Zelamir

Slave Boy Hunter

A Tribute Boy Story

Book Two, Chapters 26-31

The mobile rang and rang. It hadn't occurred to me before but perhaps Mr Warwick was not there. Perhaps he was off on business somewhere. He did go away quite frequently sometimes for days on end. What would happen to me then? Once Lowther's body was discovered the place would be flooded with police. The murder of a free citizen was a serious matter and was treated as such. Every brat found within a half mile of the murder would be seized and eventually disposed of by way of a mass skewering (1). Once daylight came I would not be able to lurk among the rocks on the breakwater without being spotted. Then it would be the holding pens and a few days later a skewer through my guts and a long agonising death. Unless that is I was identified as the boy who had been with Lowther that night and therefore a prime suspect for his murder and there were enough people that had seen me with him. Then simple skewering would be too easy and quick a death. The best thing I could do if Mr Warwick didn't answer the phone was to swim out into the Bristol Channel until my strength gave way and I drowned.

I was at the point of giving up when there was a click and Mr. Warwick was on the line.

"Hello who's that?" His voice was thick with sleep.

"Mr Warwick it's me Bobby… I mean Robert."

"Robert… Robert," there was a moment of stunned silence.

"Where are you? What's happened?"

"I've runaway from Mr Williams. I 'm down on the breakwater at Cardiff Bay. I've got what we need to deal with Mr Williams. But I need your help. Could you come and fetch me before I'm spotted or anything."

"Sure I will Robert. I got to get dressed and drive down to you. Say forty-five minutes. Where are you precisely on the breakwater."

"I'm in among the rocks at the land end."

"OK, keep out of sight till I get there. I'll flash my lights to let you know it's me and then don't come running to me just show yourself briefly and wait for me to come and get you. We've got to make it look as though I'm picking up a brat on the run in case someone spots us."

The phone went dead.

I threw it as far out to sea as I could. I knew that the police could track a mobile phone and I didn't want to be caught with Lowther' s telephone. It would raise awkward questions if I was caught with the phone of a murdered man even if I had resumed my free status.

I settled down to wait. The minutes dragged by. I could hear the soft murmur of the sea against the base of the breakwater. Otherwise there was silence. It was the early hours of the morning. Cardiff's streetlights lit the sky t across the bay to the East but not the faintest hum of traffic came from the slumbering City.

Having thrown the mobile telephone in the sea I had no way of measuring the passage of time. It seemed that many more minutes had passed than the forty-five promised by Mr Warwick. I tried to tell myself that there was nothing to worry about. Mr Warwick would be with me before the forty-five minutes had passed and there was no reason to suppose that anyone else should find me before he turned up.

I became aware of a change in the quality of the light, a steadily strengthening orange flicker, and the faint hum of an approaching engine. Peering from behind the shelter of my rock I saw an open backed pickup truck, its headlights full on, swing into the square at the base of the breakwater. Rotating double hazard lights on its drivers cab threw flashes of orange light across the paved area. I could make out the four police cadets and the two dog handlers sitting upright in its open back. It began a leisurely circuit of the square it's spotlight, mounted on the roof of the driver's cab between the two hazard lights, probing the shadows.

I ducked down behind my rock. With any luck it would stay on the built up side of the square and not come anywhere near the breakwater. Anyway Mr Warwick should be along any moment and he would see the police cadets off. I strained my ears hoping to hear the sound of his approaching car but heard nothing apart from the lazy slough of the sea against the breakwater and the muted chug of the police pickup.

The pickup was very close now. I cowered back into the shadows trying to make myself as small as possible. The hum of its engine was not only much louder it was coming from a different angle. I realised that the truck was above me, that it was being driven along the top of the breakwater. I scrambled to put the rock between myself and the truck but was not quick enough. The spotlight caught me momentarily in its beam and a shout went up from the truck.

I heard the commander from his place beside the driver rap out orders and the clatter as the cadets and dog handlers leapt out of the truck. They were above me and had dogs which could easily out run me over anything but the shortest distance. My only chance was to make a dash for the sea. It was nearby and there was a chance I thought that I would make it before the dogs got me. I wasn't a bad swimmer and I thought that if I could get to the sea I could easily out swim the dogs.

Then I remembered the deed of adoption that I had been holding in my hand since I had got away from Lowther. I hesitated looking round desperately for somewhere to hide it. Quickly I pushed it into a crack at the base of the rocks and then hurled myself down the breakwater towards the sea. There were more shouts above me and I heard the dogs' barks growing louder as they closed on me.

I think if I hadn't delayed to hide the certificate I might have made it. I was at the very edge of the water when I felt a heavy blow on my back that sent me down on my face into the sea. There was a moment of utter confusion as I floundered in the shallow water as, pin pointed by the spotlight as I vainly struggled to break clear of the dogs. One had sunk his teeth in my left arm. The other crouching low and never taking his eyes from my face, was slowly circling me, teeth bared, its hackles raised, uttering a low moaning growl.

"Filth," the commander was using the loudhailer, "if you don't want to be dog meat stand still, stop struggling, else I'll have Regan rip your neck out."

I froze and out of the surrounding darkness one of the dog handlers stepped into the pool of light thrown by the spot. He took hold of the dog that gripped me by the arm.

"Let go Grinder," he commanded and the dog released his hold.

I could hear laughter and jeers coming from the dark void outside the circle of light that was centred on myself. Driven on by blows and kicks I staggered up the steep slope of the breakwater.

"Get down on your knees you filthy little turd," the patrol leader roared through his loud hailer. "Down on your knees and get your head down to the ground. You need to show some proper respect for your betters shit face."

A cadet stepped out of the surrounding darkness and cracked me across my shins with his truncheon. I howled with pain and collapsed on my knees. Another cadet drove the heel of his boot between my shoulder blades driving my face down to the ground.

In the distance I heard the hum of an approaching car. I was sure I could recognise it, Mister Warwick was coming at last. The only question was would he be in time to safe me or only to witness my further humiliation.

This at least was something I could do something about. Getting my feet together underneath me I darted off along the top of the breakwater in the direction of the approaching car.

The cadets, taken by surprise, were slow to react. There was confused shouting behind me and then the commander's voice shouting to let the dogs loose. By this time I was at the edge of the waterfront square. Brightly lit by rows of lamps it stretched out in front of me completely deserted. I could still hear the hum of the approaching car but it was still some way off.

I could also hear the shouts ant running feet of the cadets behind me. I had no choice but to run forward across the wide empty space of the square hoping I would reach the car before the cadets and more frightening still the dogs could run me down.

I didn't think I had much of a chance and I was right. I had not got a quarter of the way across the square before a dog crashed into me from the side knocking me flying.

I landed face down on the paving stones. I lay there for a few seconds, winded, listening to the thudding boots of the approaching cadets. Maybe I could win a little more time, maybe I could hold the cadets off until Mr Warwick arrived. He couldn't be far off now.

I was almost up on my feet again when I heard a low throaty growl. There were the two German Shepherds crouched on either side of me, baring their teeth, the hair on their necks raised like fighting cocks' hackles.

A sudden blow from a cadet's truncheon knocked me back to the ground. As blows and kicks thudded into me I rolled on to my side and got my head between my knees and my hands clasped on the back of my neck.

"That's enough. I don't want the slut killed just yet. Get him to his feet."

It was the captain of the patrol.

Rough hands grasped me and I was dragged upright.

"Let go of him."

In the cold light of the street lamps I could see the cadets standing round me with drawn truncheons grinning expectantly. There was nowhere now for me to run to. My only hope was that Mr Warwick would arrive to safe me quickly. I could hear the hum of the approaching car's engine quite clearly now. Surely he would not be too long.

"Dogs back on their leashes," the Captain ordered.

I stole a quick glance at him. Slim and tall, immaculate in his uniform of long tan trousers and dark khaki shirt, he stood with his legs t slightly apart, the light glistening on his highly polished black boots, I quickly looked down to the ground and stood trembling waiting for whatever came next. Naked, bruised and terrified I could not but feel his authority.

The silence stretched out. The fear grew and gripped me harder. My legs seemed to give way under me and I found myself kneeling on the paving stones. I could hear the cadets shifting about around me and one of them giggled but the Captain remained silent and unmoving. Terror swamped my senses. Instinct took over from reason. I shuffled forward on my knees and bending down pressed my lips to the ground at his feet.

"That's better," at last he spoke.

"Get your elbows on the ground and your bum high up in the air. Come on bitch boy. One of you boys helps to show him."

I felt a hand push in between the back of my thighs pushing upwards. My bare toes scrambled on the ground for purchase as I straightened my legs and lifted my bottom in the air.

"Bring Ripper forward and let him get a good sniff of that."

I shivered as I felt something firm and damp pushing hard into the cleft of my bottom.

"Get your ankles apart, come on bitch, let Ripper get a good sniff at your boy cunt."

I told myself that Mr Warwick couldn't be long now and all this would end. I only had to hang on for a few minutes longer and he would be here. I wanted to defy the Captain, to Jump to my feet and stop the dog's investigation of my hole but I could not do so. The moment of my liberation might, surely was, close at hand but until then I was held captive by the power of his will and the instinctive obedience beaten into me during my time as a Tribute brat.

Tears of humiliation streaming down my face I shuffled my feet apart. Ripper's damp nose pressed into my anus. Then he set to work with his tongue taking long deep licks at my partly open hole. Aroused despite myself by the beasts prying tongue I whimpered and pushed my bum back and upwards inviting deeper penetration.

"Ripper likes the taste of the bitch's hole Sir," one of the Cadets remarked with a giggle.

"The bitch is lucky to get its boy cunt well lubricated and it seems to be enjoying it. Time to get Ripper mounted though, we're due back in barracks in half an hour."

The dog's tongue was suddenly withdrawn from my hole. I heard his handlers voice urging him on to mount me. Then I felt his claws scrape my back as he climbed on top of me. The weight of his body pressing down on mine and his forelegs gripping my flanks just below my shoulders. His swollen penis probed my bottom urgently searching for the entry to my hole.

"Old Ripper seems to be having difficulty finding his way again Sir. I'll give him a helping hand."

I felt a hand push between the hounds thrusting pelvis and my bottom. A few seconds fiddling about and Ripper's cock was firmly lodged in my hole and the animal was driving it home with heavy thrusts of his hind legs, his paws scrabbling on the ground for purchase.

I heard a car door slam and the sound of running footsteps.

"Warwick, Executive Officer in the New Order Property Protection Executive. I have to ask you to surrender that brat to me."

"You can certainly have him but I'm afraid you can't have him now. You'll have to wait till Ripper has finished with him and he gets unknotted. Nothing'll get Ripper off a brat early once he's fairly into its bottom."

"Bring Medusa over here," the Captain continued turning his attention to the cadets. "She shouldn't be denied her bit of fun."

Urged on by her handler Medusa pushed her head under my arched body and sniffed at my balls. Fearful of her sharp teeth I struggled to pull away from her. However pinned under the weight of Ripper's thrusting body I was going nowhere.

She nuzzled my testicles sending waves of excitement through my body. Moaning softly I responded to her touch wriggling my naked body against Ripper's pounding weight working my bum around his swollen cock. He in his turn, panting with effort, responded increasing the tempo and force of his thrusts. The world darkened around me, I was conscious only of the black tide of blood rushing through my veins.

Then my brain cleared and I was back in the real world Ripper lying inert and panting on top of me and Medusa eagerly licking my spent cum from the front of my stomach.

The excitement gone I felt an overwhelming sense of shame and disgust. I had behaved just as though I was really a Tribute brat driven by animal urges without pride or shame. It had not been easy for me but I should have refused to submit to such treatment. A free boy would have done so whatever the consequences for himself. Warwick could only think of me with contempt. I tried to pull away from Ripper but the animal's still swollen cock remained firmly jammed in my hole. I could only stay with my bum thrust up in the air underneath the panting animal. Overcome by a sense of my own shame I began to cry quietly.

