above the elbow and dragged me out of the pool. I lay on the ground at his feet retching up the foul tasting water, the chemicals stinging my eyes and the open scratches torn by the brambles and gorse on my bare legs.

His boot thumped into my side.

"Get moving you lazy little sod," he ordered.

Somehow I got myself on my knees. Chas took hold of my collar and heaved me to my feet and dragged me across to where a low wall capped by a row of closely spaced stout railings enclosed a smallish square of concrete covered ground. The enclosure's floor, ribbed with runnels sloping down to an open central drain and the fowl smell that hung about it made clear its use. Peter hurrying ahead of us unlocked a small barred gate into the enclosure and Chas forced me in. He slammed me up against the railings so that I felt one of the vertical bars pressing up against my back.

"You got the scouring tablet on you Peter?" Chas asked.

Grinning Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tin. He opened it and took out a large pill about as big as a man's thumb nail.

He held it up close under my nose for me to see.

"A little sweetie for you slut," he jeered lifting it to my mouth.

I knew very well that it was not a sweet. I had seen similar pills being used to de-worm the brats on the farm too often to be deceived and I had seen the little brutes clasping their tummies and moaning as they repeatedly and violently emptied themselves to want to take it myself.

Pinned to the railings I could only turn my head away. Chas pulled me forward and then smashed me backwards into the railings.

"Open your mouth turd," he shouted.

Peter reached in front of him and gripped my nose between the finger and thumb of his left hand, closing my nostrils. I was forced to open my mouth to breath and he quickly popped tablet into it before immediately clapping his hand over it to stop me spitting the bolus out. Releasing his hold on my nose he used his left hand to massage my throat trying to force me to swallow as I gagged and choke on the monstrous object.

"That's done the trick," Chas eventually announced. "Go and get a length of cord would you Peter. We need to make sure the brat's softened up before he's offered to his new master. Don't be too long I don't want the little sod shitting all over me,"

Chas kept me pinned against the railings with his hand twisted in my collar while he waited for Peter's return. He amused himself by getting the butt of his free hand under my chin and using it to bounce my head against the railing immediately behind me.

When Peter returned Chas took the cord from him and released his grip on my collar. I sank to my knees my head ringing from being repeatedly banged against the iron bar. Chas moved behind me and I felt a jerk on my wrists as he tied one end of the length of cord to the manacles that secured them together behind my back. There was another much more powerful jerk that pulled my arms right back forcing me back to my feet. The strain on my shoulders and the backs of my legs made me cry out in pain.

"Hook the cord over the top of the railings and get it as tight as you can." Chas ordered. "We don't want any slack at all or he might dislocate his shoulders when his legs give way under him. If his shoulders just take the weight of his body it'll hurt good, if there's any play on the rope then the jerk could dislocate them when he goes and we loose our share of the profit."

"A really inviting virgin boy's arse," Peter remarked slapping me on my bare bottom, "a pity we can't enjoy it."

"Don't worry," Chas replied chuckling, "we'll have some fun with the slut before we hand him over to Warwick. But it's past two in the morning and I want to get some sleep in."

"Don't suppose there's any point in wishing the brat a good nights rest," Peter said.

Laughing lashed out with his foot kicking my legs away from under me throwing my whole weight on my wrists and shoulders. The pain tore at my muscles and I screamed. The two men walked away, locking the door to the enclosure behind them, leaving me desperately scrabbling with my feet to get the weight off my shoulders and wrists.

I managed to get my feet underneath me again but the relief was only partial. Bent double with my hands secured behind my back and drawn up as high as they could be without me being lifted bodily into the air, cramp racked my body. In addition pain convulsed my stomach as the worming pill began to take effect. I fought against it for a moment but it was no use, the dam broke and I shit myself with more force and volume than I had ever done before. For hour after hour I stood there teetering on my toes the cuffs biteing into my wrists, scouring myself. Vaguely I was aware of the noises of the yard as it woke up for a new day, the clank of pales, the rumble of wheels, the occasional crack of the whip but everything merged into an incomprehensible jumble, heard only through a haze of pain.

At some point, long after I had completely emptied myself, the scouring stopped but by then the cramps had become so bad that tears were streaming down my face and blinding my eyes.

Vaguely I heard the door open behind me. For a moment I thought my ordeal was at an end but then my bottom and legs were struck by a stream of ice cold water as the my body and the floor of the enclosure in which I stood was hosed clean of filth.

Time became meaningless. My world contracted to one of tearing all consuming pain. My legs weakened and gave way under me and a more intense agony as my shoulders took the full weight of my body dragged me back to momentary conscousness. But the black waves returned and grew in size and frequency.

I came round lying on the concrete floor in a pool of cold water. Chas stood towering over me. I cowered away from him whimpering. I was exhausted, every limb in my body ached, I could take no more.

Chapter 8

I braced myself for the kick that usually accompanied this order but it did not come. Instead as I struggled to obey him, he bent and gripping my arm above the elbow half lifted me onto my feet. I was tired and cold. My legs, that ached and were sore from the long hours of strain put upon them, gave way under me and I staggered. The man held me by the arm, steadying me. Then still retaining his grip he moved behind me. I felt him fiddling with the cuffs securing my wrists. There was a click and the manacles were removed.

I let my hands fall to my sides and wriggled my shoulders trying to ease the cramp in them. Exhausted though I was I knew better than to let my hands anywhere near my balls. I had seen too many brats thrashed for failing to remember that simple rule to forget it myself.

Tightening his grip on my arm Chas urged me forward across the yard towards the building. I stumbled and bending he lifted me from the ground, one arm across the back of my knees the other around my shoulders. I realised how much stronger he was than me and how hopeless any attempt on my part at resistance would be.

The inside of the building was very dark after the glare of the yard and I just got the impression of large low room with a variety of shadowy indeterminate shapes looming out of the gloom while I was carried across it to another door.

Chas pushed this open and I was momentarily blinded by a bright light. Three fluorescent tubes illuminated a room whose white tiled walls and floor gave no relieve from their pitiless light. Steam rose slowly from a square bath in the middle of the room. Beside it stood a free standing shower, a low stout table or bench with towels neatly piled on one end of it, a couple of upright chairs and a very clinical looking white chest of drawers completed the furnishings of the room.

He carried me over to the bath and placed me in it. I cried out and lifted my hands up into the air as the water stung the open sores that the steel manacles had made in my wrists. Chas grabbed my hands and forced them back down into the water.

"We've got to get those cuts clean before they're dressed," he said.

He held them there while I squirmed and whimpered at the pain.

"Bobby," he said sharply and I looked up at him.

Bending down to me suddenly he kissed me hard on my parted lips. I pulled away but then inexplicably I felt my cock harden and prompted by some deeper instinct I responded enthusiastically. His tongue snake like darted deep into my mouth.

Releasing my hands he pushed me away from him.

"You're a hot little whore," he remarked pinching my cheek as he straightened.

He went to the white chest and began to rummage in its shallow drawers leaving me puzzled and somehow uneasy at my reaction to the man's kiss. I had gone into this adventure knowing that I, a free boy, was going to have to try to copy the behaviour and reactions of a Tribute slut. I thought I would be able to do it but it surprised me that it was proving so easy to do. Even now kneeling in the bath waste deep in warm water with my knees dutifully spread remembering the feel of the man's lips pressed hard against mine his tongue deep in my throat I was as hard as any randy brat hankering after a taste of its master's cock. In one way this was a good thing and it showed, I told myself what a successful actor I was. But inside my head doubts niggled away, was it acting and surely the divide between a free boy like myself and the depraved scum of Tribute brats was too great to be that easily crossed.

The door opened and Peter entered the room.

"Good," Chas said sliding shut the drawer in the chest which he had been searching and turning back to the bath in which I knelt, "you hold the slut while I ring him."

Peter moved behind me and a moment I found myself gripped from behind just above the elbows and lifted to my feet my arms forced down by my sides.

Chas advanced on me holding a small metal object the glittered in the cold fluorescent light and a screw driver. I had some idea of what was coming and tried to cringe away but Peter held me tight. Chas stopped in front of me and placed the screw driver and a small ring formed of a fairly broad metal brand with a screw mechanism on one side that allowed it to be tightened (1). The sight of this confirmed my fears and I began in earnest to struggle to break the man's hold writhing and jerking against his grip.

"Quieten down you silly little whore," Peter laughed as I fought in vain to break free of him. "You're going to be ringed like it or not. Let the ladies and Gentleman see what you've got to offer – though there's not much down there but we may as well make the most of what little there is and it'll slow you down – can't have you shooting brat juice all over the place."

"You know," Chas remarked flicking the end of my cock which was sticking out in front of me like a wooden peg with his thumb nail, "when I brought him in here we couldn't have done this job on him because his balls had almost shrunk up inside him now they've reappeared but now this is the problem." He slipped his right hand between my legs and pressed his finger tips hard into my body just behind my balls. My cock deprived of blood wilted and grew limp. Chas began to work on my balls repeatedly squeezing the root of the scrotum and pulling downwards.

After ten or twelve sharp downward tugs he picked up the ring and with his finger tips forced one ball after the other through it followed by my prick. Then with the screw driver he began to slowly tighten the ring around the base of my cock and scrotum as I whimpered and struggled in Peter's grasp.

"The danger," Chas remarked as he gave the screw yet another half turn sending stabs of pain flowing trough my body, "is that I overdo this and effectively castrate the slut which as we have a market for it entire we don't want. On the other hand the tighter we can get it short of that the better. The tighter the ring the better his balls and cock are presented and the more effectively orgasm is delayed."

He took a step back and stood looking appraisingly at me. He reached out and pulled tentatively at my balls.

"Another half turn," he remarked bending again to his task, "should do the job."

"You can let him go now," he said a couple of seconds later.

Peter released his grip on my arms. Unthinking I moved to get my hands down towards my balls intent on trying to loosen the band of metal that was painfully squeezing the base of my scrotum.

Chas caught my arms just above the wrists.

"Don't touch," he barked. "It is forbidden to touch the collar round your neck and the ring round your balls. They are badges of your servitude. Touching them will be regarded as a sign you resent it and you will be flogged into submission."

"Soon," he continued in a milder tone, "it won't hurt so much as your body gets used to being squeezed and stretched. Now kneel down again we have to get you cleaned up."

I knelt being careful to spread my knees wide and Chas set to work with the sponge and a bar of soap. He held the sponge above me and squeezed it sending streams of lukewarm over my shorn head and bare shoulders. He began to sponge the front of my body starting with my face and working his way downwards, wielding the sponge with his right hand.

He reached out towards my crutch with his left hand. Not daring to close my knees or move my hands from my sides I stirred uneasily at his touch.

"Don't be a silly little whore," he said laughing quietly as he fingered my balls, "you're a slut now you can't be shy."

As he washed me he talked softly, almost whispering.

"Come on you pretty little tart. Got to get you nice and clean and sweet smelling so that the gentleman fancies you. And I'm sure he will because you're a nice looking whore. Smooth cheeks, just like a girls, they haven't ever seen a razor. And soft warm lips formed to kiss and suck; just right for a hot little cock sucker that I know you are going to be."

"Lift your arms above your head slut. Not the trace of a hair under the arms. And what hard little nipples…"

On and on he ran commenting on my body and the pleasure properly prepared and handled it could give to any future master. The quite drone of his voice, the ideas his words provoked in my mind, the feel of the warm water running down my bare chest and his fingers teasing my genitals had me highly aroused well before he had reached my crutch with the sponge.

Lust overcame what little remained of my modesty or pride. Forbidden to seek relief with my hands I pushed my hips forward rubbing my hardness against the damp sponge.

Chas laughed and flicked the top of my swollen glans with his thumb nail.

"That's enough of that," he said laughing as I started back on my haunches my eyes smarting with tears. "You're a hot little tart but safe that up for your Master now back upon your knees so I can finish washing you."

I forced myself to stay still while he washed my crutch, sponging clean my penis, rolling back my foreskin and washing my balls and pushing the sponge up behind them to reach the sensitive area there. Soon I was once again fully aroused my cock throbbing with frustrated lust.

Chas moved round the bath so that he was standing behind me and began to wash the back of my neck, my shoulders, down my spine to the small of my back. I could feel warm water coursing down the cleft of my rump.

"Stand up," Chas ordered.

His left hand pressed against the middle of my shoulders forcing me to bend forward.

I had seen my Dad and Mister Morrison check over the bottoms of our farm brats too often to have any doubts of what was to come next and I moved my feet apart and had reached behind me to spread my arse cheeks even before the order was given.

"Good little slut," Chas said giving my bottom an approving pat.

He gently drew the sponge along the lips of my anus sending shivers of excitement through my body.

"Look at that." he said to Peter who was standing just beside him watching the proceedings, "have you ever seen a boy pussy as tight as that on a fourteen year old brat before. No wonder Warwick thinks he can get a premium price for the little brute."

"I still thinks it's a bit much to be asked to leave the slut's bum alone," Peter grumbled, "after all we caught the little bugger and its our right."

"Don't worry we'll have some fun with him before we hand him over. We'll just have to leave his bottom alone and I'm not even going to get a finger up it now in case I stretch it at all. We'll leave all the fun of opening it up to the person who pays real money for it."

"Come on brat, out you come," and with these words he draped a towel over my shoulders and lifted me bodily out of the bath.

He carried me across to one of the chairs and sat on it cradling me on his knees. I felt a hand make it's way through the folds of the towel and begin to play with my testicles. The last remnants of strength left me and utterly exhausted I wriggled down into the man's lap. I knew in my heart that I was no more to him than a pretty bit of brat flesh out of which he might make some money if things worked out all right but I managed nevertheless to take some comfort from him.

He must have sensed this for he reached his right hand completely round my shoulders and tipping back my chin with it so he was looking down into my face kissed me once again on the lips. I threw my arms round his neck and hugged him close.

Laughing he broke my hold.

"And now," he said "a treat for a sexy little whore."

Turning my head I saw Peter approaching holding a bottle slightly bigger than a baby's bottle. It was shaped like an oversized man's cock with a bright pink glans and dull yellow shaft ribbed with raised knotted blue veins. I recognized immediately what it was. We didn't use such things on the farm but I had seen many in the homes of my friends. They were bottles of brat juice (2) designed specially for the slut market and commonly bought by an indulgent master as a treat for some favoured slut.

A memory flashed into my mind; a little nine tear old brat, the favourite of one of my friend's father, squatting stark naked on the kitchen floor, grinning contentedly, his tiny little boy's prick rigid, sucking with noisy gusto at just such a bottle, white fluid escaping from his mouth and flowing down his chin. His master standing over him telling us boys to take a good look at the slut for he showed how shameless and lacking in either modesty or pride Tribute brats were. "Animals, mere animals," he had said.

Chas took the bottle from Peter and held its swollen pink top to my lips.

The memory stirred some remnants of my instincts as a free boy. Momentarily a feeling of revulsion gripped me. I was not sunk so low as to suck on such an obscene thing.

I turned my head away.

"Come on slut," Chas said gripping me by the chin with his free hand to hold me still while pressing the phallus shaped bottle to my lips.

A little of the fluid leaked from the bottle. It was very sweet and rather sticky, a bit like the sweetened condensed milk Mum had put on my corn-flakes once when I was very ill, but with a distinctive tang that the condensed milk very definitely lacked.

Suddenly I realised how very hungry I was. I hadn't eaten anything since supper time the previous night and my stomach had been emptied by the worming pill.

"Suck it boy, come on."

Perhaps it was that I was tired and did not have the energy to resist any longer, perhaps it was that I wanted to please Chas, or maybe it was simply because I was very hungry. Probably it was a little bit of all three of these. Whatever it was I began to suck on the plastic glans.

Hungry as I was it tasted good. I sucked greedily on the obscene teat. My mouth and throat were filled with the sweetly cloying viscous fluid . A feeling of contentment flowed through me. My tiredness was banished and somehow I seemed to feel everything more acutely. The rough towel against my naked flesh, Chas's hardness pressing up against my bottom, and the blood pounding in my own throbbing prick. I knew I was making a noise sucking. I knew there was little difference between the way I was behaving and that little nine year old Tribute slut. I didn't care. All I wanted to do was to fill my belly with the brat juice.

Soon I was sucking on an empty bottle. Chas took it from me and tipped me onto my knees at his feet. He stood up and unzipping his flies pulled out his already distended prick.

"Now boy you suck on the real thing and if you are good then maybe, just maybe you can have another bottle before we take you to Mister Warwick," he said.

A free boy, his demand should have revolted me. At the least it should have required a severe thrashing and a few thumps to persuade me to take his swollen cock between my lips. In every fresh draft of brats to the farm there would be two or three who balked initially at sucking cock and one of whom at least would finish up with a well bloodied bottom before he could be prevailed upon to do his duty and these were sluts with no chance of escape and nothing to look forward to but a life of servitude until the moment of final release. Surely a free boy like myself, only pretending to be a slut, with a future before him after that charade was ended as a free citizen, would find it impossible to bring himself to do such a thing without some very vigorous persuasion.

I knew I should have felt all this but somehow I did not. What I wanted then and all that I wanted was cock. Before the man had stopped speaking my face was pressed into his crutch, my nostrils filled with his odour of stale sweat and human faeces, my lips pressed against his rigid prick. I had never sucked cock before but I knew what to do for Dad let me have my pick of the farm brats provided only I did not interfere with their work and this was my opportunity to show that I could do it as well as any slut. I ran my tongue up the man's pulsing shaft from its root in his coarse pubic hair to its swollen helmet. I felt the roughness, of it the raised and knotted veins, the small swellings and pimples. I ran the tip of my tongue along his piss slit collecting the beads of precum that had accumulated there.

Peter caught hold of me by my hips and pulled me up so that I was bent double my face buried in Chas's crutch. I thought Peter was going to take me from behind but instead he simply pressed his cock along the cleft of my bottom. I pushed back excited by the feel of it against my bottom and its hardness rubbing against the lips of my anus.

I opened my mouth and took Chas's cock into my moth sucking on it as I took it as deep into my throat as I could manage. Chas caught hold of my by the ears and began to vigorously pump my mouth. Each thrust seemed to be driven deeper and held longer. Until he had it's full length sheathed in my throat. He held me there while blackness swirled in my head and then I felt him surge and my mouth and throat were filled with cum.

At the same time I felt a spreading warm dampness over the small of my back where Peter had shot his load.

I sank back to my knees swallowing desperately. The rule is clear, although the explanations advanced for it varies, a brat who is fucked in the mouth by a free citizen must not spill any cum. Some say that this is because to do so would be a sign of a lack of proper gratitude at being allowed the opportunity to give pleasure to his betters, others that it would be a sign variously of disloyalty or resentment. Whatever the explanation given for the rule the consequence for a brat for failing to obey it was the same and I had seen too many sluts howling under the lash to wish to experience it myself.

Peter and Chas stood looking down at me squatting at their feet my body having been wiped clean, sucking on my second bottle of brat juice.

"He looks like the complete Tribute brat," Chas remarked prodding me in the bottom with the toe of his boot.

"Only needs the Tribute brand on his left hip," Peter remarked, "Are we going to look after that?"

"No," Chas replied a hint of regret in his voice. "Warwick says he'll do it. He says a nice clean brand mark cut into a brat's flesh can do a lot to enhance its value and he wouldn't want to saddle anyone else with the responsibility. I reckon though he just enjoys doing the job. Its pretty typical of him to hog it for himself."

"Well I'll go and wait for him outside.," Peter said "I'll tell you when he arrives."

Peter walked out of the room leaving me choking on my brat juice.

Suddenly I felt sick. I had known when I set out on the adventure that I would be branded sometime. All Tribute stock were and I could not expect to get away with pretending I was a brat without it being done to me. But being aware in a general sort of way that it was going to happen sometime in the indeterminate future was very different than knowing it was going to be done in the next half hour or so.

I remembered pressing the glowing iron into Davey's flesh, the wisp of smoke, and the smell of burning meat. I wondered if I would scream as shrill and as loud as he did. At least if I shit myself after the worming it wouldn't amount to much.

But as well as the fear I was aware also of an undercurrent of excitement. I wondered what Mister Warwick would think of me in my Tribute brat role. He had never seen me naked before and now he would see me naked with my hair cropped and the heavy metal Tribute collar round my neck. Both Chas and Peter thought I made a good Tribute brat. I wondered if Mister Warwick would think me so as well. Somehow the thought of standing in front of him naked being appraised like an animal at market was deeply exciting.

And then had Mister Warwick arranged to brand me himself because he enjoyed the prospect of doing so? I remembered his obvious excitement when he helped me brand Davey. He had been aroused then. I knew he did find inflicting pain exciting. Most people seemed to. I certainly did. There was a special pleasure in beating a pretty little slut and then, with the tears still fresh in its eyes, fucking it. Would Mister Warwick get pleasure like that from branding me? And if he did, did that mean he would want to fuck me? I could only wait uneasily to discover the answer.

Peter stuck his head round the door.

"Bring the slut through now Chas," he said, "Warwick is here."

Footnotes:

1. In essence a jubilee clip similar to those used to attach hose pipes to taps and so on but with rounded edges to prevent them cutting the brat. Only pubescent high quality tribute stock employed as house boys are commonly fitted with them.

2. Brat juice see note 3 at end of Chapter 6. That note referred to the juice being heavily laced with Viagra. In fact there were grades of juice rated according to the strength of the Viagra content mild, medium, strong and extra strong. From Bobby"s description of his subsequent behaviour he would appear to have been fed the extra strong variety.

Chapter 9

Soon I would be bent over the branding bench and the red hot iron would be pressed into my left hip and what somehow made this worse, was that this would be done to me by Mister Warwick who was my friend. It made it worse but it also added an edge of excitement to the terror that gripped me and that excitement was increased by the knowledge that he wanted to do it. That he wanted to hurt me. That he would get pleasure from marking me with the Tribute brand, burning it into my flesh, seeing my body contorted by pain and hearing my screams as the iron seared my naked flesh, marking me until the day I died and beyond, for the brand would still be there, as a Tribute brat.

I told myself I would not really be a Tribute brat, it was all pretence, part of a great adventure which would make me both rich and a hero. But then I remembered my father saying that the brand did not only mark the brats body, it marked its mind also, the memory of the pain burnt deep into its subconscious and with that pain the knowledge that it was no longer an individual but a thing to be used. "Treat them like animals and they become animals," were his actual words.

Chas pushed me through the door and I knew that Mister Warwick was seeing me for the first time in the form of a Tribute brat. I forced myself to keep my hands down by my sides. I wanted him to see me and to judge me as a Tribute slut, naked with the heavy Tribute collar round my neck, the broad cock ring emphasising my balls and cock, forcing them away from my body; my cock once again, inexplicably and shamefully erect. I thought I looked hot. I knew Chas and Peter thought so too. I wondered, I needed to know, what Mister Warwick thought.

I risked raising my head and immediately earned a sharp clip across the back of it. I dropped my eyes and my world was once again restricted to that of a Tribute boy, the ground immediately in front of me and the lower half of the bodies of those standing around. In the couple of seconds that I snatched looking into Mister Warwick's face I saw enough to know that he 'approved', the slight widening of the eyes, the parting of the lips, all hinted at lust awakened. A hint that was confirmed as I lowered my eyes to a level more proper for a slut by the marked swelling in the front of his trousers.