"Look," one of the cadets said laughing, "bitch boy is crying."

"Brats often do afterwards," the Captain said. "It's the moment when they understand what they have done and what that makes them."

A couple of minutes later Ripper pulled himself clear of me and stood waiting patiently for his handler to put him back on the leash.

"There you are Mr Warwick," the Captain said, "the brat's all yours now. "

"Mount up boys we're going back to barracks."

Slipping his hand inside my collar Mr Warwick pulled me to my feet and led me over to where his car stood. Behind me I heard the cadets scrambling back on board their truck.

Mr Warwick pulled the passenger door open. The passenger seat had been removed and a stout iron ring with a length of chain attached to it bolted to the floor of the car.

"Get in quick," Mr Warwick ordered sharply and flipped me hard across the back of my head.

As I knelt on the floor of the car Mr Warwick lent forward and murmured, "sorry Robert got to make the performance realistic with those cadets about and maybe watching."

"I didn't want to be fucked by that dog," I whispered back. Suddenly I felt it very important that I should tell Mr Warwick that although I knew that a real free boy would never have let it happen whatever the consequences to himself.

"Don't worry, I don't think you had much choice Robert." He replied as the cadet's truck drove of giving a honk on its horn at it passed.

"Now get your head down we've got to make this look right."

He locked the free end of the length of chain bolted to the car floor to my collar. The chain was so short that I could not look over the dashboard. All I could see was the thick black plastic square under my knees. Feeling the warm filth dribbling slowly down the inside of my thighs I reflected it was as well it was both waterproof and washable.

"Where's the adoption deed you said you had Robert?"

"I hid it at the seaward side at the base of the first big rock you come to going along the breakwater."

"OK I'll be right back."

Mr Warwick slammed the door of the car and I heard his steps recede in the distance.

I suddenly felt very tired. I had been at full stretch since I had walked out of the Williams's Enterprises Building the previous afternoon. Now I had reached Mr Warwick and safety the tension was gone and all I wanted to do was sleep.

I had found the evidence, which would allow us to part Mr Williams from a sizeable chunk of his fortune. I had played my part now it was up to Mr Warwick to arrange my re-appearance as a free boy and to negotiate the best settlement possible with Mr Williams.

I had really done quite well. Maybe rather too well when it came to preteen ding to be a Tribute brat. Reality and pretence sometimes came uncomfortably close together. I would have much preferred if I hadn't been fucked by Ripper. I felt that really a true free boy would surely not have submitted himself to that whatever the circumstances but Mr Warwick had said that it was alright t and I had had no choice and he was older and more experienced and no doubt knew better than me.

There were footsteps and the driver's door opened. Mr Warwick slipped into the driver's seat.

"I've got it," he said, "but I'm sorry I just can't wait to see what we've got here. I'll just take a quick look and then I'll get you home and transform you back into a free boy."

There was a rustle of paper and then a short period of silence.

"You're right Robert it's dynamite," he said, "well done boy."

He put the car into gear and drove off.

Kneeling on the floor, Mr Warwick's bulk looming comfortably over me I felt completely safe for the very first time since I was sold as a Tribute brat to Mr Williams.

I lay my head against Mister Warwick's thigh and dozed.

That was the gist of the boy's story told me as he lay half dozing in my spare room bed. I have had to edit it somewhat as he kept dropping off to sleep and loosing the narrative thread. He also frequently lapsed into using the debased argot of the servile classes, not surprising perhaps after spending nine months as a Tribute brat.

I had got Robert home, washed and fed him and got him to bed. Clothes and the removal of his collar and cock ring could wait till the morning. The next priority was sleep but before I could allow him that I had had to hear his story for I needed to know to decide what I should do next.

I admit I was not too pleased when I was woken by Bobby's desperate telephone call in the small hours of the morning. It was not only that it was very late and he had disturbed me in the middle of a sound and refreshing sleep. It was also because his call I thought threatened to resurrect what I had come to realise was a rather dangerous enterprise that I had thought I had safely put to one side.

The essence of being a successful entrepreneur is the speed to which one adapts to changed circumstances. On that basis I am rather proud of how quickly I revised my plans once it seemed clear that Bobby was going to be absorbed permanently into the servile population. I did not waste time in futile attempts to extricate the boy. Indeed looked at dispassionately his effective elimination was not without it's advantages from a business point of view. His approach to the distribution of the putative profits from our joint venture had been distressingly mercenary not to say plain greedy. With him out of the way there would be all the more for me.

I felt however the need for some sort of partner. Williams could very well cut up nasty when I tried to tap him and having someone who knew where and with whom I was would be some sort of insurance. It might mean having to share the profits but whatever we agreed now could be open to revision later.

After a little though I decided that John Bishopston was the obvious choice. He had done well since we had been in the army together rising to the post of Deputy Director of Internal Security (UK) in the New Order Executive. He might well know already or be able to find out the details of Williams's disreputable secret. An additional advantage would be that in the event of a disagreement about splitting the profits, a common cause for contention in my experience between partners, he would not be able to pursue the matter too vigorously without prejudicing his highly paid official position.

His reaction when I telephoned him was less than enthusiastic, some lingering resentment about some money that he felt I owed him from way back, but I persevered and put my proposal to him.

"Well William," his voice down the telephone line sounded weary, "God knows why I'm telling you this. I certainly don't owe you any favours, but I would leave Williams well alone."

"But he's rich and there is some sort of story about him…"

"May be – well he's certainly rich but I would advise you not to tangle with him – he's got too big to be threatened by little people like you and me. He has contributed over five million to the New Order Central Fund in the last calendar year and is a personal friend of the President."

"But…"

"Carry on if you want to, if anyone deserves finishing up in some boy brothel with his balls cut off and stuffed in your mouth you do, but don't expect me to get involved."

And with that he put the receiver down on me.

I took John's comments seriously. I didn't of course take the one about my deserving to finish up in a boy brothel and the rest of it literally. That was clearly a mere expression of resentment at some imagined sharp practice on my part. No what impressed me was that John, whom I knew from our past association was as keen to turn a profit as myself, had rejected the opportunity to share in the apparently risk free stripping of wealth from a fabulously rich industrialist.

I had seen how Williams continued to apply the strict standards of the past on his estate, skewering brats with impunity. How he appeared to be able to command the services of the local police cadets. It seemed to me that what John had told me about Williams's contribution to The Party and his political influence might very well be true. If so I did not want to make an enemy of the man.

Undoubtedly safer and perhaps in the end almost as profitable would be to build on my initial meeting with Mr Williams to convince him that I would, with my experience in handling and disciplining Tribute stock, make a valuable contribution to his business as a consultant or independent trouble shooter. I had made considerable progress on these lines having identified and stopped a racket in one of his collieries where the manager was inflating the mortality rate of the brats and then selling the resultant excess to local farmers at knock down prices. Indeed he had recently hinted that he might have a job for me looking after his mining interests in Russia where he was engaged in a joint venture with a consortium of local businessmen, which was giving him some concern.

Now though Robert had reappeared with what appeared to be incontrovertible evidence that Williams had chosen to break one of the fundamental rules of the New Order. Evidence that, if we dared to use it, would put him completely in our power unless he was able to use his wealth and political influence to destroy us.

In short Robert's reappearance had put me back in the position of having to choose between the highly profitable but extremely dangerous course of confronting and blackmailing Mr Williams or the safer less profitable one of continuing to cultivate the man with a view to obtaining employment from him. But then it occurred to me wonder whether I really had a choice at all. Would Robert having spent an extremely unpleasant nine months masquerading as a Tribute brat to obtain the evidence to allow us to blackmail Mr Williams let me simply drop the matter so that I could cosy up to the man. I thought not.

At that moment Robert, who had fallen into a deep sleep, suddenly started awake and sat bolt upright in bed looking around him with a startled expression.

He saw me and grinned.

"Forgot where I was for the moment. I was expecting Master's cock up my bum. This is the first time I've been in a proper bed for anything else than a good fucking since I was branded."

And he raised his arms above his head and stretched luxuriously allowing the bedclothes to tumble down round his waste leaving his chest and shoulders bare. The broad metal slave collar round his neck glinted in the light from the bedside lamp.

He collapsed back on the pillows and rolled over on his side his back to me. The blankets and sheets fell away and I was struck by the seductive beauty of his adolescent body, the narrow shoulders, the delicious curves of his bottom. The Tribute brand burnt deep into his tanned flesh just below his left hip and the many angry welts that had been scored across his deeply tanned flesh excited me with their hints of servitude and availability and I felt myself harden.

But, I told myself as I sat there gazing at the boy's naked body so enticingly displayed, he was not a Tribute brat. The brand so clearly etched into his bottom, the collar clamped round his neck, the bruises on his body were deceptive and had to be ignored.

I struggled to concentrate my mind on finding a solution to what appeared to be the insoluble problem produced by Robert's reappearance. Should I use the information Robert had gained to blackmail Williams sharing the proceeds with him and of course incurring the enmity of a very powerful opponent? Alternatively should I ignore this opportunity and continue to try to cultivate Williams and try to exploit my acquaintanceship with the man in this way. This looked like being by far the safer option and was already looking as though it would yield dividends but I couldn't help but think Robert might well make serious trouble if I followed it.

I couldn't see an answer to the problem although there had to be one if only I was sufficiently imaginative to see it and could somehow give the matter my undivided attention which I was finding very difficult to do with Robert's naked young body so seductively stretched on the bed beside me.

He moved in his sleep parting his legs and half rolling on to his face. I got a clear view of his darkly gaping hole. It could only be the well-used boy cunt of a Tribute brat. No free boy would have a hole so stretched and abused. Robert I reflected was not going to have an easy time adjusting to life as a free boy. His gaping hole declared his servile status just as clearly and as indelibly as the Tribute brand burnt into his flesh. The debased argot into which he was constantly lapsing did the same.

He stirred again and his anus seemed to wink knowingly at me.

Then suddenly my brain cleared and I had found the solution to my problem. It was so simple I wondered if I had missed something so I examined it carefully from every angle looking for flaws but I could find none.

Even Bobby, if you took into account his real and not his supposed or assumed interests, benefited if you considered the matter dispassionately. He looked like a Tribute brat and sounded like a Tribute brat. He was to all intents and purposes a Tribute brat. He would never now be at ease or happy pretending to the status of a free boy. He might very probably not see it himself but anyone looking at his situation impartially would recognise he would only find fulfilment in the service of a strict and exacting Master. And what service was open to him. He must surely feel proud and grateful to be able, a mere brat, by sacrificing his kidneys and his life to give his Master the gift of life.

Of course Bobby would be in for some sort of punishment from Mr Williams for running away but as the source of his Master's replacement kidney when required it was unlikely to be the skewering that he so richly deserved. Rather a severe whipping would appear likely and although Bobby would not enjoy it would not with a bit of luck kill him and would no doubt do him good, making him a better humbler more obedient brat.

Looking at it now I recognised I had always felt guilty for depriving Mr Williams of a brat that after all I had sold to him and on which he had spent good money establishing he bore a perfect match for his own diseased kidney.

As for myself I would avoid making an enemy of Mr Williams. Moreover, the return of Bobby to Mr Williams could not but increase the favour in which he viewed me and bring the prospect of my reaping a concrete benefit from that carefully nurtured sentiment appreciably closer. And while Bobby would no doubt initially think himself hard done by and bear me some resentment he would be powerless to do anything about it and in time would no doubt learn to accept his fate.

Indeed both from the point of view of my plan and of the brat itself the sooner those lessons began the better. Anyway I found it intensely irritating to see the slut lounging about on a bed, enjoying the luxury of cotton sheets and blankets, as if it was a free boy rather than a piece of servile shit.