The surge of satisfaction, almost of pride that I felt in arousing Mister Warwick's interest was mixed with an increase in fear as I also saw standing beside him a brazier filled with glowing coals in which was buried one end of an iron bar. The branding iron was heated and ready for use.

Chas drove me forward with a blow between the shoulder blades. I stumbled forward and then recovering my balance made myself walk forward, although my legs felt that they were made of rubber, to where Mister Warwick stood. I knelt down and then bent forward pressing my face to the ground at his feet. I was very conscious of my naked upraised bottom and the three men looking down at it.

I was determined though to show Mister Warwick that I could not only look the part of a Tribute brat, I could play it as well.

Mister Warwick stood for a moment silent while I crouched at his feet, feeling his power and authority as the terror mounted inside me. It was I told myself only play acting but it felt very real and the pain that I was going to feel very soon would, I knew, be very real indeed.

"Well Bobby," he said eventually, "so I've got you back after all. I don't suppose you realise what a lucky slut you are. If it wasn't that I stand to make a few quid for myself and my two friends here from selling your filthy little carcass I'd flay the hide off your body for pulling a clever trick like that – running off."

I tried to say something but the words stuck in my throat and I only managed to mumble some meaningless sounds.

"You'd best try very hard boy to see that the Gentleman I'm offering you to takes a fancy to you because if he doesn't offer me a good price I'll flog you till there's not a square inch of skin left on you."

"Now stand up so I can take a look at you."

I scrambled to my feet and stood facing him with my head bowed and my hands down by my side making no attempt to hide my raging erection. It was embarrassing but what could a boy do about such a thing?

"What's this?" Warwick demanded grapping my hand and pulling them out in front of me so that the open sores on my wrists could be seen.

"That's where the manacles cut into his wrists," Chas said. "I thought we'd dress them and put broad leather cuffs on him before you take him. That won't cure them but it'll hide them for the time being and first impressions are important."

"I'm certainly not risking taking the little sod anywhere without him being secured. I don't want the bastard running of for a second time," Warwick remarked sharply.

"I don't think they'll effect the price we get for him. They'll heal up cleanly and hardly leave a mark and if you look closely at the wrists of most brats you'll find they've got a ridge in the flesh round the wrists where the iron has bitten. It usually happens in the first few weeks of service before they've been fully broken and the little beasts are liable to try and run off and find their Mummies. You've got to put the manacles on them tight because eight year old hands are so small they'd otherwise slip the cuffs."

Warwick didn't bother to reply to these comments but simply signalled to me to turn round.

"He's got a nice firm arse," Chas remarked as Warwick ran his hands over my bottom.

"It's too perfect," Warwick said grumpily, "it doesn't look right without a bruise on it and anyway a few stripes from the cane improves the appearance of a slut's bottom. They make it look more interesting and attractive; though not too many, three I think."

"Fetch the cane slut," he rapped.

Panic gripped me. It was bad enough discovering that I was going to be beaten and that for no other reason than to make my bottom look more attractive, and anyway I thought it looked pretty good already, but on top of that I didn't where the cane was kept. I knew though that would be no excuse and any delay on my part would lead to the three strokes being considerably increased.

"By the door you stupid little tyke," Chas intervened, "where the hell do you think it would be kept but ready to hand to use on any brat's who needs it behind."

I saw it hanging from a hook just inside the door. I set off to get it at the double.

"Stupid or unwilling," I heard Mister Warwick remark from behind me, "I'd better give him an extra cut just in case it's the latter."

"And if it isn't it won't do him any harm. Maybe wake him up a bit. God knows he needs it." Peter said with a laugh.

I grabbed the cane from its hook and turning pelted back across the room to where the three men were standing. I didn't want to give Mister Warwick any reason to increase the number of strokes further.

I threw myself onto my knees at Mister Warwick's feet and holding the cane between my two hands I kissed it.

I had never had the cane myself. Dad believed that it was wrong to use it on free boys. He said it was undignified and demeaning and free boys, being rational sensible creatures, if they needed correction should be reasoned with and made to see the error of their ways. Brats however were of course quite different. The only thing they understood he said was the lash applied vigorously and often and he did his best to follow his own advice. He had often sent for me to watch when he was about to take the skin off some whimpering slut's rump partly because he thought I should learn how to discipline brats and partly because he knew how much I enjoyed watching him at work. Anyway one advantage of this was that now, when I had to play the part of a brat about to be beaten, I at least knew how I should behave.

Kneeling at Mister Warren's feet I reached up to him with both hands offering him the cane. He stared down at me and then after a few minutes took the cane from me with a cold smile. I bent forward pressing my face to the ground. I knelt there feeling him looming over me feeling utterly vulnerable. The tightness in my throat increased and I found difficulty in breathing but strangely the blood in my already hard cock surged with increased excitement. The toes of his shoes were a few inches in front of me. Without raising my head I shuffled forward on my knees and pressed my lips to them. I was of course only copying what I had seen the brats on the farm do dozens of times in the past and no doubt it was natural and easy for them to do but for me, a free boy, it was deeply humiliating and it surprised me that I could make myself do it at all. I felt that I should have at least put up a struggle before submitting to this but there I was kneeling, my lips pressed to toes of Mister Warwick's shoes, my bare bum stuck up in the air, the blood in my rigid cock pounding in excitement just as if I really was a dirty little Tribute slut. Of course I told myself I was only play acting and it just showed how good I was at it.

"Up," Mister Warwick ordered.

I scrambled quickly to my feet and stood ready to obey his next order. I knew any hesitation or slowness on my part would be interpreted as unwillingness and punished accordingly.

There was no next order. Instead Mister Warwick grabbed me by the arm and marched me across the room towards a stout wooden bench with a raised bar at one end and with a variety of straps lengths of chain and steel brackets attached to it. I recognised it straight away as a punishment bench. Dad had one like it at home in the big barn, Mister Warwick another in his yard. God knows how many naked brats had lain howling on it as the cane had ripped the skin from their bums. Now it was my turn.

Mister Warwick took me to the end of the bench with the raised bar.

His hand gripped my arm so hard that it hurt. With his free hand he picked up a black marker pen from the bench and pushing it into the crease of my bottom drew a line along it across my rump. Then transferring his grip to the back of my neck he forced me down over the bar so my face and chest were pressed down onto the wooden bench and my bum, raised the black line marking where the crease had been and providing a target foe the rod where the strokes would burn deeper and longer.

He pushed his hands between my legs and pressing upwards forced my bottom higher.

"Come on Bobby," he said softly, "Get your rump up. I want your skin nice and taught for the cane."

Satisfied he withdrew his hand.

"Keep still" he ordered.

I heard him step back and then felt the touch of the cane against my bare flesh as he measured his distance. I tensed in anticipation.

"Still boy," he commanded again.

There was a pause which was only a few seconds long but seemed to me bent over the bar, my naked bottom pushed up, ready for the cane, to last an age.

Then I heard the rich hiss of the descending rod and there was an explosion of pain as it scored its stripe across my naked bottom. The pain was so intense that it emptied my lungs of air. I threw back my head and raised my body from the bench as I fought for breath. I thought for a moment that I was going to suffocate and then air flowed back into my lungs and I sobbed loudly.

I felt Mister Warwick run his finger tip along the fresh welt raised by the cane.

"A good two inches above the mark," he grumbled, disgust apparent in his voice. "I'm sure the little sod moved as the cut went into his arse."

"I'll hold him down for you if you want," Chas volunteered.

"No that'll make it too easy for the slut. He's got to learn to do what he is told."

"Bobby," Mister Warwick continued, "I told you to stay still and you didn't. That stroke won't count. You therefore have four cuts of the cane to come."

"Master," I sobbed.

The prospect of four more cuts from that cane across my bare bottom terrified me. The one stroke I had received still burnt fiercely. The thought of four more strokes on top of that, stoking the agony ever higher, made me forget that I was a free boy. I was not acting any longer. The fear and the pleas were as genuine and heartfelt as any ever uttered by some whimpering slut and I knew in my heart with a feeling of sick despair just as unlikely to be granted.

"Master please. I don't think I'll be able to take it. Please I'll try hard to stay…"

"Bobby," Mister Warwick's voice was firm and patient, "you have to take it you silly slut. You have no choice and Bobby you have only yourself to blame. If you'd been quicker to get the cane when you were told and stayed still when I hit you, you'd only have two rather than four strokes to come. Now be quiet or you'll be facing five not four further strokes."

"Yes Master," I said and waited whimpering quietly for the next stroke.

I hadn't expected my pleas to be successful but a boy can hope and now there was none.

I did not have long to wait until I heard again the swish of the descending cane and felt for the second time the savage explosion of pane as it once again raked my bottom. Clinging to the sides of the bench I fought to keep my face and chest pressed down on the wooden board.

"That's better," I heard Mister Warren say through a haze of pain and the roar of blood in my head, "right on target. Now let's put another one on top of it."

"Drew blood that time," Mister Warren said a few seconds later, "split the skin neatly. I'd better put the last two away from there."

The cane tore into my bottom twice more and then I lay there sobbing wildly, feeling as though a blow torch flame was being played on my bottom.

"Now," Chas said cheerfully, "to brand the little whore. Pity he'll probably hardly feel it in his present state."

"It's only half past ten," Mister Warwick remarked, "my appointment with his prospective purchaser isn't till twelve thirty and it won't take more than half an hour to get there from here. We could leave him for an hour to calm down. He'll feel it OK if we leave doing it till then."

"All right I'll strap him down. He's already taken a runner once and we certainly don't want him doing it a second time. And branding isn't like a good caning. You can't expect a brat however well schooled to keep down for it."

"Better plug his bottom too," Mister Warwick added, "we don't want someone seeing his chance and spoiling the whole deal."

So for the next hour I lay held down on the bench with a strap round my waste and another about my knees, my ankles secured by chains to brackets on it's legs, a plug up my arse, absorbing the pain from my ravaged bum.

Turning my head I could see the brazier and the branding iron its head buried in the glowing coals. It was close enough to me for me to feel the heat from the coals warm against my bare skin. As the minutes crawled by fear mounted inside me. Back when I had started on this adventure I knew I would be branded sometime along the way but I had told myself that whatever a Tribute brat could face I, a free boy, could manage easily. Now though, tethered naked, only minutes away from feeling the hot iron burning its mark into my bare flesh, that confidence was gone. The cane had been bad enough. It had hurt me more than I had ever been hurt before in my life. But the branding iron would be far, far worse.

I told myself as I fought back the tears that I had to be brave. That I owed it to myself as a free boy to keep calm. But the knowledge that at any moment the door into the room would open and Mister Warwick would walk in, over to the brazier with the iron resting in the smouldering coals… And I had no idea when. There was no clock I could see. All I could do was lie there and wait and guess at the passage of time. Every sound, every movement I sensed I imagined was Mister Warwick returning. My resolution gave way and I began to cry.

At last the door was flung open and Mister Warwick together with Chas and James were back.

Chapter 10

"Brat seems to be upset about something," Chas remarked laughing.

Mister Warwick walked over to the bench on which I lay and rested the flat of one hand on my bottom. I felt him loosen and remove the plug in my bottom.

"Better get that out," James said. "Did you see the story in today's Mail? Man had bought a choice virgin eight year old by private treaty from its Mum. Locked a plug in its arse so no one else would get to it before him and took it along to the Tribute Office for processing. Soon as the branding iron touched it, it shit itself with such force it blew the plug out of its bottom. Tore his hole so badly his Master had to get a boy vet to sow it up. Head line was 'Pop goes the Slut'."

James and Chas laughed loudly.

Mister Warwick took a handful of grease from a jar on the table next to the brazier. He slapped the grease onto my bottom just below the left hip. I felt it cold and cloying against my bare flesh. He crossed back to the brazier, pulling a glove on to protect his right hand from the heat he took hold of the branding iron and drew its head from its resting place among the smouldering coals. My chest tightened as I saw the hot metal glowing red.

"Just about ready," he said and thrust it back into the coals.

He waited a couple of minutes while I lay face down on the bench whimpering quietly. It felt as though there was something stuck in my throat so that I could hardly breath or swallow. Then once again he pulled the iron out of the brazier and swiftly pressed it firmly against my bottom. I felt a searing pain that flooded my body, tearing at my nerve ends and for a moment the world about me swam and darkened.

Through the roaring of blood in my head I heard Mister Warwick's voice.

"The edges are red and swollen but that'll go in a few days and he'll be left with a nice clean mark burnt into his rump. Get one of your brats to clean him up would you Chas please. I should be on my way soon if I am to be on time."

"Certainly Richard, though I don't know how he managed to dirty himself like that. I should have thought there would have been nothing there for him to shit after the worming we gave him," and Chas yelled for a brat to bring a bucket of warm water and some rags.

The straps holding me down onto the bench were undone and I was pulled to my feet. I stood rather unsteadily, whimpering quietly, my body still racked with pain, while a brat sponged the filth from my bottom and legs. My wrists were bandaged and secured behind my back with broad leather cuffs A length of chain was attached to my collar and I was led outside to Mister Warwick's car.

"Put the brat in the front with me," Mister Warwick ordered, "I don't want him getting grubby in the boot."

I was taken round to the front passenger door. Mister Warwick slid the seat right back creating space for me to kneel inside the car with the loose end of the chain attached to my collar secured to a bracket on the floor.

The pain that had previously seemed to consume my whole body became increasingly concentrated in my bottom which felt as if a wild animal had sunk its teeth into it and was tearing at its flesh. As the car steadily ate up the miles I became increasingly aware of my surroundings; the normal sights of the road under the Tribute system, the gangs of naked boys labouring under the blazing sun in the fields, the endless columns of brats trotting along the side of the road bent under their burdens or labouring between the shafts of heavy carts their shoulders bloody from the lash; but above all the presence of Mister Warwick so close beside me, my head less than a foot [30 cm] from his crutch.

I did not hate him nor did I resent the pain he had inflicted on me. What was there to hate or resent? I was for the moment a Tribute brat and he had merely treated me as such. I feared him and respected him with a certain cringing respect. How else was it possible to regard somebody who had hurt me so much and who had the power to hurt me even more and who, there was no reason to suppose, would not hesitate to do so again if the occasion arose. Looking down into his crutch, so close to my face, I found myself wondering about the precise nature of what was hidden by his trousers. I realised that I did not even know if he had been cut.

My cock had softened and shrunk at the first stroke of the cane. Now it stirred and began to stiffen. Mister Warwick reached down and toyed with it with the fingers of his left hand. It jerked fully erect.

"You're a hot little bitch," he said with a laugh and replaced his hand on the steering wheel.

I knew he was right. I was hot. My blood raced. I lost all inhibitions. I lent across feeling the rough cloth of his trousers against my naked flesh and kissed the back of his hand and licked between his fingers as they grasped the steering wheel. I pressed my head down into his crutch and nuzzled at his flies trying to get a grip of his zip with my teeth.

I heard the indicator click as Mister Warwick steered the car to the side of the rode.

By the time the car rolled to a halt I had pulled the zip down and my face was buried in the open front of his trousers, my nostrils full of his smell, a combination of stale urine sweat and faeces as, I tried to get at his cock.

Mister Watwick's fingers fumbled at the waste band of his trousers. Then he pushed my head away and raising himself from the seat pulled his trousers and under pants down to just above his knees. His cock freed from all restraint stood erect and demanding. I saw as I bent forward to kiss the side of the throbbing shaft that he had not been circumcised.

"You be careful slut," he ordered, "I don't want any mess on my trousers or the upholstery of the car and get on with it. I haven't much time."

I licked the tip of his prick, collecting the beads of pre-cum that swelled from its slit. Then I took it into my mouth. Mister Warwick placed a hand on the back of my head and pushed his hips upwards, driving his cock down deep into my throat. My nose was pressed into his thick forest of coarse pubic hair, my nostrils were filled with his smell, soap with faint hints of more animal odours. I swallowed desperately trying not to choke and clamped my lips tight around his prick feeling the blood pounding urgently within his swollen rod. I sensed the moment of crisis was near and I was desperate to ensure that not a drop of his cum escaped my mouth to soil his clothes or the cars upholstery. Holding my head steady he fucked my mouth with brutal upward thrusts of his pelvis. I felt his cock surge and then my mouth and throat were filled with warm metallic tasting fluid. I swallowed hard as jet after jet of warm man's cum flooded my throat and mouth.

He held my head buried in his crutch until the last drops of juice had seeped from his now flaccid cock. He released it and I hunkered back on my heels. A few drops of thick whiteish fluid flecked the dark hairs surrounding his penis. I was not sure if there presence would get me in trouble. I bent forward and licked and sucked them away.

Mister Warwick put his hand under my chin and lifted my face to the light. He took out his handkerchief and wiped my lips clean.

"Got a real taste for man juice haven't you whore," Mister Warwick remarked and turning away from me began to pull up his trousers.

A few minutes later the car was again out on the road bringing me ever closer to the moment when I would be sold to my new master.

I knelt on the floor beside Mister Warwick. It seemed that my brains were seething with frustrated lust. My sucking of Mister Warwick's cock and swallowing of his cum had brought me no relief. I had heard my father often say that a brat's function was to give pleasure not to experience it and I was now an exemplar of this truism. I could feel the blood pounding in my erect prick. I am sure that I would long ago have cum had it not been for the metal band clamped tight about the base of my genitals. It was fortunate my hands were bound behind my back. Had they been free I would not have been able to resist the temptation to use them to ease my agony and to earn myself a savage beating. I lent my head imploringly against Mister Warwick's thigh feeling the coarse material of his trousers against my cheek He was the only person who had the power to bring me relief.

He took his hand from the wheel and gently stroked the side of my face.

Turning my head I kissed and then licked the palm of his hand.

"Poor little Bobby," he said laughing, "you want it real bad but you got to learn to wait. I want Mister Williams to see what a hot little whore I'm offering him."

I stayed there my head resting on Mister Warwick's thigh as the car rolled steadily forward.

It came to a halt and raising my head I saw we had come to a halt facing two large double gates that opened and closed by sliding to and fro on metal rails. Eight brats were shackled by their wrists to two horizontal bars jutting out at waste level from each gatejust short of the ends where they met when closed. The brats were shackled in pairs on either side of the gates, one brat facing forwards the other back.

Through the gates thick iron bars I saw three traps lined up by a drinking trough with three pairs of sturdy pony boys between their shafts and three small free boys sitting idly on the grass bank beyond. Behind them a tarmac surfaced drive led away up a slight hill and disappeared into a thick forest of trees.

A youth about seventeen years old dressed in the uniform of a brat police cadet (1) appeared out of a small cabin set to one side of the gates, carrying a clipboard he swaggered across to the car. I quickly ducked my head and, trying to make myself as small as possible, fixed my eyes on the floor of the car. The brat police were noted for their readiness to lay into any brat that crossed their path.

Mister Warwick rolled down the window of the car as the youth approached.

"Name and business please Sir."

""Mister Warwick to see Mister Clive Williams. I have an appointment."

"Thank you Sir I have your name. If you would please just drive through the gates and park the car one of the pony boy traps will take you up to the big house."

"Open the gates you idle little turds," he screamed at the brats harnessed to the iron bars. "Move yourselves don't keep the gentleman waiting."

Unhitching the strap from his belt he ran towards them, lashing out at them, aiming his blows indiscriminately at bottoms, shoulders and chests. Mister Warwick eased the car through the gates to the sound, a common sound in the Tribute world, of leather striking bare flesh and the squeals of the naked brats.

I wondered uneasily how Mister Williams arranged to have entry into his estate controlled by members of the brat police who were meant to be agents of the state not employees of any particular person.

One of the young free boys got up from the bank and came over towards the car. He was a slight lightly built lad, not more I would have though than ten years old.

"Hello Sir," he said cheerfully addressing Mister Warwick, "I'm to take if you up to the big house. I'll tie the slut to the back of the trap and he can run behind."

"I'm sure driving a pony-boy trap is much more fun but shouldn't you be at school?" Mister Warren asked as he reached into the car to unlock the chain attached to my collar from the bracket on the car's floor.

"The School Attendance Officer did come round to the house Sir," the boy replied grinning, "but he soon went again when my Dad explained I was employed by Mister Williams."

"Come on Bobby get your lazy carcass out of there," Mister Warwick said jerking on the loose end of the chain.

As I scramble out of the car a trap drawn by two stark naked coal black pony girls burst out of the woods. It raced towards us the girls' bare feet pounding the surfaced drive as their well muscled legs drove them forwards, the light trap bouncing and swaying behind them. Richard Williams stood upright laughing in the trap urging the two labouring pony girls on with shrill cries and sharp cracks of his whip. They tore towards us the girls maintaining a regular pace, inner, outer, inner outer, raising their knees high in the exaggerated manner required of their kind, despite the fierceness with which they were being driven and their obvious distress that spoke of long years of schooling in the exercise yard.

The trap swung off the road and Richard hauled back on the reigns bringing it to a halt beside Mister Warwick. The pony girls stood trembling, their jet black bodies glistening with sweat, their chests heaving as they fought for breath, blood trickling from the corners of their mouths where the bits had torn them. Richard stood upright in the trap, his fare hair tousled by the wind, confident, laughing and happy.

Standing beside Mister Warwick, naked my hands bound behind my back, a tribute collar clamped round my neck, the mark of the brand still raw and burning on my bottom, I felt neither resentment nor jealousy. The chasm that divided the free boy from the tribute slut was too great for that. At that moment it was as if Richard belonged to a different and superior species.

He jumped from the trap and advanced on Mister Warwick with outstretched hand. Instinctively I dropped to my knees and pressed my face to the ground.

"Good morning Sir," I heard his young voice say, "Dad's sent me to say he's very sorry he's been held up at the office and he won't be able to make his appointment with you. But if you care to join us for lunch he'll have a look at the brat afterwards."

"Well, that's very kind of your father," Mister Warwick replied, "I'll be happy to do that."

"Fine Sir there's an hour or so till he will be back and he says I am to show you around the estate or take you up to the house and get Mother to give you a drink. Whichever you prefer Sir."

"It's a bit early for a drink. I think I'd like to look round the estate."

Good. Is that the brat Sir your selling to Dad. Could I have a look at him before we set off? Dad has been going on and on about the free boy who was with you at the coursing match and how he fancied him and he was over the moon when you telephoned him and said you had a slut that was a dead look alike."

"Of course you can" Mister Warwick replied laughing at the boy's eagerness.

"Stand up Bobby," he snapped at me , "and let the young Master have a look at you."

I stood with bowed head as Richard circled me. He stopped and I started and gasped as his fingers touched the mark, still raw from the branding iron, on my left flank.

"Stand still blast you," snapped Mister Warwick jerking savagely on my chain, "stand still while the young master looks you over brat."

"That brand mark is very sore," Richard remarked.

"That's I only did it a couple of hours ago," Mister Warwick replied, "it'll be sore for a few days but in the end it'll be a nice clear cut mark burnt into the brat's bum."

"You did it yourself Sir?" I could hear the admiration in Richard's voice. "Dad took me to see the last quarterly levy (2) of tribute boys at Cowbridge and we watched the brandings for a time. I enjoyed watching the little brats made so much fuss having to be dragged to the branding block crying and begging and then screaming even before the iron touched them and shitting themselves too. It was really funny and we laughed a lot."

"I wish I could have been there to watch this slut being branded. Did he shit himself."

"Oh yes, they usually do you know."