One of the advantages of my profession are that its basic tools are readily available in the house should they be wanted. A heavy but supple leather strap complete with a gleaming metal stud at its business end lay to hand on the bedside table, a bundle of stout plastic ties beside it.

I pounced on the slumbering boy and had him flipped over on his back a plastic tie tight round his wrists securing his hands in front of his body before he was fully awake.

He stared up at me his eyes wide with surprise and confusion.

"Mr Warwick…" he began.

Enraged at his insolence I smashed my fist into his face.

"Over on your belly bitch and spread your legs," I snarled and hit him again.

I didn't bother to tell him that he should not speak until he was spoken to and that he should address me as 'Master'. He knew both of these things already and if he had forgotten them he would continue to get hit until he remembered.

"Over on your belly slut," I screamed thrusting my face within inches of his own.

I seized hold of the strap and slashed it down across his naked chest the metal scoring a livid line across the tightly drawn flesh of his rib cage. The boy screamed as beads of scarlet blood welled from his broken skin.

Bobby was slow, perhaps even reluctant to move, and I landed three further cuts across his chest before he managed to get himself over on his face.

Then and I don't know if it was bloody mindedness or sheer stupidity, the slut just lay still as if there was nothing else required of him.

I slashed him hard twice across his bare back.

"You'd better sharpen you're act boy," I snarled laying a third stripe across his narrow shoulders, "or I'll flay the hide off your back."

"Mister Warwick what are you doing. Please I'm Robert. I'm not a Tribute slut."

He began to sob wildly.

He was lucky that I heard him and nobody else. A Tribute slut who claimed free status and was caught, even in these lax modern days, finished up pinned by a steel peg driven through its intestines to an execution post to die in slow agony.

I had a use for him so I was merciful.

"For Christ's sake you stupid cunt," I shouted at him, "you insolent little turd. You get your bum up in the air and your legs apart NOW and no more of this rubbish about not being a Tribute slut."

"I'm not, I'm not," he screamed and tried to rise from the bed.

Grasping his collar with my left hand I pinned him down on the bed while lashing him across his bottom with the strap.

I must say I thoroughly enjoy these occasional tussles of will with a rebellious brat. They can of course only end in one way but they are highly entertaining while they last from the first defiance to the moment the boy, battered and bleeding, makes his tearful submission.

I regard these as occasions to savour and generally I take my time, laying the strokes on with deliberation, letting the excitement mount within me as the boy squirms and howls under the lash, the contortions of his naked body being far more arousing to my mind than the mannered gyrations of a dancing boy. However it was now the early hours of the morning and I had things planned for the next day.

I raked Bobby's rump a half dozen or so more times with the strap. He roared and howled as the metal tips ploughed bloody furrows across his tender flesh. His shrill shouts of defiant denial had long since given way to screams of pain.

Holding him face down on the bed I twisted my hand in his collar choking off the air to his lungs. I felt his body go limp as the strength drained from him.

"Now Bobby that's enough of that nonsense about not being a Tribute boy, " I said quietly, "you part your legs and get that bum of yours up in the air like I told you."

"Good boy, wider Bobby and now push that sweet little bum of yours up like a good little fuck boy," I murmured, relaxing a little my hold on his collar and allowing him to drag some air into his lungs as I saw the first signs of compliance.

I looked down at the boy's open bottom, seeing his hole gaping at me and laughed.

"Bobby how can you say you're a free boy with a well-used hole like that," I exclaimed. "Mr Williams must have fucked you two or three times a night to get it as loose as that."

I sucked my thumb and then jabbed it into his bottom. He squealed, there was an instants resistance as I forced his anus open and then I felt his bottom close around it as I pushed it into him till the side of my knuckles were pressing against his bottom. Pressing down as hard as I could I twisted my thumb inside him. The brat threw his head back. A strange keening sound came from the boy indicating in equal measures excitement, fear and pain.

I undid my belt and pulled my underpants and trousers down over my hips. I felt the air cool against my bare bottom as my clothes settled on the floor around my ankles.

I looked down at Bobby stretched out naked over the bed, his legs spread, his bruised and bloodied bottom raised in a gesture of total submission. I felt no pity or fondness for the brat just a desire to possess and dominate. I spat on the palm of my hand and smeared saliva over my cock, feeling the blood pounding in its raised and swollen veins. I dug my two thumbs into his bottom pulling his anus lips apart. With a series of brutal thrusts I hammered my cock into the slut the force of my assault driving the brat bodily up the bed.

It did not take me long to achieve orgasm and soon I was shooting my man juice into the sobbing whore's guts. I lay still on top of the brat panting for a couple of minutes and then pushed myself off him. My prick came clear of his body with a soft wet plop.

I grabbed Bobby by the back of his collar and forced his face into my crutch. There was a moment's hesitation then I felt his lips close around my cock and he began to suck away the shit, and other bodily fluids that encrusted it. He cleaned the filth from my balls and cock and then sucking and pulling gently with his teeth he set to work teasing clear the congealed lumps of cum stuck in my pubic hair.

I looked down at the top of his head as he knelt on the ground in front of me his face buried in my crutch. It looked as though, I thought, that he had learnt his lesson and his resistance was at an end. That of course was no reason to loosen up on the boy. Far from it, a lesson once learnt must be endlessly repeated lest it be forgotten.

Indeed Bobby almost immediately showed he had much yet to learn.

"Please Master," he said sitting back on his heels and looking up at me, "what are you going to do with me…"

Furious I slammed my fist into his face. I caught a glimpse of his mouth spurting blood as the blow knocked him backwards sprawling on the ground.

I was furious with the brat. I suppose he had thought that having had his bottom fucked by me he could expect some degree of leniency. If so he was soon disappointed.

I slammed my fist into his up turned face. He fell backwards and rolled onto his side. He clasped his hands to his face blood from his smashed lips welling from between his fingers and trickling down his fore arms.

Seizing him by his pinioned wrists I pulled him to his feet and dragged him from the room. At the top of the stairs I stepped back and planted a heavy kick on his rump. Unable to use his hands to safe himself he staggered forwards and tumbled down the stairs finishing on his hands and knees at their foot. I hurled myself down after him while he struggled desperately to get to his feet. He had hardly got his feet under himself before I was on him. I set to work with my feet. My first kick caught him on the side of his head knocking I'm sideways. I followed this with a series of hefty kicks into his ribcage. Then grasping him by the collar I dragged him along the corridor to the door to the yard.

I forced him over to the row of holding cages illuminated by the merciless glare of the security lights. Four of them were occupied and I could see through the thick iron bars the naked brats lying huddled on the bare concrete. The brats sensing my approach cringed back in the furthest corners of their cages, trying to make themselves as small as possible, staring up at me with wide fearful eyes.

Stopping outside an empty cage I pulled open the door and, kicking his feet from under him, almost threw him into it. He stumbled forward, lost his balance and crashed down onto the concrete floor. Before he could do anything I grabbed him by one ankle and dragged him towards me so that I could fetter his ankle to the ring set in the floor.

Having secured the brat I drove a few hefty kicks into his stomach and ribs. I stepped back stamped on his hand and left the cage. I wanted to make sure that Bobby understood our old relationship was at an end and that so far as I was concerned he was just another brat with whom I could do anything I wanted. From the way he was sobbing as I bent down to lock the cage door I thought I had got that message across.

I hoped I hadn't broken anything but if I had it wouldn't matter too much. His real value and importance was as a source of a healthy kidney for Mr. Williams and I had wanted to get into his thick brat brain that I cared nothing about him and he could look to no favours from me.

There's something about roughing a brat up that always excites me and so it was on this occasion.

Turning to walk into the house my eye was caught by the boy in the next-door cage. He was a pretty little slut with a nice firm round bottom, a rather dusky complexion and a mass of dark curls. I had picked him up a couple of days ago, just as it got dark, thieving from the bins at the back of one of the out of town supermarkets. A favourite hunting place of mine when I had no specific high value prospect to pursue, As on this occasion, there was always a chance of picking up a run-away scavenging for food.

He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin in the furthest corner of his cage gazing out at me, his brown eyes wide with fear. I unlocked the cage door and beckoned him to me. Reluctantly he rose to his feet and shuffled across to me. The chain attached to his left ankle clinking as he dragged it behind him.

He stood in front of me shivering his head bowed submissively his hands down by his sides, his boy's cock and hairless balls shrunk almost to nothing by the chill of the summer night.

I unlocked the heavy iron cuff about his ankle and taking him by the ear led him into the house.

After breakfast the next morning I took the dark haired slut back to the cages with Timmy trotting behind carrying two pails of brat swill. The brats were all awake, pressed up kneeling against the bars at the front of their cages gazing expectantly towards the house. The only exception was Bobby who was awake but who laid on the ground at the back of his cage staring listlessly into space. As the boys saw me approach they shuffled back on their knees from the bars and pressed their faces to the ground; except again Bobby who continued to lie unmoving on the ground apparently oblivious to my approach.

It seemed to me looking at the kneeling brats that their whole bodies where quivering whether with eagerness to signal to me their submission, or from fear or excitement. I could not tell. It reminded me of an article I had read recently in the Daily Post saying that research carried out by the University of South Gloucestershire had established that brats regarded their master as their Gods and this should be encouraged as should every other means of keeping the servile population properly submissive. The article suggested that one way of doing so was to introduce a symbol representing the authority of the master for the brats to worship in the form of gigantic male genitalia cast in metal or carved from wood.

I returned the little slut to his cage dismissing him with an approving slap on his sweetly curved rump for he had proofed an expert little whore.

I made a mental note to delay informing the slut's owner that I was holding his brat so that I could enjoy his hot little body for a couple of days longer and I picked up the length of rubber hosing lying conveniently to hand on the punishment bench and turned my attention to young Bobby.

I swung the door of his cage open and stepped inside it. I looked down at the naked boy his face pressed to the ground at my feet his bare bottom raised in the air. His back was streaked with blood and covered with bruises. I walked round the brat till I was behind him and stood silently inspecting the boy's raised and open bottom. His boy cunt was a dark hole surrounded by a ring of sore red flesh. Not surprisingly really for in the last twelve hours he had been raped by Lowther and the dog and myself. I certainly had not been gentle with him and I didn't expect the other two had been either.

I raised the length of rubber hosing over my right shoulder and brought it down with all my strength across his invitingly displayed bottom.

Among the advantages of the hosepipe as an everyday instrument of punishment is that it hurts but does not break the skin nor, generally, bones. That it hurt was shown by Bobby's reaction to my blow. He jerked forward as if he had been jolted by a powerful electric shock and let out a howl of pain.

"Get back in position Bobby," I said quietly and stood over him waiting patiently while he did so.

"If you want not to be hit Bobby," I said patiently, "you must learn not only to do the right thing but to do it quickly."

I landed three more hefty blows across his already heavily bruised bottom and then stood back.

"Timmy," I ordered throwing the key to the little slut, "unlock the brat's ankle and get him out of the cage."

Timmy grinning caught the keys and eagerly started forward to obey me. Then he checked confusion plainly showing on his face.

"But this is Master Robert," as he blurted out.

It was Timmy's turn to be hit. He squealed as I slashed the hosepipe across the front of his thighs.

"You stupid turd," shouted at him, "how can a filthy naked piece of filth like that be Master anybody. It's just a worthless tribute brat same as you. Let's have no more of this stupid Master Robert nonsense the useless cunt is just a slut called Bobby."

"Now unlock his ankle like I told you."

Timmy bent back to obey me but I could still see the puzzlement on his face. I remembered how he had worshipped Robert and how Robert had used and exploited him in the past. I knew that it would be a constant cause of confusion and puzzlement to Timmy unless I could firmly dispel from his mind any thoughts of Bobby as a free boy. It would also confuse Bobby and keep alive memories of his freedom and hopes of recovering it if Timmy kept harking back to his memories.