And you did it yourself to the slut. You had all the equipment Sir? I wish I could have a go at branding a brat sometime.

"You get your Father's permission and come over to my place. I'm sure I'll have a slut about the place you can try your hand on. I'm an agent of the New Order Recovery Unit so I've usually got a runaway brat or two about the place you could try your hand with."

"Thanks I'm sure Dad will agree and I think the brat is a nice one with a firm tight bottom Dad will enjoy splitting open. Dad was saying he hasn't been fucked yet."

"That's right. He hasn't been a tribute brat long. His Dad is going bust and he sold him to me just a few days ago both to raise cash and get rid of the expense of keeping him."

"Dad will love that but Mum won't be too pleased. The brat's always squeal so much when Dad opens them up, he's quite big and he doesn't believe in using any lubricant apart from the sluts saliva on his cock, says they should be made to feel it. Dad likes them squealing but Mum objects to the noise."

"We'd better be getting along if I am to show you anything of the place Sir."

Mister Warwick and Richard began to walk towards the trap with me following behind being led by the chain attached to the collar about my neck. Mister Warwick stopped to look at the two black pony girls.

"Magnificent animals Richard," he remarked, "but they seem a bit restive."

Indeed as we approached them they began to shift from foot to foot and throwing back their heads made the strange almost whinnying nioses so typical of pony brats with their severed vocal chords and pierced eardrums.

Richard laughed.

"This one is Tulip by Fighter out of Rosebud," he said proudly, "and this Tigerlilly by Fighter again out of Hyacinth. Both sires and both dams being from the Oblonsky (3) stables that specialise in breeding black pony brats. So they are a bit special. Just feel the muscle in Tulip's thighs and rump Sir."

"And they're a bit jittery I think because they've caught sight of your slut's hard and that's excited them. They've just turned fifteen the pair of them so Dad had them both covered yesterday by Blackbob so we've got a chance of getting a couple of foals out of them before their release date. It was the first time they'd been covered and they went crazy. We had to tie them down get Blackbob to mount them from behind or they'd have torn him to pieces with their teeth. You should have heard the niose they made screaming and whinnying something terrible. Today every time they catch sight of a slut with a hard on and you know what brats are like Sir, most of them have a hard on most of the time, filthy brutes, they go a little wild." (4)

"Fine strong beasts," Mister Warwick said taking a firm grip of Tulips glistening black thigh, "but their legs are cut about quite a bit."

And indeed the legs of both pony girls from about four inches [10 cm] above the knees downwards were streaked with blood that welled from innumerable tears in their dark skin.

"Nothing that time and a coating of anti-sceptic will not put right," Richard replied carelessly. "No need for stitches. They tore their legs on the gorse coming down the hill from the house. I only got Dad's telephone call just before you were due to arrive and he said to be sure to catch you at the gates so went off across country. They're brave brutes. There's nothing they won't face. Just set them at it and give them a crack or two of the whip and they're off no matter what's in front of them."

"Now Sir if you would hitch your slut to the back of the trap…"

Tulip and Tiger Lilly were strong and had been honed to a peak of fitness after many years of being trained as pony girls. Richard cracked his whip and they set off up the hill at a sharp canter. Stumbling along behind them, attached to the back of the trap by the chain fastened to my collar, my hands secured behind my back, it was all I could do to keep up with them. As the drive entered the woods the trees closed over us blocking out the sunlight. The narrow road wound upwards my heart pounded and my lungs ached as I fought for breath. Then we were out of the wood the surfaced track running, still upwards, over the open hill side.

Without warning the trap came to an abrupt halt. I banged into its back and then sank to my knees on the road, resting my head on the ground, panting desperately. I could hear the pony girls whimpering quietly for some reason as they shifted uneasily between the shafts of the trap. Then I heard footsteps. Richard and Mister Warwick were standing over me. They were holding handkerchiefs to their noses and as I recovered my breath I became aware the air I had been dragging into my lungs was tainted with a sickly odour of decay.

"I won't be able to show you anything of the place with that brat behind us," Richard said disgust sounding in his voice. "He just can't keep up. If it's all right with you Sir we'll leave him here, there's a ring at the base of the post which we can tether him to. Dad likes all brats new to the place to spend time there . He says seeing the effect of a good old fashioned skewering has a beneficial effect on their behaviour."

"May as well," Mister Warwick replied easily. "It'll do the brat good even if your Dad doesn't buy him off me."

"I thought skewering had been abolished as a punishment," he continued as he unfastened the chain to my collar from back of the trap.

"Nobody's got round to telling Dad," Richard replied cheerfully. "Or if they have he's taking no notice of it and as he's the Tribute Judge (5) round here nobody can do much about it. Anyway people round here are pretty conservative and like things to be done in the old way."

"Right let's get on with it then. Come on slut," and Mister Warwick gave a sharp jerk on the chain.

Staggering to my feet. Mister Warwick gave another pull on the chain and I set off after him towards where I could see a stout post set upright in the ground on a low rise a couple of hundred yards from the road. There was something attached to the post, a darkish sort of thing with about halfway up it a tiny glitter of reflected light. I saw what it was and pulled back against the chain.

Mister Warwick swung round and clouted me hard across the side of the head.

"Come on slut," he growled, "don't try that on me."

"I'll help you get him on Sir," Richard volunteered, "brats often play up when they see what's there waiting for them."

He grabbed hold of the manacles securing my hands behind my back and forcing my wrists up the pushed me forward.

A crow rose and flapped slowly away.

"That had the brat's eyes out a few hours before it died." Richard remarked.

Whimpering and struggling I was forced ever nearer to the post. My feet were kicked away from underneath me and the chain was locked to a ring set at its base. Richard released his hold on the manacles and I began to fight frantically against the chain holding me kneeling only a couple of yards from the base of the post with its ghastly burden. With my hands secured behind my back I could not get hold of the but I threw the whole weight of my body against it jerking and pulling, feeling the iron collar jarring against my neck.

"He'll calm down after a minute or two Sir," Richard said, "Shall we get on. I specially want to show you the young pony boy's being schooled."

They walked off back towards the trap.

Footnotes:

1. Brat Police Cadets These are selected from the strongest and toughest of Tribute boys approaching their release date and are tasked with keeping order among the servile population which they do with considerable enthusiasm. They are feared and loathed with very good reason by the brats.

2. Quarterly levy of brats – The Tribute Master of a region visits the various centres of population in his region on a regular basis to process all children except the first born reaching the age of eight since his last visit to that place. Cowbridge being the centre of a reasonably populous area he visits quarterly. Large conurbations will get monthly visits while the centres of more sparsely populated areas might only be visited six monthly or even annually. Generally the aim is to get an intake of between twenty to fifty eight year old brats at each levy.

3. Oblonsky a Russian plutocrat who settled in the Vale of Dingle before the First Great Patriotic War and the full introduction of the Tribute System and specialised in breeding and training black pony girls.

4. Originally the Tribute system provided for girls to be released at the end of the fourth year of service (12 years old to aviod the complication of their giving birth. Liberals and other do gooders complained that this amounted to sexual discrimination hoping to bring about a reapprisal of the whole system. However the Executive Authority simply raised the age of release for to 16 thus making it the same as for boys both cutting the ground away from the feet of the liberals and allowing for the introduction of selective brat breeding programs. However brats are poor doers (take a long time to grow enough to be any use) compared to other livestock so such breeding programmes are confined for the moment to high value specialist stock such as pony brats and are the hobbies of rich men.)

5. Tribute Judge an individual appointed in each administrative district by the New Order Executive to rule on matters relating to the Tribute System and tasked with upholding the principles of that System. It is his task to check any tendency to leniency in the application of the Tribute Code to the servile population in his District.

Not I realised quite alone as I heard the flap of wings and the crow landed on the ground about five yards away from me and stood looking at me with two unblinking beady eyes. It had returned, I thought, to its interrupted feast. The bird hopped closer and I remembered Richard saying that it had taken the boy's eyes out while he was still alive. It was looking at me its head on one side.

My hands were secured behind my back and I was chained to the base of the post. I could neither defend myself nor runaway. Hysteria gripped me, whimpering with fear I fought against the chain, trying to break free. The crow flapped its wings lazily and fluttered coming to rest a few feet further away. There it stood motionless watching me. No doubt it was used to waiting. It could afford to be patient.

The chain held fast. I realised I was getting nowhere, only exhausting myself. I forced myself to be still. I told myself I was being stupid. Mister Warwick would not let me be left there. He and I were in an adventure together. I was not really a tribute brat but a free boy pretending to be a free brat and Mister Warwick knew that to be so. He had treated me as if I was a brat but that was all part of the act. Wasn't it?

If it was it was a very good act. I was naked, I was branded, I had a collar round my neck and my bottom bore the marks of the cane. The only thing that distinguished me from the hundreds of thousands of tribute brats whose labours and suffering sustained free society was the knowledge in my heart that I too was free.

But then it struck me like a blow to the stomach, what was the point of that? What use was it knowing I was free if no one else did? I couldn't just stand up and say "stop you cannot do this to me, I am a free boy." Or at least I could if I wanted to get soundly whipped or perhaps worse, indeed much worse. I stole a glance at the thing nailed to the post above me with its empty eye sockets and the flies swarming over it and choked back a sob.

A free person had to say that for me, if any notice was to be taken of it and the only person who knew the truth about me, who could say those words and be believed was Mister Warwick; the man who had branded me, caned me, fucked my mouth and had now left me chained by my neck to the skewering post. How sure could I be that he would stand by me? Anyway did he regard me any more as being a free boy? He certainly treated me as a brat and nothing else than a brat. And if he failed me whatever I thought or knew would be useless. I would be for all intents and purposes a brat.

And then another thought struck me with sickening force; perhaps I was a brat. I certainly behaved and thought like one when I was in the car with Mister Warwick. I remembered how I had felt kneeling on the floor of the car beside him, how my prick had leapt upright at his touch, how I had buried my head in his crutch tugging at the zip of his flies with my teeth, eager to get his cock between my lips and to taste his man juice. I looked like a brat with the collar round my neck and the Tribute brand burnt into my bum. I behaved like a brat sucking Mister Warwick's cock. Like my Dad said if something looks like a dog and behaves like a dog the chances are that it is a dog and no doubt the same thing went for a brat.

I was jerked back to the present by a rush of air and the flapping of wings just inches from my face. I had been kneeling motionless as my mind raced and the crow must have been encouraged by this to try for my eyes. Tethered by the neck and with my wrists secured behind my back all I could do was to shout and jerk away. It was enough at least for the time being. The crow landed on the ground a few yards away from me and resumed its patient vigil. I realised it had taken up station appreciably closer to me.

The chain from my collar to the base of the skewering post was too short to allow me to stand up. All I could do was to kneel on the ground watching the big bird, the sun gleaming on its black plumage, watching me and listen for the rattle of the trap's wheels and the thud of the pony girl's bare feet on the hard ground that would herald the return of Mister Warwick and Richard.

I strained my ears hoping that they would return before the bird launched another attack. Then I thought that their return would only bring nearer the moment when I would be offered for sale to Mister Williams and I realised that I had nothing to hope for. I could stay where I was until exhausted I collapsed and the crow plucked my eyes from my still living body. I could be sold to a man who applied the old unreformed Tribute code with vigour, who thought nothing of having a slut skewered and who was so powerful that he could use brat police cadets to guard his country estate. At that moment it seemed to me I had nothing to look forward to or to hope for unless Mister Warwick came to my aid.

Then at last I heard the sharp crack of the whip and Richard's cheery shout. There were footsteps and for a second I dared to look up into Mister Warwick's face as he approached hoping to see some flicker of affection or concern that would allow me at least a shred of hope. I saw none, his eyes as they met mine were cold and hard. I looked away, choking back a sob, the last shred of hope gone.

"It doesn't sound as if the slut is pleased to see us back," Richard remarked as Mister Warwick bent to unfasten the chain from the ring at the base of the skewering pole.

"And its bruised its neck fighting against its tether," Mister Warwick grumbled.

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that," Richard said reassuringly, "all the brats finish up with bruised necks after a spell here. Dad just regard it as part of the seasoning process."

"Does he?" Mister Warwick said jerking me to my feet with a pull on the chain fastened to my collar. "I think we'd best make sure then that the little shit gets a good close up view before we take him away from here."

"Come on filth take a good look at what'll happen to you if you don't please your new master."

Taking a firm grip on the back of my collar he forced me towards the post and the horrible thing that hung there.

"No please… No please… Master," I struggled and screamed, almost hysterical with fear and revulsion.

"Stop that turd," Mister Warwick growled.

Thrusting his free hand between my legs he took a grip of my balls and squeezed them hard.

"Calm down or I'll have these off you," he grated, "and open your eyes, look at it, smell it sand remember this is what happens to stupid ungrateful sluts."

The thing was only inches away from me. The stench of decay filled my nostrils. The flies disturbed, rose around me in a great buzzing cloud. I screamed again and then threw up.

Mister Warwick released his hold on my collar and I collapsed on my knees at his feet sobbing.

"I reckon we've done a good job for your Daddy," Mister Warwick said stirring me with the toe of a shoe as he spoke, "I doubt if it'll ever forget this lesson."

"That thing will be coming and visiting you while you sleep and you'll be smelling it too. Come on up on your feet," and he kicked me in the bum.

"Why did your Dad have that slut nailed up there?" Mister Warwick asked as he led me back towards the drive and the pony-girl trap.

"I dunno really Sir," Richard replied walking beside Mister Warwick, "He just has a brat nailed up from time to time. He says the occasional skewering keeps the rest of the brats on their toes. He notices something like the brats aren't as sharp as they might be getting their faces down into the dirt when we pass and then the next slut who crosses him gets skewered. No particular reason; Dad would say the brat didn't love him enough."

Richard turned and clouted me hard across the side of my head.

"Listen good boy," he said satisfied he had my attention and speaking to me in the simplified argot known as brat speak(1), "not enough brat work hard, not enough brat does as told. Brat got to love Master like good slut. Brat got to love Master for real not just say. My Daddy look into brat's mind, knows if brat says truth. It hear brat?"

"Thank you Master, Please Master, it hear good Master, Thank you Master." I whined my reply.

With my head still ringing from his blow I still had the sense to reply in brat speak. To do otherwise I knew would be to earn myself a flogging for being cheeky.

We returned to the drive where the pony-girls stood shifting uneasily between the shafts of the trap. Their naked bodies glistened with sweat and their backs ribbed with bloody wheals. It was clear that Richard had driven them hard and had not spared the whip. I was hitched once more by my neck chain to the back of the trap. Richard cracked his whip and the pony girls set off at a brisk trot. I laboured along behind them my legs and chest aching, my feet, sore from my running bare foot, hurting more with every step I was forced to take.

After running along the top of the hill over open ground the drive fell sharply away with trees growing close on either side. Then the trap turned a sharp bend and came out into bright sunlight. The trap's wheels crunched as the tarmac of the drive gave way to gravel that dug deep into the souls of my bare feet. On each side of us were formal gardens where hoards of naked brats laboured among beds of brightly coloured flowers. Hearing the rattle of the approaching trap they turned to face the drive before dropping to their knees and pressing their faces to the ground in an apparently spontaneous display of humility and affection. The trap rattled on between two seas of naked shoulders and bare upturned bottoms.

The trap swung to the left and I saw in front of us a large country house. A few seconds later I felt flagstones under my feet and the trap drew up in the shade of a massive porte cochere.

A brat stepped out from between two pillars and took the reigns of the trap from Richard.

"Take it round to the stables slut," Richard ordered. "Tell the head groom to have the whores watered and fed and dress the cuts on them. I'll be round after lunch to look at them. Cut along now."

The brat grinned and trotted off leading the trap apparently delighted to be of service to his young master.

Richard ran up the broad flight of stairs to the two large double doors into the house followed more slowly by Mister Warwick leading me hobbling painfully behind him on my sore feet. Two brats pulled the doors open for us. They dropped to their knees pressing their heads to the ground as we passed.

A vast marble floored hall stretched out in front of us. It was filled with the almost musical sound of low soft whimpering. In the distance I could see a staircase sweeping upwards. The hall seemed to rise through the full four stories of the house and was capped by a dome that gave it extra height. The gloom of the hall was lessened by eight tall lamps that ran in a double row from its door to the foot of the staircase Each lamp was an exquisite work of craftsmanship. Tiptoe on a low marble pedestal four naked boys, fashioned out of gleaming silver, faced inwards and bending back, strained upwards to hold, with their hands extended high above their heads, a large glowing glass bowl.

"What a magnificent object," Mister Warwick explained stopping to admire one of the two lamps immediately inside the front door, "and so realistic. I could almost swear I can see the boy's chests rise and fall as they breath."

Richard picked up a light cane lying ready to hand on an occasional table. Grinning broadly he cut one of the silver boys hard across it's glittering rump. The cane etched a thin scarlet line across the glistening curve of the brat's bottom and a squeal of pain rose shrilly over the low moaning that filled the cavernous hall and echoed strangely round the empty dome above us.

"Brat flesh is a good deal cheaper than silver," Richard remarked cheerfully. "The brats are oiled and coated with silver glitter and then do an eight hour shift. This lot were fastened to the frame only a couple of hours ago. You should be here when they've done six hours they'll be moaning and crying much louder as the cramps get them. There's some really weird sound effects with the echo."

"How do you keep them in place?" Mister Warwick asked. "I'd have thought that'd be near impossible if the cramps got really bad."

"There's an iron frame they are attached to Sir and well, put your hand up between that slut's legs and see what you can feel."

"There's a metal bar there," Mister Warwick said.

"Yes, it's attached to the central frame in such a way that both its length and height can be adjusted. It's sort of L shaped with the bottom of the L bout 9 inches [23 cm] long with a round nob on the end of it, bit smaller than a golf ball. It's fastened to the frame with the bottom of the L facing up and when the time comes for the brat to be put on he's lifted on to it and the bar goes up his arse and it's height is adjusted so he can just touch the marble pedestal with the tips of his toes. There's no way the slut is going to get down from there without being lifted off."

"I can see how that works," Mister Warwick said peering inquisitively at the lamp with its support of exquisite naked boys each one bending back from the waste, his bottom clenched with the effort, straining upwards with his hands stretched high above his head, "but how, having slotted, as it were," he grinned briefly, "the brats onto the frame do you keep them in position?"

"Well there's a thin belt round each boy's waist that's fastened to the central column of the frame and pulled tight, drawing him inwards and his hands are attached to a metal ring that's also part of the frame of the lamp, which runs round the glass globe. To see he keeps his shoulders and head still and thrown right back there is another a bar jutting out from the frame. It has an attachment that cups the brat's chin and it is set to force his head back as far as it will go."

"Ah I see how it works," Mister Warwick observed withdrawing his hands from between the brat's legs and giving his silvered bottom a valedictory slap. "Bit of a soft number though for a slut I would have thought. No doubt a bit uncomfortable being stuck up there but it's only for eight hours and that's a very short working day for a brat."

Richard laughed.

"Each team of thirty two brats does eight hours labour in the gardens." he said leading his way further into the hall. "Then they are cleaned up and prepared, which takes about an hour in itself, before doing eight hours attached to the lamp frames. Dad doesn't believe in spoiling brats or letting them be idle and like he says he likes to get his money worth."

As we moved forward a green baize door at the back of the hall, tucked unobtrusively away to the side of the great staircase, opened and a heavily built man dressed in the uniform of the traditional British butler, tail coat, striped trousers, white shirt with wing collar and black bow tie, appeared, followed by two brats with their hands cuffed in front of them. What struck me looking at the boys was that they were remarkably similar to each other, sturdy, well built dark haired lads about thirteen years old.

Footnotes:

1. Brat Speak: Bobby describes this accurately. It is a simplified and debased language spoken by brats and used by free citizens when talking to brats. Its use has become more and more common as the years passed. As the Tribute system established itself more firmly it became increasingly accepted that all but the first born child was destined for a future of service and that anything beyond the most rudimentary education for them was a waste of resources.

   This was initially a spontaneous development but the Tribute Executive quickly recognised it had certain inherent advantages. First by limiting a brat's vocabulary it limited its mental horizons. Simple language means simple thoughts. A brat could not wish for freedom if it did not know the word for freedom. Second Brat Speak properly structured would help the brat to remember and accept its inferior status.

   In this respect it might be worth analysing Bobby's reply to Richard.

   1. "Thank you Master" This shows Bobby very properly bears no resentment at being hit. It also on a deeper level expresses the brat's gratitude for being allowed to serve and to live. (For brat's indeed the terms serving and living are coterminous)

   2. "Please Master" This refers to the future and Bobby's hope that everything he will do and say will please his betters - a very understandable if rather forlorn hope considering the painful consequences of his failing to do so.

   3. 'it' Brats are taught not to refer to themselves in the first person but as 'it', 'brat', 'slut', 'filth' or some other appropriate term. This rule was introduced by the Tribute Authorities in order to force the brat to remember, acknowledge and accept that it is inferior to and different in kind from all members of free society.

"Hello Watkins," Richard replied grinning cheerfully. "Why have you got Tim and Tom in irons. I hope the sluts aren't in real trouble."

"No, no Sir," Watkins assured him, "they're not in trouble but your father said he had a gentleman lunching with you today and he thought it would be an idea to stage a good brat fight to entertain him."

"But why the cuffs Watkins? They're two well schooled brats. I'm sure they'll perform well for us like good little whores and won't need forcing."

"Oh yes Sir but the Master said to pump a good dose of Aratest (1) into both of them and after that I thought it was best to restrain them Sir. We don't want them damaging each other before the fight."

I noticed that as Watkins' attention was fixed on his conversation with Richard, behind his back the two brats were scowling ferociously while taking surreptitious kicks at each other shins with the sides of their feet.

"I'm sure they will both put up a good performance for us. Are they to have weighted fists?"

"Yes Master Richard but not until after the first half hour. You know with weighted fists brats can break a nose or crack a jaw or rib with one blow and the fight can be over too quick to be really entertaining for the ladies and gentlemen to watch and, while the brats hit harder with weights, they tire quicker."

"Well sluts," Richard said jovially, "this is your chance to show your Master and Mistress how much you love them. Which of you loves them most and is going to win?"

Memories of that thing nailed to the skewering post flooded my mind. Richard had said the brat had been skewered because it did not love its Master enough. The two brats suddenly became still and looked frightened. Then they burst into speech.

"Please Master this brat Master, this brat is going to win Master, thank you Master," they chorused urgently.

"Please Master this brat loves Master most and it'll smash that boy cunt Tommy's mouth an knock its teeth down its throat with the weights no problem thank you Master," one of the brats yelled desperation evident in its voice.

"Please Master, " Tommy screamed raising his voice in an attempt to drown out the other brat, "Timmy's lying Master this slut loves Master most an it fight best too. Timmy's stupid slut, Master."

And the two brats hurled themselves at each other; their hands being manacled in front of them they were reduced to head butting and bighting.

Grinning broadly Watkins grabbed them by their collars and held them apart at arms length. The two brats hung there wriggling in his grasp.

"Stop that you stupid little turds," Watkins ordered shaking the two boys hard.

Richard stepped quickly back to the occasional table just inside the door. Picking up the cane resting there he turned back and raising it over his shoulder lashed it down repeatedly across the brat's flailing legs. The boys quietened and Watkins returned them to the ground releasing his grip on their collars. They stood glowering at each other their bare chests heaving as they panted for breath

"Sturdy well matched pair of brats." Mister Warwick, who had been staring at the two naked boys with his head on one side like a man appraising cattle at an auction, said, "I'm looking forward to watching them fight."