"Come here Bobby," I commanded.

Bobby got a little unsteadily to his feet. I saw the narrow plastic tie about his wrists had cut into the swollen flesh of his arms. Blood was trickling down the back of hands and dripping on the floor.

"Back on your knees and look up at me."

"Timmy pee on the slut."

Timmy looking a little uncertain took hold of his little boy's prick between his finger and thumb and directed a stream of amber fluid at Bobby's face. Bobby made an attempt to look away but I quickly checked him with a hefty clout across his shoulders with the length of rubber hosing. I saw Timmy gained in confidence as his pee flowed over Bobby's face and coursed down his bare chest to make a widening pool of gently steaming liquid round his knees. It would seem he had lost all his remembered awe of the once free boy and was now able to enjoy repaying the many humiliations Bobby had visited on him in the past in kind. By the time he was shaking the very last drops of urine from the tip of his cock onto Bobby's upturned face he was smiling. That smile broadened into a positive grin when I ordered Bobby to lick the stuff up.

"Please Master," he said after a few minutes of licking on Bobby's part, "please he isn't getting everything up. He's left some here by my foot."

"So he hasn't Timmy, you'd better get down on your knees to help him."

Of course Timmy knew better than to argue and he was down on his knees at the instant but he wasn't quick enough for me not to notice that the smile had been wiped from his face.

I stood with my hands in my pockets watching the two naked brats licking the pee from the paving stones, feeling, if truth be told, rather pleased with myself and rather pleased with life. The brats were good looking young animals, although at that precise moment you had to look hard at Bobby to spot that under all the bruises, and totally broken to my will. I was sure I was on the verge of making a good deal of money for Mr Williams was extremely rich and would surely show his gratitude in a big way to the man who restored the source of his replacement kidney to him. And the sun was shining.

I waited until I was satisfied that the two sluts had licked up the last drop of pee and then leaving Timmy to dish out the brat swill I marched Bobby over to my car. I flipped open the boot, he was not to be allowed the luxury of travelling in the front of the car. The, sun had been up for some time by then and we were met with a blast of hot air.

I had had the car specially adapted so that I could use it to transport livestock. A three-sided metal box filled the boot, which could hold 3 or 4 medium sized brats if you squashed them in. A hinged lid made of thick metal bars provided security. A pipe leading from a hole at bottom of the box and through the floor of the boot provided some rudimentary drainage.

Bobby seemed to find it difficult to clamber into the boot with his wrists tied together in front of him. However vigorously encouraged with the length of hosepipe he eventually managed to do so. I closed and locked the barred lid and slammed the boot shut.

Helped by Timmy I fed the brats and then, hobbled and chained together by their necks, set them to work scrubbing the paving stones on their hands and knees under Timmy's supervision. I knew this would keep them occupied till dark, my instructions being, as they always were, to scrub the yard until it was spotlessly clean and when that was done to do it all over again and again and again and again until the light failed.

It was now 11 o'clock in the morning and very unusually for Wales the sky was totally cloudless. The paved yard reflecting the heat of the sun blazing down on it was becoming almost unbearably hot. I went onto the house to escape the heat confident that Timmy would keep the other brats hard at work.

I settled myself in my study and caught up with some paper work for a couple of hours till lunch. After I had eaten feeling drowsy due to the heat and no doubt because of my disturbed night I lay down on my bed and dozed intermittently.

The curtains, drawn to keep the sun out, fluttered in the slight breeze. Through the open window the occasional sharp crack of leather striking bare flesh followed by a shrill squeal of distress and told me that Timmy was busy keeping the brats up to the mark.

It is very hard for a true entrepreneur to really relax. All the time he is reviewing the past or trying to forecast the future seeking to spot opportunities or dangers that he might previously have missed.

So it was with me on this occasion but search as hard as I could I could not find much to worry about. I had admittedly had to give up my earlier plan to relieve Mr Williams of a considerable chunk of his wealth but maybe that considering what I now knew about his political connections and power that was never a realistic prospect. Safer by far and more certain was my current plan to restore Bobby to his rightful master which, because Bobby carried his replacement kidney amounted to saving his life. And should surely prompt something particularly spectacular in the way of a reward. I had been cultivating Mr Williams since I had sold Bobby to him and also his son Richard and I thought I could say I got on well with both of them. It would be pleasant if my efforts in that direction were now to be materially acknowledged.

Nor was there anything to regret morally about my plan. Admittedly initially I had wavered when Bobby reappeared with concrete evidence that made it a practical proposition and considered reviving my original plan to blackmail Mr Williams. However the dangers of pursuing such a course convinced me that it was not worth the risk. Now I could see that restoring Bobby to his Master was the right course of action not only in practical terms but also morally. To do otherwise would be to undermine the rights of property and to strike at the foundations of the Tribute System which was the Guarantor of law, order and indeed by extension of civilization. True Bobby's induction as a Tribute boy may have been somewhat irregular but he was branded, had a collar clamped round his neck and raped; the common and defining experiences of a slut. Indeed he would never have been able to adjust to the life of a free boy after his nine months as a brat and he would not have been happy if foolishly I had given him the opportunity. It was really better for him to be returned to Mr Williams. He would of course be whipped very severely and maybe even skewered but after all he had only himself to blame, he should not have run away in the first place and it would certainly be wrong for me to try to limit Mr Williams's right to discipline the slut as he thought appropriate.

I dozed until the heat of the day was well past before strolling back out into the yard.

I noticed with amusement that the bottom of the little dark haired slut which had given me so much pleasure the previous night was particularly badly marked. I suppose it was only natural that Timmy was jealous of him after I had preferred the boy to himself. The lad raised his head for an instant and stole a pleading glance at me. I saw his cheeks were smudged with tears.

"Timmy," I said loudly, "that slut has raised his head. Six across the idle little turd's backside to teach him to keep his head down and concentrate on his work."

I didn't bother to look back but as I walked up to my car I heard behind me the unmistakeable sounds of a brat being beaten.

I got into the car and started it. Timmy, abandoning for the moment the enjoyable task of disciplining the curly haired slut, ran to the double gates to the yard to pull them open for me. I swung the car out onto the lane. Soon I was driving past the farm where Bobby had grown up. His parents still lived there. They had never given up hoping for Bobby's return. Indeed Mr Jones, Bobby's father, paid me a monthly retainer to search for the boy.

He was working in a field of stubble beside the road with an eight-brat team drawing a heavy harrow. The brats were well matched for weight and size, harnessed in pairs on either side of a central shaft, their wrists shackled in front of them to two sturdy cross bars They panted as they strained against the traces, their chests heaving as they struggled for breath, their naked bodies glistening with sweat.

The brats were already showing signs of distress although they had many more hours to work. Their ankles were flecked with blood were the coarse stubble had torn their unprotected skin. Two of the brats had blood trickling from the corners of their mouths where the steel bits had torn them. Shoulders and rumps were freshly marked by the lash. Mr Jones walked behind the harrow holding their reigns in his left hand, a heavy stock whip in his right. I could hear his harsh voice urging the team on to greater efforts, his threats and curses punctuated by explosive cracks of the whip. Sometimes the lash would snap over the brats heads or close to a bare rump or shoulder, so close that I could not see whether it had touched the brat or not, so close that the brat felt its wind and squealed in fear. Sometimes though it would bight flesh and the brat would howl and a further dark welt would mar its deeply tanned hide.

He came level with me and hauled on the reigns drawing the team of brats to a halt.

"Whoa there, whoa, stand up, stand up blast you."

Clouds of flies swarmed about the brats. They shifted uneasily and tossed their heads, as the flies attracted by their sweat and the moisture in their eyes and nostrils, crawled over them.

"Still no news of Robert," I said. "Nothing came of that possible sighting in Crawley I am afraid. I got the boy traced and it definitely wasn't Robert."

I though it wise to feed Bobby's father occasional items of news designed to keep his hopes alive of finding his son. This both raised his spirits and ensured he continued to pay my retainer. Yet another instance when one comes to think about it where my business interests and the greater good coincided.

"That's a disappointment but you'll keep looking for me won't you? I'm sure he'll turn up some time."

"I'll keep looking," I promised.

"Right I'd better be getting on. I've got to finish this field by dusk. "

"C'mon c'mon…" he called shaking the reigns.

The whip cracked and the eight brats, groaning with effort, threw their combined weight against the traces. Their bare feet scrabbled desperately on the loose earth of the field as they sort for purchase. Struggling to overcome the inertia of the harrow they bent forward into the traces, the muscles in their legs and buttocks rippling under their heavily tanned skin, their shoulders hunched as they strained to force forward the beams to which their wrists were manacled. Urged on by Mr Jones's shouts and the crack of his whip they threw all their strength and weight into the task until their shoulders were only a couple of feet above the ground. Very slowly, reluctantly, the harrow began to move. Mr Jones cracked his whip again and it's speed increased to a slow walk.

I turned back to the car and drove off.

I wondered as I moved away what Bobby's father's reaction would have been if I had told him that I had recovered his precious son and shown him the bruised and battered and no doubt now filthy brat, locked in the boot of my car. Would he have welcomed the naked boy with the Tribute brand burnt into his left hip and the slave collar locked round his neck back to his home. How would he have explained the sudden re-appearance of the boy in the form of a Tribute slut to his neighbours? "Here is my son, don't you think he is a pretty little whore, do you way to fuck his arse?"

More to the point would he have been prepared to pay me a bonus for having found the lad. Probably, I thought, he would have considered that I had been amply rewarded with the retainers he had already paid me. Anyway he was just a farmer, nowhere near as poor as he claimed he was for like all farmers if you listened to him talk you would think he was on the point of ultimate ruin, but quite unable to match the vast wealth of a business magnate like Mr Williams.

As always in these post oil shock days motorized traffic was extremely light; a few cars like my own and very little else. Lorries had almost totally disappeared from the roads being driven off them as a matter of deliberate policy to conserve oil and to preserve the environment by a combination of high diesel prices and targeted tax increases. Lorries were used only for the movement of very high value perishable goods otherwise they had been replaced by gangs of tribute brats who either trudged in endless columns along the sides of our roads bent almost double under their heavy loads or laboured between the shafts of sometimes massive carts in teams of fifty or more. The almost complete absence of heavy goods vehicles has allowed the relaxation of rules limiting the use of motorways to certain types of vehicles. Brat drawn carriages, from smart light traps drawn by a single high quality, high stepping, brat, bred and trained specially for the purpose, deep chested and strong legged, with its hide oiled and glistening with health, to heavier vehicles with teams of up to eight strongly built sluts trudging steadily away for mile after weary mile, were a common sight. Cyclists too and horse riders, all were allowed.

I was drawing near the entrance to Mr Williams's estate when I saw Richard Williams approaching me. He was riding a lively grey pony whose glistening coat and brisk gait that breathed quality and breeding. Richard sat his mount with practiced ease; boy and pony seeming to be united in a single being. His slim upright figure was dressed in a dark tweed hacking jacket, set off by a spotless white stock and light tan riding breeches, so closely fitting that he appeared to have been poured into them. Black riding boots burnished to a mirror like brilliance and a black riding cap completed his turn out. Boy and pony together spoke of privilege and wealth.

I stopped the car and got out of it to speak to him, with the light post oil crisis traffic you could do this safely. He reigned in his pony beside me.

"Hello Richard," I said greeting him, "I was just driving over to see your father."

"And I was riding over to see you Mr Warwick. I don't know if this is a good time to see Dad. He's furious. You know that brat you sold him, Bobby quite a nice looking fair-haired slut. The one that was selected to provide his replacement kidney. He's taken a runner. "

"Really," I said with mock surprise, "do you have any idea where he might be heading."

"No none at all Sir. That's why I was coming over to see you. I thought maybe with your line of business you might be able to recover him. I know Dad would be very grateful if you could get him back. He'll be needing the slut's kidney really soon."