"They're Watkins's boys and I think he's very proud of them," Richard remarked

"Not mine Master Richard," Watkins said hastily, "they belong to your father. They were only my freedom fee to him (2). Well Timmy was, he was the first out and Tommy was my wife's not that we were married then. Mister Williams arranged that later."

"And as for being proud Master Richard, I was proud to be your father's brat back then just as I'm proud to be his butler and head of his household now and the father of two sluts that fear and respect and love him just as a well schooled brats should and I doubt if there are any brats better schooled than them, raised in your father's house. They haven't had a fragment of clothing on their body since the day they was born and not a days education and if you ask me the world would be a better place and brats happier and better contented if they were all brought up the same way."

"Way I remember it their bottoms were red most of the time and they were crying," Richard remarked grinning at the two naked brats who stood head bowed and silent, knowing better than to speak while their betters discussed them.

"And you had a great deal to do with that Master Richard and very grateful they should be too. Brats need to be taught respect and it's never too early to begin. I remember how you went for them when you were hardly five with the buckle end of your belt when you caught them trying to thieve food from the cat's plate and I expect they do too, their little bottoms all bloody and howling their eyes out and your Father saying 'a lesson learnt at four years old is never forgotten'."

"Very true," Mister Warwick said nodding his head sagely, "but tell me what's the significance of those lines burnt into the flesh on the outside of their right arms above their elbows."

"Oh that's one of Mister Williams's ideas. He's always thinking of ways to simplify and improve the administration of the Tribute system. What with house, garden, pony, coursing, fighting, gate, lamp and all the other brats we have on the estate we have a couple of hundred of the little brutes at least and its very difficult to keep track of their release dates without lots of paper work. Well he thought about this and it occurred to him that since, as you know Sir, the Tribute brand (3) already shows whether a brat is allocated to the Spring or Autumn draft (4) it would only be necessary to add an indication of the its length of service and you could determine the time of its release without reference to any paperwork. We brand them with what we call a 'release stripe' on the first of June or the first of September as appropriate each year of service. All you have to do is to count the number of stripes on a brats arm. If there are eight he is due for release, simple"

"All the information you need is there on the slut's body. We have been able to get rid of a lot of paper records. Mister Williams is lobbying now to have the practice introduced through out the Tribute System."

"Only problem I can see is your scheme won't cover brats like Bobby here who are tributed after their eighth birthday. By the time Bobby makes sixteen, if he does, he'll only have served two years and therefore have only had two stripes branded on him."

"Oh he's fourteen is he? That's quite simple we'll burn six stripes into his arm over the next few days and he'll be right after that."

Remembering the agony of the Tribute brand being burnt into my bottom the prospect of having my arm branded with six separate stripes forced an involuntary whimper from me.

"Be quiet," Mister Warwick snapped jerking sagely on my neck chain, "don't interrupt your betters when they're talking filth."

"Well if you'll excuse me Sir," Watkins said, "I'd better be getting on," and he hurried away taking the two brats with him.

At that moment the front door burst open and Mister Williams strode into the hall. When I had last seen him in the owners' paddock at the boy coursing I had thought him a rather comical self important little man. Now I could see nothing funny about him at all. He was the man to whom I was going to be sold. Who would have absolute power over me. A man who inflicted the agonies of skewering on some poor brat because he was held not to love his master. He was an object of terror and awe. Instinctively, without taking an instant to think, I dropped to my knees and pressed my face to the ground like some savage worshipping a cruel all powerful pagan God.

"Mister Warwick I am sorry not to have been able to keep my appointment with you. It is very good of you to wait and I just hope lunch will be some compensation for the inconvenience."

"The inconvenience was very small and it was extremely kind of you to offer me lunch."

I could here the two men talking over me as I grovelled naked on the floor at their feet.

"Quite a trivial matter really; yet another roof collapse at one of my collieries. It was only necessary to authorise the sealing off of the collapsed level and source a draft of another fifty brats to replace those buried alive but everything seems to take so long nowadays. This new government is strangling initiative and the entrepreneurial spirit with its interference."

Mister Williams sighed.

"So that's the slut you told me about on the telephone," he continued.

"Yes – stand up Bobby, quick now, let the gentleman have a good look at you."

I tried to scramble as quickly as I could to my feet but, with my hands bound behind my back, that was not quick enough for Mister Warwick who urged me upwards with a sharp kick up my bum.

I stood in front of Mister Williams my head bowed feeling his cold eyes scanning my naked body like a farmer viewing a bullock at the mart. Being looked at in that way was terrifying and humiliating but at the same time strangely exciting and my cock hardened and stood to attention.

"The slut's certainly remarkably like that boy you had with you at the coursing," Mister Williams remarked, "of course stripped and branded and with his head shaved he looks different at first glance but when you look closely he's got the same shaped face and slim body with a firm rump and strong thighs. I took a good look at that boy and I can tell you that this whore is the spitting image of him."

"First cousin, much the same age, I saw you were struck by my young friend and when I discovered this slut's father was desperate for money I thought I could do both you and him a favour by buying the lad and offering him to you," Mister Warwick said trotting out the same old story we had agreed on.

"And make something on the turn yourself no doubt," Mister Williams laughed. "No don't worry, business is business, you deserve some recompense for your trouble and reward for spotting an opportunity. I like a man who makes the best of his chances."

"There's a minute or two before lunch. I may as well look the slut over now. I can tell you if he has really got a virgin boy cunt and your price is not too extortionate I'll have him. Let's have the cuffs off him."

I felt Mister Warwick behind me fiddling with the locks of the cuffs.

"This'll have to come off," Mister Williams remarked pinching my foreskin, "Brats are filthy enough brutes without having that to collect dirt and sweat. I can't imagine why brats aren't cut the same time they are branded."

I felt sick. It hadn't occurred to me that I might be circumcised. Dad just took his brats as they came in that respect. He said a brat worked the same whether it had a foreskin or not so why should it bother him and I had assumed that Mister Williams's attitude would be the same. Now I knew it wasn't and yet more pain and humiliation was to be inflicted on me.

My wrists came free of the cuffs. I moved my hands so they rested flat against the side of my thighs. I was careful not to clench them or to try to use them to cover my nakedness or to check Mister Williams's hands as they roamed over my body.

"His wrists have been badly bruised," Mister Williams exclaimed grabbing hold of one and pulling it towards himself .

He lent forward to get a better look at them and then jabbed a thumb into the soreness. Taken by surprise I yelped and tried to pull my wrist away.

"Bobby," Mister Warwick roared and landed a stinging blow with the back of his hand across my bottom.

"I do apologise," he said speaking hastily to Mister Williams, "the brat was only branded yesterday and he's not been fully schooled yet."

"All the better," the man replied, "it's more fun that way. More important is whether he is right for service. We'll soon see."

Saying this he grabbed my head between his two hands and tipping it back forced me to look up into his eyes. His eyes held mine, cold and remorseless, they seemed to drill down into my head. I felt at that moment that he knew every thought, every emotion, in my mind. He had the eyes of a reptile. They bored deeper searching, probing, seeking for signs of resentment or resistance. I tried to take my eyes away from his but I could not. I whimpered and black tide of terror flooded my mind (5).

Mister Williams swore and stepped hastily to one side.

I looked down. I was standing in a pool of gently steaming amber fluid. Panic gripped me. I had peed myself. Perhaps some had splashed on Mister Williams. I knew there was no point in saying I was sorry. Who cared if a brat was sorry? I knew what Mum did if one of our house brats made a mess. The same as she did if a puppy or kitten did. She rubbed its nose in it, except with a brat she made it do something else as well. I didn't have to think. I knew what I had to do. I dropped to my hand and knees and began to lick the floor clean.

"He's not the first brat who's peed himself here. The important thing is he has the right instincts," I heard Mister Williams say above me, "and I can see from here his arse hasn't been stretched. Lovely tight hole he's got that'll be a pleasure to rip open. Most fourteen year old brats in that position, the hole would be gaping up at you, well most brats full stop, but his is closed tight. How much do you want for the slut?"

"Well a pretty fourteen year old brat with an unused boy cunt is a unique property; Normal values cannot apply. Four hundred pounds."

"Four hundred," Mister Williams laughed, "that's certainly not a normal price or any thing like one. I'm not buying a pony just a brat. A hundred and that's over the top."

They began to bargain over my price as I crouched at their feet licking my pee up from the marble floor.

Mister Williams proved to be a hard bargainer. He raised his bid to one hundred and fifty but would not budge above that telling Warwick that if that was not enough for him he could "take the slut away and see if he could find anyone who would offer more." Mister Warwick was protesting loudly against this ultimatum when a tall dark lady appeared in the hall. Slim and coldly beautiful she wore as high Tribute fashion dictated, a low cut bodice that showed off the swell of her breasts, a short skirt made of the finest and most supple leather together with a pair of high heeled shoes that showed off to advantage her long and shapely legs.

"When," she demanded her voice sweet but with an edge of steel to it, "are you going to get round to coming into lunch Clive."

"Immediately, straight away my dear," Mister Williams stuttered. "we were on our way dear but got held up discussing a matter of business."

"Well I am sure it must have been an important matter of business to warrant upsetting the whole domestic routine of the place.

"And I'll accept your offer now Clive," Mister Warwick said hastily. He probably could see the deal slipping away from him.

And so in less than five minutes my fate was decided and I became the property of Mister Williams.

"Leave that brat," Mister Williams snapped booting me up the arse before turning to lead the way into the dining room.

"You don't mean that you kept me waiting so that you could dicker over the price of a brat," Mrs. Williams exclaimed, her disgust at such a perversion of the natural priorities apparent in her voice, and swept off.

I followed behind Mrs Williams and the rest of them through the double doors into the dining room.

I hadn't been told to do so but I was sure I was not meant to stay alone and idle in the hall. This is often the way with a Tribute brat. He is not told exactly what to do but has to work out for himself what his master wants and has to do it knowing if he has got it wrong he will beaten.

The dining room was a large high, ceilinged room, with tall windows looking out over lawns beyond which a lake shimmered in the midday heat. No doubt there would be somewhere a large mahogany table in keeping with the size of the room but this had been banished and replaced by a smaller more modest item more suitable for a family meal than a full scale banquet. This table had been placed just inside the door and four places had been laid on it, two along the side facing into the room and two more, one at either end. In front of the table a large square had been formed by inserting short metal posts into holes drilled in the marble floor and stringing cable between them.

In opposite corners of this square, still mouthing threats and insults at each other, knelt Tim and Tom, their wrists now freed but tethered by chains attached to their collars to rings set in the floor.

A sideboard stood against the wall to one side of the table loaded with cold meats and plates. Two bare footed serving boys dressed only in the shortest of white tunics stood at either end of the board their heads respectfully bowed. Slightly to one side of them stood the dignified figure of Watkins the butler keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.

I hesitated not sure of what I was to do next.

Mister Williams rounded on me.

"Kneel there," he ordered pointing to a rubber mat decorated with rows of pointed metal studs set just inside the door.

I knew there was no point in arguing or pleading and began to lower myself gingerly onto the mat with its cruelly glittering studs.

I was not quick enough for Mister Williams. He was on me in a moment and kicked my legs away from underneath me sending me crashing down. I cried out as the pointed metal bit into my knees.

"Get in position you stupid slut," Mister Williams screamed at me, kicking at the inside of my thighs, "knees wide apart and hands down by your sides, show everybody what's between your legs – not that there's much – back straight, shoulders back.'

"And get your head down," he added clipping me hard on the back of my head.

Mrs Williams stepped behind me and grabbing my ankles pushed them apart so my shins went back at right angles from my spread thighs.

"Get your bum down so it touches the floor," she snapped and placing her handson my shoulders threw all her weight on forcing me downwards on to the iron studs.

"Start as you mean to go on is what I always say," she remarked ignoring my yelp of distress. "The idle little sods only take advantage if you accept anything less than perfection."

"The idea is," Williams explained to Mister Warwick, "that the studs digging into the slut's knees and bottom will keep him alert and ready if anybody wants him. Otherwise the lazy little brute would probably dose off after half an hour or so kneeling there."

"Now let us all sit down and have our lunch."

"I am afraid," Mrs Williams said, "it's a very simple meal. Just cold ham and salad with strawberries and cream to follow. Anything more in this hot weather would I thought be too much."

"The ham though is quite special," Mister Williams remarked, "Jambo Siera, I get a few hams every year when I go over to the Picos d'Europa for the boy sticking at the beginning of June. That is far the best time for the sport in my opinion before the fresh drafts are put out on the hill. The brats are thinner on the ground but having over wintered they are hardier and run farther and straighter till the end when they will turn and weave with the best of them. "

He carved three generous slices of ham onto a plate and one of the serving boys carried it over to Mrs Williams. The brat's tunic was so short that the slightest movement lifted it up his body giving tantalysing glimpses of his tight little rump, hairless balls and tiny prick.

"Can I go for the full three weeks next year Dad. Don Christopher said I was natural hunter when I speared my brat. You know he did. You were there."

"I was there Richard but its much to cold for you to be up there for more than a couple of days. You'll have to be patient and wait until you are bigger."

"There were brats up there all the time and lots off them were younger than me."

"Brats don't feel the same way as free boys Richard. You can stay up for three days and no more."

"I can understand," Mister Williams continued speaking to Warwick, "why Richard is so keen. There's something very exciting being up there in the high country at that time of year with the snow still on the ground. You know you're the first party up there since the Autumn. The air is sharp and clear, behind you the column of naked brats bent under their loads, the snow covered ground stretching ahead of you. The only sound the moaning of the wind and the occasional sharp crack of a whip."

"Then the sharp rush of adrenilin when you spot a bare foot print in the snow and know there is a chance of some sport. The bay of the brat hounds as they pick up the scent and the sight, perhaps miles ahead of you, of a small figure, brown against the white snow running for its life, trying to make for the nearest cliffs where it knows you cannot follow it. Then it's a race, just you and your pony and the hounds against the wild brat. Maybe he makes the cliffs and clambers up them out of your reach and you have to turn away and call the hounds off but another time he won't be so lucky. He hears the thud of your pony's hooves and the bay of the hounds behind him. In a last desperate attempt to escape he jinks and turns trying to win just a few seconds extra life. His strength is going, his legs are aching from fatigue, his lungs bursting as he struggles for breath. You lower your spear aiming it, trying to hold it steady, levelled just above the point where the curve of his rump melds with his back. The hounds have outpaced him, they are turning him, leaping up at him, snarling and biteing. They turn him. You feel the jolt as your spear strikes and your weight and the weight of the galloping pony drives it home. You let go of the spear before you are tipped from your saddle and, hearing the scream as the brat claps his hands to his stomache, pull hard on your reigns as the pony careers forwards."

"You trot back to where the brown naked body lies tumbled on the ground its blood staining the snow red. You're all alone there in the mountains, just the pony the brat hounds and the dieing brat for company. You roll the brat onto its back and hold it down on the ground with one foot. It looks up at you its eyes already dull as life leaves it. You take hold of the spear butt with both hands and pull hard. You throw the spear on the ground and then drawing your hunting knife from the scabbard at your belt you give the brat its coup de grace, slitting its throat. You sling the carcass over the back of your pony and trot back to join the column of porters. A hard run and a clean kill – there's no better feeling."

"That's not very complimentary dear," Mrs Williams said and they all roared with laughter.

"Some wine?" Mister Williams asked. "Chirouble, slightly chilled. I don't think you want anything heavier than a Beaujolais in this hot weather."

A serving brat stepped forward and filled Mister Warwick's glass with red wine. As the brat bent forward to pour the drink his tunic rose up his back. I saw Mister Warwick move his hand to fondle the slut's bottom and then check himself.

I felt a moments pang of jealousy and then reminded myself I had no right to do so. I was, for the moment, merely a brat, just as the serving boy was, both of us were there to serve and be used by our betters and Mister Warwick was undoubtedly one of them. And then I wondered uneasily was it really just for a moment. If Mister Warwick was to desert me or forget about me it would be for ever.

"You fancy the brat?"

Mister Williams's voice cut through my thoughts.

"Yes indeed, a very attractive slut," Mister Wrawick replied.

"You can have it after lunch if you want."

"That's very good of you. And that tunic makes him more attractive. I'm surprised though, I thought under the Tribute Code, brats were forbidden clothes."

"So they are," Mister Williams replied, "but the question is what are clothes. If everything that is put on a brat is clothes then the harnessess that you put on farm brats drawing carts or ploughs would be clothes and therefore illegal which would be ridiculous. I argue that anything that obscures or hinders access to a brat's bottom with any degree of permanency is clothes. These tunics as you can see do neither and in my view do not constitue clothes."

"As for the brat. I've got dozens just like it. Do anything you want with it. It's there to be used."

"Dozens like it is no exageration," Mrs Williams said bad temperedly, "we've got many more than we really need. Nasty grubby little brutes, and serving no useful purpose eating their heads off."

"And you've got another one there," she continued nodding at me, "whateve do you want that one for. Miserable looking animal. He won't be any use for anything."

"I bought him because he's fourteen year old and not yet had his bottom fucked. He's big and strong enough for me to have lots of fun with," Mister Williams replied leering at me.

"Well just take him out to your playroom in the stables before you start enjoying yourself with him. I don't want to be disturbed by his screams."

I couldn't help looking appealingly at Mister Warwick. When I started off on this adventure I knew I would have to put up with a lot of rough treatment but this was threatening to develop into something far worse than anything I had bargained for and certainly, I told myself, far worse also than anything Mister Warwick had imagined or he would never allowed me to get into it in the first place. It would be embarrassing for him but surely he would come to my aid now and draw the adventure to an end. Everybody there apart from him thought I was a brat. They would take no notice of anything I said. Only Mister Warwick could help me. He stared back at me blankly and I realised I was going to get no help from him.

"Ther's one good thing from your point of view Mum," Richard said cheerfully, "apart maybe that brat won't last long. Dad's going to have Tim and Tom fight with weighted gloves so that should get rid of at least one of them."

"Little Tim and Tom having to fight with weighted gloves, poor little pets," Mrs Williams cried dramatically her eyes glittering with excitement,. "Oh the poor little things. Just think of their little fists smashing into each others bodies, cracking ribs, breaking jaws and noses, splitting lips, knocking teeth out, and they're such pretty little brats, all to amuse us; so sad; so cruel."

"Watkins bring the little dears here please so I can make a fuss of them before the poor darlings fight."

Watkins leaving his place by the side board slipped the brats from the two rings to which they were tethered and led them, taking care to keep them well apart from each other, over to their mistress. It seemed to me that the two lads were showing no great eagerness to go to her.

"Look at the little cuties," she trilled turning sideways in her chair to face the two naked twelve year olds as they stood shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "All bashful and nervous."

"Come here my lovelies," she said patting her spread thighs.

The two brats somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to me, seated themselves on her knees sitting bolt upright facing each other. She put her arms round their shoulders and pulled them to her so that their heads were resting against the bare swell of her breasts above her low cut bodice.

"Stay there sweeties," she said releasing her hold of the boys' shoulders.

She encircled the brats' wastes with her arms her hands moved down between their legs and she began to finger their balls and small but stiff cocks.

"How they've grown," she exclaimed addressing the room in general. "It only seems yesterday that they were crawling naked in the filth round the swill bins crying for scraps because they were so hungry."

"And you threw scalding water over them Mum and called them thieving little rats. God how they screamed," Richard said cheerfully and laughed.

"Watch your language boy," his father rapped.

"They had to be taught," Mrs. Williams explained reasonably. "They couldn't be left to think just because they were hungry they could help themselves out of the garbage pail. That's the sort of slackness that ends up with a brat being skewered."

"They're big brave boys now and they're going to show their Mistress how brave and strong they are by fighting each other and their pretty faces will be all bruised and bleeding," and bending her head she kissed the two brats in turn on the mouth clearly excited by the thought of blood.

"They are big," Mister Williams remarked, "Watkins tells me they're both producing brat juice. That's one of the reasons I'm putting them up to fight each other. I want to pick the strongest and bravest to breed from."

"You hear that sluts," Mrs Williams trilled, "one of you is going to be allowed to make brats for Master. That's worth fighting for," and she popped two good chunks of the special ham into the brats' mouths.

The ham salad was followed by strawberries and cream. Mrs Williams continued to fondle the two brats on her knees and to feed them morcels of food from her plate. The iron studs pressed painfully into my knees and my muscles screamed out in protest at my at the strain imposed on them by my unnatural position.

One part of me wished that the meal would end so that I could relief the cramp that increasingly racked my body. The other knew that while things might be different after the meal they would not be better.

Footnotes:

1. Aratest an anabolic steroid designed primarily for animals given by injection One of its side effects is greatly increased aggression.
2. Freedom fee This aspect of the Tribute System was I think touched on in the original Tribute Series. Briefly a brat who survived its release remains in a state of tutelage to its old Master until the later of his reaching the age of eighteen or the producing of a healthy whelp acceptable to it's old Master to take his place as a brat. This whelp is known as its father's "freedom fee". It is the responsibility of its father to look after it till the age of eight when it he surrenders it into the service of his old Master. Often, as obviously there is in the case of Watkins, there is a continuing and close relationship between a brat that achieved its freedom and its old Master. In that case the "freedom fee" whelp or whelps may be brought up as part of the old Master's family although in a manner appropriate to their future servile role. Both Tribute boys and girls who achieve release are subject to this condition and thus when two ex-brats are mated they will need to produce two "freedom fee" whelps for them both to achieve full freedom. The rule here is the sex of the first acceptable whelp determines to which of its parents it is allocated and the second whelp being matched with the remaining parent whatever its sex.
3. Tribute Brand This has often been mentioned in this series but never described. It consists of a closed oblong (symbolizing that the obligation to service of the brat onto whose hide it had been scorched is all embracing and inescapable) with inside it the initials TS (standing for Tribute Stock thus covering both Tribute boys and girls) with to the right of these initials a roman numeral I or II see note below.
4. Spring and Autumn Drafts With the almost worldwide adoption of the Tribute System and teams of Tribute officials conducting a rolling program of Tribute levies through out the year, an estate such as Mister Williams' with several hundred brats on it would very probably have several release dates coming up each week. This would cause potentially a good deal of waste of management time and disruption to the running of the estate. To alleviate this problem the Tribute Executive decided to follow the same practice with brats as is followed with race horses. That is to deem the birthday of an animal born in any year to be the 1st of January of that year with the following differences so far as brats were concerned; the date the brat was branded was substituted for its birthday; brats branded in the first half of the year were allocated a notional branding date of 1st June (the Spring Draft) while those branded in the second half of the year were allocated a notional branding date of the 1st September (the Autumn Draft).
5. Aloysius Horne in his book The Ivory Coast in the Earlies published in 1927 describes Arab slave traders behaving in a similar way to Mister Williams with potential Negro slaves. He said that he thought they were searching for some 'spiritual defect' (which is one way of putting it) which would make them rebellious and difficult to handle. According to Aloysius Horne if an Arab found that a Negro did have this 'defect' he would kill it. Whether Mister Williams would have done the same to Bobby if he found the brat suffered from a similar 'spiritual defect' we do not know but of what we know of he character of the man it seems likely.

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