I walked round to the back of the car and flipped the lid of the boot open. I started back as a blast of foul air hit me. Looking down through the bars I could see Bobby huddled, semi-comatose on the floor of the boot staring up at me through glazed eyes. Clearly the heat and the lack of fresh air had got to him.

"Come and look at what I have here Richard," I said.

Richard twisted in the saddle and slid to the ground. He looked round still holding his riding crop and the pony's reigns. He caught a passing brat across the bum with a heavy cut from his crop.

"Come here slut," he commanded, "and hold my pony for me."

The boy stopped and carefully easing his burden from his shoulders onto the ground took the reigns.

"Than you Master," he said with a broad grin white teeth flashing in a heavily tanned face apparently proud and delighted to be chosen to help a free citizen.

I admired the training and discipline that ensured such an apparent reaction from the brat when the reality was that it, like every other slut employed in porterage, had a time/distance target of two stages in fourteen hours, including two hours rest, a stage being eighteen miles [30 km], followed by ten hours rest. Failure to achieve these targets resulted in a whipping usually inflicted at the end of each stage at the rate approximately of one lash for every ten minutes by which a stage target had been missed. This system ensured that the brats were kept moving without the need for constant supervision. It also ensured that any given load was moved about the country at the rate of 36 miles [60 km] every twenty-four hours. Of course contractors did attempt to get more out of their brats but experience showed that these targets were about the most efficient in terms of brats consumed over total miles covered.

Richard of course was not the slightest concerned that the brat might get a bloody back at the next staging post. A free citizen who worried about such trivialities would have a miserable life. He simply turned his back on the slut and walked over to where I stood by the car's open boot.

The fresh air had revived Bobby somewhat and his eyes widened and a look of utter terror and despair crossed his face as he recognized Richard and realized that he was going to be returned to his rightful master. I had rarely seen anything so comical and I laughed aloud.

"He's been bashed about a bit," Richard said after a minute or two's silent inspection of the boy.

"A runaway Richard," I replied, "you really can't expect anything else."

"I suppose not. Can I have the slut out of there?"

"Of course you can Richard."

I undid the latch to the grid of thick iron bars and lifted it back. Bobby cowered away from me whimpering with fear.

"Out you come turd," I said and reaching down grabbed hold of the brat's slave collar.

Bobby's nerve cracked and he began to blubber. Between sobs he poured out a jumble of incoherent pleas for mercy, expressions of contrition and promises never to misbehave again and to be in future a good obedient brat. It was a pleasure to listen to the slut. It was clear the various traumas that he had experienced over the last couple of days had destroyed his spirit. In particular the long confinement in the car and the stifling heat of the boot together with the sudden appearance of Richard Williams and the knowledge that he would soon to have to account for his sins to his Master that he had so grievously wronged plunged him into total panic.

I dragged the whimpering wretch from the boot. He was unsteady on his feet and I slapped his face a couple of times his head rocking to and froe under the force of my blows, to steady him up a bit.

Richard stepped forward and gripping him by the chin tipped his head back and stared down into his face. Bobby seemed to have lost the ability to speak. All he could manage was a shrill animal wail. His legs seemed finally to give way under him and he hung from Richard's grip like an outsize rag doll.

"Dad says," Richard said speaking to me but still staring down into the brat's tear soiled face with cold hardly controlled fury, "he's not going to have this lump of dog shit skewered much as he deserves it. He wants to keep him alive until he needs his kidney and then he says the slut will know real pain in as they cut his kidney out of his living carcass. It will be as intense as anything he would have felt with a skewer pinning him to a post like a pin driven through the body of a live fly but not unfortunately so long drawn out."

"But the little brute is not going to escape immediate punishment. Have you heard of the frog Mr Warwick? It was an arrangement that they used to use back in the old days either in the Congo or in the Amazon basin, I'm not sure which, to punishment the natives if they did not fulfil their rubber quota."

"It's very simple and very effective. It's just a sort of frame with two parallel bars lifted about three or four feet [1-1¼ m] off the ground. A brat is strung up between them face down secured by his spread ankles to one bar and his spread wrists to the other and then whipped. The advantage of this arrangement is that the whip can be directed into the tenderest parts of the brat's body. But there is another advantage. The brat's body is so stretched and strained that it is often screaming in agony even before the first touch of the whip."

"Dad has promised that if we caught the slut he'll be put on the frog and I can use the whip on him. I really look forward to doing it. I'll cut the little brute's body to pieces with the lash."

"But what gets me most Mr Warwick is the way the ungrateful little shit treated Dad. We had him in our house. We fed and trained him. Made something useful out of the brute. Gave it a purpose in life. He knew that Dad was relying on having his kidney to replace his own when it eventually packed up. You'd think that any Tribute Brat would feel proud to be chosen to serve such an important purpose for a free citizen. But what does the turd do? It chooses to run away when it knows very well its Master who it was born to serve was relying on it for his very life."

Richard, keeping a grip of the brat's throat with his left hand, drew his right fist back and drove it twice with all the strength he could muster straight down into the brat's face. Then he released his grip on the slut's throat and drove a sharp right and left into his ribcage.

I moved quickly forward and grabbed Bobby's elbows from behind and held them firm so as to keep him on his feet while Richard worked him over with his fists. In normal circumstances I would have held Bobby in a full Nelson but he had soiled himself pretty extensively during his time in the oven that was the car boot and I didn't want to get any of his filth on my clothes.

Richard slammed a blow into the boy's crutch and stood back panting with effort. I released my rip on Bobby's elbows. He bent forward and collapsed onto his knees on the floor and then tipped forward onto his face. A shrill animal keening came from his huddled body as he dragged himself forward to kiss the free boy's boots.

"Do you mind if I take Bobby back to the house Mr Warwick?" Richard asked.

"Of course you can Richard."

"Thanks Mr Warwick. I'll see Dad knows you should get the credit but it would have a good effect on the other brats to see him brought back, especially in his current condition. They would know that the runaway has got the treatment it deserves and there won't be much sympathy for the little shit among the other brats either. Dad is a great believer in proxy punishments if he can't lay his hands on the brat directly responsible. He's halved the brat rations for the next fortnight and ordered six strokes of the heavy cane for every brat on the place. There are so many though that he's having the punishment inflicted daily, a dozen at a time. He's having it done on the terrace under his bedroom window at half past eight in the morning so he wakes to the sound of the brats being flogged. He says it's improved his sex life no end."

"Perhaps he should continue the practice," I suggested, "half a dozen sluts with bleeding bottoms is a small price to pay for an improved sex life."

"Now I think I have a leash in the glove compartment of the car. Let me have a look and you can use it to attach the brute by his slave collar to your stirrup leather."

"Thanks, I'll get him to his feet."

Richard drew his right food back and directed a series of short vicious kicks in the brat's face.

Returning from the car with the leash I bent down and dragged Bobby, his face a mask of fresh blood, to his feet.

"Quickly slut give me the reigns for the pony," Richard snapped, seizing hold of them from the lad to whom he had entrusted them.

"Now get out of here you idle lump of carrion," and he dismissed the boy with a hefty clout on the side of the head.

With a muttered "thank you Master" the boy shouldered his burden and almost bent double under its weight set off at a stumbling run no doubt hoping to catch up on some of the time it had lost and escape the worst of the flogging that now undoubtedly awaited it at the next depot.

We secured Bobby to a stirrup leather and I gave Richard a hand up into the saddle.

"God," he said in tones of disgust, "I've got blood on these boots now."

"Well thanks again Mr Warwick," he continued, "Come on to the house. Bobby's flogging will be worth watching and there's something on in the yard that should make entertaining watching later on. Go straight there and have a look at the setup. Dad will want Bobby flogged there so that the other brats will get the full benefit of seeing it done. We'll all be there for that, none of us will want to miss it."

Richard set off at a sharp trot back to the house Bobby running unsteadily behind him.

I stayed where I was parked on the road for a little time before moving off. I thought I had better give young Richard a chance to reach the estate, if not the house, before I arrived there and anyway I didn't want to have to hang about in the yard waiting Bobby's flogging to begin.

Eventually I slid the car into gear and moved off.

The police cadet on duty at the entrance to Mr Williams's Estate recognised the approaching car and he had the brats roll the double gates open so that I was able to sweep through without stopping.

I paused at the top of the hill where the skewering posts were situated.

The brat that was experiencing his extended death agony when I first visited the estate had long since perished. All now that remained of him were a few nondescript fragments of dried skin attached to the post by a rusting metal steak. However since that first visit three further sluts had been condemned to be skewered. One had undoubtedly been dead sometime and the carrion had been busy on his carcass. The second I could not be so sure about. I could tell the crows had had his eyes by the fresh blood coursing down his face within the last few hours and I knew that usually lingered for days rather than hours there after their eyes were gone. On the other hand there were, so far as I could see no obvious signs of life. The third there was no question, he had recently been skewered and he was still in the first stages of his agony thrashing his legs about as if he was a fly pinned to a board for some child's amusement.

After a little time I drove on. I always found it very reassuring to see the old standards of discipline were being so enthusiastically and vigorously upheld.

I parked the car outside the front of the house and strolled round it's side to the yard that was always a hive of activity. There were however obvious changes since I had been there last.

Near the centre of the yard stood a low rectangular frame of heavy wooden beams. It was about six foot [1.8 m] long and perhaps four foot [1.2 m] wide. There were shortish vertical posts at each corner. Horizontal bars fastened to these posts just below their tops ran across the two shorter ends of the rectangle. A pulley was attached to each of the uprights with a length of chain fastened to a single iron fetter. This was clearly the 'frog' on which Bobby was fated to atone for his many misdemeanours.

In pride of place in the very centre of the yard was set upright in the ground a sturdy wooden post. It was about 8 feet [2.1 m] high with a pulley with a length of chain running through it housed in a cleft at its top. At one end of the chain was a large hook at the other there was a ring with an iron peg attached to it by a short length of thin chain. The really striking thing about the post though was an outsize set of male genitalia fashioned out of shimmering stainless steel. Set about four feet [1.2 m] clear of the ground it consisted of a massive swollen ball sac topped by a cruelly hooked erect penis with a swollen helmet that bulged outwards over the supporting prick.

Mr Williams was obviously aware of the study by the University of Gloucestershire that I had seen reported in the Daily Post and had commissioned an object to represent himself for his brats to worship. I wondered if he or the artist had thought up its precise form. Whichever of them had should I felt be congratulated on the vividness of the image.

Lounging in a bored menacing sort of way on either side of the post where two Police Cadets while at their feet knelt, secured to the post by a chain from his slave collar, a young brat of quite striking beauty, golden hair glistened in the sun light, fair skinned his cheeks had the delicate bloom of a ripening peach, his lips were red, generous and perfect in shape, his arms and legs were strong and well rounded yet in perfect proportion to his body, his bottom dimpled and tightly curved. The only fault in his beauty was the angry red scar on his left hip where the Tribute brand had marked him as Tribute Stock yesterday or just possibly the day before yesterday. Everything about the slut said quality and expense so what was he doing chained to the post with an expression of utter misery and despair on his face?

The two police cadets saw me approaching and snapped to attention.

"For the brats to worship?" I enquired. It was pretty obvious that was so but it would as a conversation opener.

"Yes Sir, The Family will be down shortly to witness its inauguration."

"Really," I said with feigned interest, "there's going to be some sort of ceremony?"

"Yes Sir, Mr Williams decided that it would be a more effective symbol of his authority and power if something was done to emphasise that to the brats and that will stick in their memory."

The whole thing sounded rather boring – some sort of speech or something like that – if I hadn't wanted to cultivate Mr Williams I would have been tempted to return the car and slide off home.

"That's a pretty little animal," I said prodding the kneeling brat with my toe, "but he looks very miserable. What's he doing here?"

"You'd look miserable too if you were in his place. Mr Williams has said he's the first slut to have this up its boy cunt," the oldest cadet said slapping the giant metal cock with the palm of his hand and laughing loudly.

I looked at him raising my eyebrows in silent query.

"Mr Williams said that it will show the brats the unlimited power he has over them in a way that they will never forget and will make the metal cock on which the boy is impaled a symbol of that authority. Usually a brat would be placed on it when he had committed some serious offence but since this is the thing's first outing and he's asked a couple of neighbours over to see the event he has selected the prettiest slut from this month's draft."

"It will make it more exciting for the ladies and gentlemen to watch and the sheer quality of brat will illustrate Mr Williams's wealth and authority."

"Bit hard on the slut though," I remarked releasing my grip on the child's chin and ruffling his hair.

"Yes indeed," the cadet laughed loudly again, "I expect with those looks it thought it have an easy time in service, the pet of some rich man, spending his life with his Master's cock up that sweet little arse of his."

The brat sniffed loudly and started to snivel.

While we were talking the yard began to fill with brats. With dozens of boys, and there were dozens of the little brutes, you might expect chatter and noise. There were none. The only sounds were the gruff orders of the supervisors punctuated by the occasional sound of a blow or shrill squeal of pain. They were marshalled in silent rows of naked boys along the three sides of the square facing the archway out onto the drive. There were so many of them that it was difficult to identify them as individuals. They were just an indiscriminate jumble of deeply tanned limbs and bodies topped by an assortment of bowed heads, some dark, some fair, some in between.

They were quiet enough at that moment but seen in the mass like that I could easily imagine how quickly if once the iron grip of the Tribute system was allowed to slip they could become an uncontrollable force, a pack of rats devouring all about them until there was nothing left to eat but their fellow vermin. I saw then why the rules should not be relaxed, why the system had to be maintained at all costs, Any relaxation would let loose, not the mob, mobs are at least human, but a horde of unthinking termites that would devour with insect courage the very foundations of civilization. The brats had been tamed, they must, at all costs be kept tamed.

The three sides of the yard were crammed with row after row of brats. Pretty nearly all the brutes on the estate must have been there. Minutes passed slowly.

If it were not brats that were waiting you would have thought that it was an illustration of power and authority that so many could be kept waiting so long for just one man. But these were brats and counted for nothing.

Then there was the sound of voices, laughter and approaching footsteps. Suddenly every brat in the place had his head pressed down to the ground and it's naked bottom pushed up in the air. Looking at the rows of naked boys, the first row you saw their heads and their shoulders and backs and then beyond them line after line of naked boy rumps.

Through the archway into the yard walked Mr and Mrs Williams. The first of these was wearing grey flannel trousers with a knife-edge crease and an exquisitely tailored navy double-breasted blazer. He had a silk cravat round his neck and was wearing a brilliantly polished pair of black shoes. Mrs Williams was dressed in an elegant but extremely short black frock that showed off both her legs and jet-black hair. She had the finest shawl, black laced with gold, to protect her bare shoulders from the evening chill. Her high-heeled shoes which she managed with an elegant ease accentuated the length of her shapely legs.

Immediately behind them walked Richard an eager smile on his face. He was bare chested but still wearing his riding breeches and knee length boots. He carried coiled in his right hand a plaited leather whip whose length and weight were well designed to rip the hide from a screaming brat's body.

Behind him came six or so free citizens, clothed in what might be described in the words of modern day invitations as 'smart casual' clothes, no doubt friends and neighbours of the Williams's.

Brining up the rear of this little procession was a Police Cadet leading or more accurately dragging Bobby along behind him by a length of chain attached to his collar. The brat appeared to be in the last stages of exhaustion and was hardly able to walk. His wrists were still secured in front of him by the narrow plastic tie blood oozing from where it had torn his flesh. The Police cadet led Bobby to the front but slightly off to one side. There he stood rigidly to attention with Bobby squatting at his feet.

Richard wandered over to them and stood idly chatting to the Police Cadet while absently stroking the side of Bobby's face with the handle off his whip.

Mr Williams saw me and waived. I walked over to him and he offered me his hand,

"I must thank you for recovering that stupid little brat Bobby," he said as he clasped my hand, "Richard told me how he met you on the road with him in the boot. A very speedy bit of work and speed is necessary if one is to root out any subversive tendencies in the brat population. In addition that boy, is as you probably know particularly important to me because he has been identified as compatible for a future kidney transplant and the consultant tells me the time is drawing nearer to when I'll need a new kidney. It's surprisingly difficult despite all the brats available to find a healthy perfect match."

"You are obviously a man of great expertise in your line of business and I have no doubt that we at Williams' Enterprises would benefit from your services."

I could only smile and wait with suppressed eagerness for details of what he was offering me.

"It is a matter I will look at further."

And with that I had for the moment to be content.

While we had been talking Mrs Williams and her friends had been arranging themselves on the seats available. Serving boys clad in diminutive white tunics that only just covered their bottoms when they were still, appeared carrying trays of drinks. As they moved among the guests serving them, often bending forward to offer them a drink, the short tunics rose to give glimpses and often more than glimpses, of the delightful curves of their sweet young bottoms. The women chattered noisily among themselves in high shrill voices apparently oblivious to the kneeling rows of naked brats or the nature of the entertainment they were to witness. The men were quieter, concentrating on enjoying their drinks or caressing the bottom of a passing serving brat.

Mr Williams raised his hand calling for silence and the babble of talk fell away to silence. He turned to face the sluts.

"Get your bums down to the ground," he ordered.

"Keep your eyes down you insolent turds. What makes you think that filth like you may look a free man in the face."

"Slut in the third row back, sixth on the right looked up. Teach him better."

A cadet descended on the boy indicated, a pretty little eight year old, setting about the screaming brat vigorously with the heavy strap that was standard issue for his rank. There were a couple of minutes of confusion, the cadet plying the strap with enthusiasm landing hefty blows about the child's head and shoulders. The lads about the boy crying out in alarm and trying to avoid getting hit by accident, while the boy screamed in distress.

"All right that's enough for the time being. Bring it up to the house tomorrow morning. Six strokes of the cane I think should teach him the wisdom of keeping his curiosity in check."

"Now before we start on the main business of the day I would like to welcome our guests for the night. We are delighted to see you here and I am sure we all hope that you will have an amusing and instructive time. To that end if any of you see any item out there," with an expansive waive of his hand he indicated the ranks of kneeling brats, "then please help yourselves. And please feel free to whatever you like with any slut you select. The pleasure and enjoyment of a friend is infinitely more valuable than the life or limb of a mere Tribute brat."

There was another brief moment of confusion as a couple of male guests who had not found a serving boy whom they fancied investigated the ranks if kneeling brats. Sluts were kicked or pulled to their feet and briefly handled. Eventually both appeared to have found something acceptable and returned to their seats pulling by the wrist a couple of very frightened sluts behind them

Mr Williams stepped forward and addressed the brats:

"Filth," he began, "dirty little brutes so degraded and useless that even your mothers and fathers hated you and threw you out. Nobody wanted you, nobody wants you. Who wants lumps of ugly boy shit like you? Your loving Mummy's and Daddy's certainly didn't. They somehow put up with you till your were eight and then dumped you on the state. I gave you protection, fed you, sheltered you when nobody else would. You would have been left to starve, you would have fought among yourselves for the few scraps food that had come your way. The stronger would have preyed on the weaker and when the weaker were gone the stronger would have fought among themselves till they died miserably of famine.

"Of course you are made to work. It costs money to feed you, it costs money to shelter you. Of course you are whipped if you don't work how else are lazy little brutes like you are to be made to work. Anyone might have thought that the effort and expense I put into looking after you would make you feel some degree of gratitude that would make you want to work for me to make some attempt to repay me for my benevolence but anyone who thinks that is going to be disappointed. Selfish little Brutes like you are incapable of feeling gratitude, incapable of feeling any of the higher emotions.

"A little time ago a slut ran away. Someone among you must have seen him go. I can't believe with over a couple of hundred sluts on the estate that one among you and probably a good many more, did not see him sneak off. But nobody came to warn me, nobody informed on the ungrateful turd. I don't know who saw him go but that doesn't mean you will be let off scott-free. If I can't identify the guilty brats to punish them I will punish you all.

"I have already announced a collective punishment of six strokes of the heavy cane and a week on half rations. I have discussed this with my wife and son and they have convinced me that I have been too lenient. As my wife said it is a false kindness to be soft on scum. Moderation will be misinterpreted as weakness and then you will have to be whipped back into a proper respect for your Master. Severity is the only thing you filth understand and severity is what you are going to get.

"I have decided to double your punishment, 12 strokes of the cane, and a fortnight on half rations."

There was a burst of applause from the row of chairs on which the visitors were seated. The brats were nut unsurprisingly less enthusiastic and there were a few whimpers while two oft the younger sluts burst into open tears.

"And," Mr Williams said speaking now with some enthusiasm, "that's with the heavy cane not the light one."

"Quite right Darling," Mrs Williams cried and there was a murmur of approval from their guests.

"The light cane stings and marks but every stroke of the heavy cane will split the skin of your bum and will cut deep into your flesh. And while you are bent over the flogging block with the blood streaming down the back of your thighs waiting for the next stroke remember it's the slut Bobby that you have to thank for your bleeding bottom and your empty stomach."

Mister Williams paused. Five or six of the brats were now in tears. Mr Williams smiled, he appeared to be pleased with the effect of his words.

"There are 193 of you nasty little turds here."

"No Darling 192 you forget Mr Rogers took a fancy to that little black slut when he was over to supper two days ago and you lent the brat to him. I doubt we'll get him back. You know how rough Mr Rogers is with brats that he takes a fancy to."

"And one of the gardening brats, can't remember his name, got drowned in the lake sometime yesterday," Watkins who had come out to supervise the serving of drinks remarked, "can't imagine how the stupid slut managed to do it. But then we took four brats from the new intake at the Cowbridge Tribute Sale."

"Well somewhere in the region of 196," there was a hint of irritation in Mr Williams's voice, "how the hell am I expected to keep count of little brutes? You know I'm not a man for details. Say 192 at least it makes the arithmetic easier. We'll spread the punishment over 24 days the brats being beaten in batches of six at the morning and evening punishment sessions each brat getting six strokes."

"Now Richard string that evil little animal Bobby up on the frame and show our guests how expert you are with the lash."

Richard and the Police Cadet dragged Bobby sobbing over to the frame. Richard slashed through the plastic tie binding his wrists with a knife he carried in a scabbard on his belt. Then they forced the boy face down, spread-eagled on the ground, between the frame's four upright posts. They fastened the iron fetters around his ankle and wrists and drew the brat up into the air by tightening the chains running through the pulleys attached to the uprights. The pain as Bobby's shoulders and hips strained under the weight of his body wrung a loud grown from the brat.

"As you can see," Mr Williams continued addressing the brats, the contempt clear in his voice, "we have caught our run-away. "

Richard, who had lifted the whip over his shoulder under the impression that the flogging was to begin, lowered it looking disappointed. Then a broad grin crossed his face and as his father continued speaking he yawned ostentatiously and sat down on Bobby's suspended body.

"Of course we have for where would he run to," Mr Williams in full flow was interrupted by a shrill scream.

He turned to identify the source of the noise.

"Get off that brat's back Richard," he ordered, "and stop the little shit screaming while I'm talking."

Looking slightly abashed at his father's rebuke. Richard stood up and turning drove his the toe of his shoe into the brat's face, its head jerked upwards and the slut was at least momentarily silent.

"Thank you Richard."

"There is nowhere for you to run to. Nobody wants filthy little brutes like you and nobody cares about you either. You runaway and you will soon be caught and returned to me, your rightful Master, and then you will be punished as Bobby is now going to be punished. Watch."

"All right Richard you can begin the flogging now."

"Lay it on hard Richard," said his mother, "try and draw blood with the first stroke."

"Shred the little sod's body."

"Flay the ungrateful slut alive."

"Blood, blood, blood?"

Over the excited babble of encouragement and exhortation I could hear Bobby's terrified screams.

The guests fell silent as Richard taking a half step brought his hand holding the whip back behind hid right shoulder. The long heavy lash snaked out behind him. He paused to allow the whip to straighten, the mark of a practiced flogger of boys since by doing so he ensured his downward stroke would have behind it his own strength and weight multiplied by the full weight of the whip. Then he began the downward stroke, as his arm came down past his head he took a half step forward, bending from the waste as the lash descended.

The rich sibilant hiss of the descending whip was clearly audible over the brat's shrill screams. There was an explosive crack as plaited leather struck boy's flesh followed by a period of total silence. The brat's body previously suspended, hanging supine, his wrists and ankles secured to the four upright posts of the frame, jumped and twisted in its bonds as if an electric shock had passed through it. The lash curled round his shoulders, its tip nipping the taughtly stretched skin of his ribcage. As Robert drew it back the mark it left across Bobby's narrow shoulders darkened as beads of scarlet blood welled from his broken skin. Then the silence was shattered as the brat's screams mingled with broken frantic pleas for mercy rang out.

Richard drew the lash back sending it snaking out behind his right shoulder. Once again he paused and then brought it whistling down ripping a second bloody line across the brat's back once more momentarily silencing its screams. And then a third, a fourth, a fifth, over and over again the lash rose and fell reducing the boy's shoulders to a mass of torn and bloody flesh. Its tip reaching round Bobby's back nipped deep into his flanks and chest ensuring these too were streaming blood.

Richard stopped bent forward to examine his handiwork and apparently satisfied walked slowly round to the other side of the boy.

I took the opportunity of this brief intermission in the main entertainment on offer to examine the reactions of the audience. Mr Williams himself was obviously highly excited. He was sitting in his chair, flushed with excitement, a serving brat kneeling between his knees, the boy's head buried in his crutch. The guests appeared to be in a similar state of arousement but were taking different routes to satisfy it. One man had a brat perched on his lap the boy's feet tucked back under his bottom so that he could ride the man's erect penis. I could see the boy bobbing up and down on the mans swollen cock, his eyes glazed, apparently oblivious to what was going on around him.

The vast mass of the brats was very much aware of what was happening. The rows of naked brats knelt silent apart from the occasional whimper of terror their eyes fixed on the frame and the bloodied body that hung from it. On their faces I could read horror, fear, and just a hint of excitement.

Richard completed his leisurely stroll around the frame from which poor Bobby's bleeding carcass hung. It was clear from the noticeable bulge in the front of Richard's riding breeches that he was enjoying himself. He buried his hand in the brat's short cut hair and pulled his head hard back. He stood a moment looking down into Bobby's pain distorted face. The slut in his agony had bitten into his lips and blood dribbled from a mouth that blubbered broken pleas for mercy. Richard smiled and bending down kissed those bleeding lips before releasing his grip and allowing the boy's head to fall forward.

Richard wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then taking a half step backwards with his right foot. Bobby, stupid boy, screamed "no please Master no" as if a generous natured high spirited free boy like Richard would take any notice of the hysterical pleas of a Tribute brat undergoing a well deserved flogging. Richard brought the lash hurtling down across the sluts shoulders already liberally stained with fresh blood. I noticed how as the whip cracked down across Bobby's back fine droplets of blood were thrown into the air forming a temporary red haze that glistened in the son.

Richard plied the whip with undiminished vigour. Slowly the volume of Bobby's dwindled into a harsh agonised grunt as the whip shredded his back. His body that earlier had leapt and twisted under the impact of the lash now hung almost supine only moving as the force of the whip rocked it in its bonds.

"Watkins," Mr Williams said, "just check if the brute is still conscious there's no point in flogging a dead meat."

Watkins took a gas cigarette lighter from his hip pocket flicked it alive and then adjusted the flame so that it hovered in the air an inch or two [5 cm] above its source. Immaculate in his butler's uniform of dark striped trousers and black tailcoat he bent down and applied the flame to the soul of Bobby's right foot. The boy jerked his foot away from the flame.

"He's still feeling pain Sir," Watkins reported as he pocketed the lighter.

"Very well then Richard carry on but I think we'll finish fairly soon now. If you kill the slut I won't be able to use his kidneys for my transplant."

"There's his thighs you haven't touched yet. Take them individually and be sure to get the lash to curl right round so it tears the tender flesh on the inside of them both."

Richard raised his hand in acknowledgement of this advice and shifted his position moving rather further away from the frame.

I watched with interest. What Mr Williams had suggested would demand more than usual skill from Richard, the target area was small and access to it restricted as a consequence the lad would need to stand further back than previously. Richard obviously appreciated this and the frown on his face as he positioned himself betrayed the depth of his concentration.

Standing, slim and upright, by the brat's bleeding body, holding the whip in his right hand, the curled lash ready to strike in his left he looked, what he was, the very best type of free boy. The contrast between the broken body of the slut and the confidence and strength of the free lad standing over him both epitomised and justified the Tribute system. Looking at the two boys one could not doubt the right of the one to rule and the duty of the other to serve.

Richard bit his lip and then struck the lash snaked through the air and curled round one of Bobby's firm young thighs. As he completed the downward stroke drawing the lash back the plaited leather thong left behind it a band of ripped skin and broken flesh.

"Well done Richard," Mrs Williams said encouraging her son as a Mother should and a round of applause rose from the guests.

Richard grinned his acknowledgement and then proceeded to show it was not a fluke by delivering a series of well-aimed lashes that reduced Bobby's thighs to bloody pulp.

"That I think is enough," Mr Williams eventually said. "After all Bobby's flogging is only the hors d'oeuvre to the main dish of the day. Take him away and take him to the slut's surgery. I want him patched up if at all possible."

Richard and the police cadet set about lowering Bobby's unconscious body to the floor and removing the fetters from his wrists and ankles while Mr Williams turned back to face the assembled brats.

As he did so the brats as one bent forward till their heads touched the ground and I was once more presented with the sight of rows of brat heads pressed to the ground with rows of bare brat bottoms pushed up into the air behind them.

"Remember what you have seen. What I have done to that slut I could do to anyone of you. I can do anything I want to you. My authority over you is absolute. I command you obey. You exist to serve and to please me. I decide if you live or die. I am your God. A cruel God possibly a demanding one beyond doubt.

" It is not enough that you simply obey me. That is too easy. You must try to anticipate my wants and act to satisfy them even before I am aware of them myself. I am your god. I can see into your minds. I can see into your hearts. You must devote your selves to my service, pray to me, worship me.

"I cannot be with you always so to make your worship easier I have given you a symbol to worship that through it you may prove your devotion. There it is fixed to the post in the centre of the yard. A giant metal cock and two giant balls to go with it.

"But I am going to do more than that. To show my power and to fill that image with that power."

Mr Williams paused and bending down unclipped the chain securing the fair-haired little slut to the base of the of the post. He jerked on the chain dragging the boy to his feet. The boy burst into tears.

"I could have chosen anyone of you but this is the instrument that I have chosen. I have chosen him as an expression of my absolute power. He is as near as any of you filth can be innocent. I bought him yesterday on the day he was tributed. You can see the Tribute brand still raw and fresh on his hip. He was the prettiest slut in his draft and I paid a lot (in brat terms anyway) for him. He was there on the auction block wriggling his little bottom invitingly expecting an easy service as the whore of some rich man but now his service is going to be very brief but very painful."

Saying this he grabbed the child by the arms just below the shoulders and lifted him bodily off the ground. He positioned him carefully over the top of the giant phallus and carefully lowered him down on to it.

Taking hold of the brat by its waste and bending down so he could see exactly where it's bottom was positioned in relation to the metal penis he guided the boy down onto it. Richard ran over to help his father.

Satisfied the child was correctly positioned Mr Williams abandoned his hold of the boy's waste and Richard, hastily grabbing the boy's two flailing ankles, jerked down on them with all his strength. The child let out an ear splitting scream of sheer agony.

While Richard pulled down on the boy's ankles the police cadet fastened the hook attached to the length of chain running through the pulley at the top of the pole to the back of its collar. Held upright in this way with the top of the phallus firmly embedded in his anus the brat's fate was doomed to slow impalement as his own weight forced the massive steel column deeper and deeper into his guts.

Richard to be on the safe side gave the brat 's ankles another ferocious tug. The boy's screams reached another peak of intensity and blood and other fluids began to flow from the boy's anus down the sculpted metal column that so cruelly violated his bottom.

"Filth," Mister Williams shouted so that his voice could be heard over the little slut's screams, "acknowledge your God and worship Him."

He gestured to the giant phallus its tip slowly penetrating the bottom of the beautiful boy.

There was a moment's hesitation and then the brats surged forward. The post was surrounded by a struggling mass of naked brat flesh as the sluts struggled vying with each other to show their devotion to the new God that their master had given them. Naked boys pushed and jostled each other as they fought to get close to the metal image of a man's grotesquely enlarged sexual organs. They fought each other, struggling to reach the steel phallus, now stained with the blood and other bodily fluids of the boy who was sinking very slowly down its shaft as his own weight drove it deeper into his guts. They pushed their heads under his bottom kissing and licking the damply glistening metal in a frenzy of near hysterical devotion.

Mr Williams stepped forward seized a squirming brat by its collar and pulled it clear of the mob of boys.

"Gentlemen," he said cuffing the boy sharply on the side of the head to still its struggles, "if you spot anything you fancy please help yourselves."

He bent the boy face down over a workbench at one side of the yard and dropped his trousers and underpants. A second or two later he was driving his swollen member into the screaming brat's bottom.

It was clear that Mr Williams would be able to apply his mind to business matters in the near future. I walked quietly back to the car. No doubt I would hear from him in a day or two as to how he proposed to reward me for recovering Bobby.

But days indeed weeks, passed without my hearing anything from Mr Williams. Then about five weeks later I was sitting in my upstairs study working on my accounts when I saw Richard on his grey pony coming along the lane towards the house at a smart trot. This in itself was not unusual. Richard tended to look in at least once a week to see if I had any new recovered stock in the holding cages that he could help me discipline. But what was unusual was the quality of the slim young brat that ran at his stirrup.

Even at a distance I knew looking at him I was looking at quality and breeding. I picked up the glasses I kept on my desk and focused them on the boy. He must have run all the way from the Williams estate, a good twenty-five miles [40 km], and yet he moved with an easy, apparently effortless, grace, his legs tirelessly driving him forward. There was not an ounce of excess flesh on the lad. They were good glasses and I could see the muscles in his bottom working as his feet pounded the road. His legs, to half way up his thighs, were caked with grey dust but above that his body was deeply tanned speaking of long hours of training and exercise. His closely cropped hair gleamed golden in the sunlight.

It looked I thought to myself remarkably like a fined down Bobby. That is what that brat would have looked like if had been tributed at eight and subjected to a regime of intensive training and exercise and not savagely flogged a matter of a few weeks ago.

I got up from my desk glad to have an excuse to stop working on my accounts. I got downstairs just in time to greet Richard as he dismounted from his pony.

"Hello Mr Warwick," he said as slid from the saddle to the ground in one single lithe movement. "How are you Sir?"

He threw the reigns of the pony to the brat who led it across to the water trough. The boy stood quietly holding the pony while it drank thirstily. The slut must have been just as thirsty as the pony but he would have to wait for permission and that would not be granted, if it was granted at all, until the pony's needs had been satisfied. This was plain common-sense after all a decent pony is worth many times more than the price of a top quality brat though I had to admit looking at the two animals they, the pony and the brat, were both excellent examples of their kind.

"Recognise the slut?" Richard asked.

The boy was within easy earshot and. must have been able to hear every word we said but it didn't matter. He was only a slut.

"He looks very like Bobby but if it is he's made a remarkable recovery," I replied doubtfully.

"It is Bobby. Young flesh heals quickly and our brat vets have got a lot of experience in repairing sluts after a severe flogging. Most of the time the brutes are not worth the expense but Dad needed this one's kidneys so he spent a bit of money on it. Of course he wouldn't have bothered otherwise, nice looking well made young animal but there are plenty about quite as good."

"Anyway Dad's due to go in for his transplant in a few days time. He wants Bobby at peak fitness before that so I've been seeing he gets plenty of exercise and I thought maybe you'd be interested to see the brat. After all you sold it to Dad."

"If I took a deep personal interest in every slut that I have sold over the years I wouldn't have much time for anything else Richard," I sad laughing. "Still I would quite like a closer look at him. "

"Bobby hitch the pony to the rail and come here. Quickly now Mister Warwick wants to take a look at you. "

The boy trotted obediently enough but came to a halt in front of us just out of arms reach. There he stood, shivering nervously, his head respectfully bowed, hands flat against the sides of his thighs.

"Closer whore,' I commanded and Bobby shuffled a few reluctant inches nearer.

I reached out and taking a firm grip of his hairless balls between my finger and thumb drew him closer.

"Easy boy easy," I said as I sensed the panic gripping him.

I put my free hand under the boy's chin and tipped his head back. I looked into his eyes searching for anger or resentment but could find only fear. He stared back at me wildly like a calf at the gateway to the slaughterhouse who has smelt the fresh spilt blood and heard the terrified bellows of those about to feel the butcher's knife.

"That flogging you gave him certainly did him the world of good," I remarked to Richard, "beat all the nonsense out of the slut."

I rested my hand on the side of the boy's hips turning him so that I could check the state of his shoulders and buttocks which only a matter of weeks ago had been reduced to a bloody pulp by the lash.

"He's healed very well," I remarked to Richard

"Yes but just run your hand over his shoulders or his bottom," the lad replied.

I slid my hand over the curve of the slut's rump and nodded.

"I see what you mean," I said thoughtfully, "you can hardly see it but you can certainly feel it. The flesh is ridged as if it's been worked by a miniature plough."

"Yes and Dad says that means his hide'll be no good for anything. He was going to use it to bind his copy of Les cent vingt journées de Sodome. He thought it would be a good talking point using the skin of the brat whose kidney he has taken but he'll have to think of something else now."

I felt the slut tense under my hand at the mention of the removal of his kidney. No doubt he remembered the horrors of his visit to Doctor Braithwaite's clinic and lived in fearful anticipation of the moment when the first incision was made into his living flesh and the agony began. Stupid really to get so upset about it, no amount of crying or moaning or anything else would change things. He was Mr Williams's brat and if Mr Williams wanted his kidneys he would have them. There might be, it occurred to me, be some fun to be had from making the boy face up to that reality.

"Just a week or so to think of it too I think you said Richard?"

I winked and grinned at Richard behind the brat's back.

"Yes he's due to go into hospital next Tuesday so the operation will be on Wednesday or Thursday," he replied grinning back.

"And they'll harvest the kidneys from this brat at the same time?" I asked giving Bobby's firm young bum a good squeeze.

I felt the Bobby shift uneasily and a half stifled sob came from the boy.

"Last thing Dad'll hear he says before he goes under the anaesthetic is the screams of the brat as they cut the kidneys out of him."

"No anaesthetic for the brat?"

"No, I suppose Dad could arrange it if he paid extra though it is illegal under the Conservation of Resources act to administer anaesthetics to a member of the servile classes. He usually seems to be able to arrange things if he wants to. It comes from being stinking rich."

"Anyway he won't. Why should he waste money on a little runt like that?"

"I wonder how they do the job with a brat." I paused in thought and then continued. "Of course in the old days the surgeon had to make some attempt to safeguard the life of the donor as well as the recipient but now we can source the kidneys from brat's they no longer need to do that."

"From what Dad says," Richard remarked, all they do is strap the brat down on a bench and make the incision with a hand held electric saw. "

"Face down do you think?" I asked. "I would imagine they make the cut there," I ran my index finger down Bobby's back just to the right of his backbone. "They would have to cut through the lower ribs but I suppose with a power saw that wouldn't present a problem."

"For God's sake," Richard exclaimed angrily as Bobby began to blub in earnest, "what's the point in making a fuss. Dad needs your kidney and that's then end of it… and of you too," Richard added with a laugh.

"Now go and take a drink from the trough and wait there with the pony."

Bobby turned to face us dropped to his knees, pressed his face to the ground at our feet and then made a dash for the water trough. He bent over it, utterly unselfconscious giving us both an excellent view of his naked bottom, as he plunged his head into the water, drinking eagerly. His fears for the future apparently forgotten, animal like, in the immediate joy of being allowed to slake his thirst.

"Do you want to fuck him Mister Warwick?" Richard offered courteously.

I hesitated. Bobby was an attractive little brute but I had enjoyed him already and I really ought to get on with my accounts. The deadline for submitting them to the tax authorities was getting ever nearer.

"No thanks Richard," I replied regretfully, "I had better get on with my accounts. I was working on them before you arrived."

It was an occasion when duty got the better of inclination.

"Help yourself to anything you see that you fancy in the holding cages. The dark little slut you rather like is still here. If you want to bring him into the house and use the bed in the spare room.

"You'll stay for lunch."

"Yes thank you Mister Warwick."

I returned to my accounts and the morning wore on.

Out in the yard Bobby was on his hands and knees probing the crevices of the stone drinking trough with his fingertips searching for beetles or worms or indeed anything else that could be eaten. Every now and again he would pause, hunker back on his knees and put something in his mouth and chew before resuming his search his raised bottom quivering with excitement.

Occasionally I could hear faintly from the back of the house the shrill cries of a boy in distress and knew that Richard was enjoying himself playing with the little dark haired slut.

And then just as I was feeling pleasantly relaxed I saw Robert's father walking down the lane from the farm. He did occasionally call in on me to see if I had heard anything that might give a clue as to what had happened to his son. As I was taking a modest retainer from him to pursue enquiries into the boy's disappearance I felt I could hardly object to such visits. I had not foreseen that he would choose to pay one of these calls when the boy was all too blatantly here and in the form of a naked Tribute brat.

Mr Jones was walking briskly and was almost at the gate to the yard. I hadn't a chance of getting Bobb y's out of sight before his father saw him. All I could do was to watch events unfold from my study window. It was rather I felt like watching a car crash in slow motion.

Timmy ran out to open the double gates for Mr. Jones dropping to his knees and pressing his face to the ground as he passed though them. Bobby no doubt alerted by the sound of leather shod footsteps, still on his knees, shuffled round to face the gate and began to get his head down.

For a moment I thought we might get away with it. Bobby was after all not meant to look at the free man to whom he was grovelling while there was a good chance that by the time Mr Jones noticed there was another Tribute brat about all he would see would be the top of the slut's head, his back and shoulders and his bottom stuck up in the air. And he would be most unlikely to connect these with his son Robert whom he was anyway not expecting to see.

My hopes were quickly shattered, with his head half way down to the ground Bobby stopped abruptly and looked up full at his father. There was a moment of mutual recognition.

Bobby said something. Mr Jones started towards him. Bobby began to scramble to his feet holding his arms out to his father.

Now I thought for the affectionate reunion to be followed by a demand on Mr Jones's part for an explanation or rather explanations for not only had I sold his son as a Tribute boy I had also taken money to search for him when I knew perfectly well where he was.

Mr Jones reached his son, he drove his fist into the boy's stomach and then as Bobby doubled over he smashed his knee into his face. Bobby staggered and crashed to his knees. His father kicked him hard on the side of the head. As Bobby slumped to the ground his father stormed off towards the house.

In the few seconds I had before Mr Jones reached me I had to make sense of what I had just seen. I was surprised, I told myself but not too surprised. I certainly had not foreseen such a reaction on Bobby's father's part but perhaps I should have done so. The essence of the Tribute System was to dehumanize those subject to it. The doctrine taught by church and state was that a tribute brat deprived of the power of choice between good and evil, or indeed anything else, lost its soul. In other words became a mere thing. Not an animal, so not protected by the laws prohibiting cruelty to animals, because an animal is born not made. Brats existed only to serve the free population. They were just things to be used, or indeed enjoyed, utterly without worth or dignity, objects of total contempt. This was summed up in the popular saying "the Tribute brand breaks all family ties."

Looked at from this point of view it was not at all surprising that Mr Jones faced by a naked branded Bobby in place of the fine upstanding free boy that he remembered as his son would have reacted with revulsion and would have expressed that revulsion violently. My task now was to build on that very natural first reaction and confirm in Mr Jones's mind his instinctive rejection of his son.

It is at moments of crisis that the born entrepreneur shows himself at his best. He sees opportunity in adversity and turns temporary difficulties into long term success and, all importantly, profit. I am afraid at this moment of crisis in my affairs my instincts as a businessman failed me. I could see no way in which I could make a profit out of the situation. Indeed a purist unfamiliar with the more nuanced approach of the practical commercial man to matters of morality might consider my having sold Robert to Mr Williams and then taken money from the boy's father to try to trace him less than totally honest and there was a distinct possibility that if the whole story came out I might finish up in gaol. I had to try to ensure the whole story did not come out and the one positive thing in the situation that I could see so far as that was concerned was, that judging by the high pitched squeals of boyish distress coming from the back of the house, Richard was thoroughly enjoying himself with the little dark haired slut and was unlikely to reappear any time soon.

I met Mr Jones at the top of the stairs.

"Why," I said thrusting out hand to shake his, "how fortunate I was just going up to the farm hoping to have a private chat. Something rather delicate has come up. We need to discuss together. Come back into the office and we can talk there."

I hurried him back to the office and got him seated without giving him a chance of speaking. It is always better in delicate situations to seize and keep the initiative.

"Well," I said, "you know I've been spending a great deal of time, considerably more really than the modest retainer you pay me warrants, trying to trace young Robert."

"No, no," I continued hurriedly stopping Mr from interrupting me, "do not misunderstand me, I was very glad to devote my time to looking for Robert, a fine young boy, I thought anyway, of whom everybody was fond."

"And just yesterday evening I received a tip off from an informant, I hope you will excuse me from being more specific than that, one must protect one's sources, that Mr Williams, you know of William's Industries, that Mr Williams had acquired a brat closely answering the description of our Robert so far as age, build and general appearance was concerned at about the same time as Robert vanished."

"But how the hell did he become a Tribute boy in the first place? That's what I can't understand." Mr Jones burst out.

"Now. " I said while my mind raced trying to think up a plausible story, " it'll be so much easier if you would just let me tell you the facts without interrupting. That way we will get things done without excessive delay and if there are any matters you feel I haven't covered when I've finished you can point them out."

I paused quite at a loss and then inspiration came to me and I must say I am proud of my ingenuity and inventiveness in this respect.

"Naturally that point occurred to me and I made discreet enquiries and I am afraid it throws a completely new light on Robert's true nature. I always thought of him as being an outstanding example of the best sort of free boy but now…" I paused shaking my head sadly while Mr. Jones shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

"What was it come on man," he urged me.

"It was bad, very bad," I said slowly, "when I heard it I knew your first instinct would be to reject the boy, to say he had brought his humiliation and servitude on himself and you would have nothing more to do with him. And quite frankly that is I think what I would do but it occurred to me that Robert was your only son, that he was young, and that in the circumstances you might find it possible to give him another chance especially if you were to see the boy and have the opportunity of remembering what a fine young lad he was before he brought this disgrace on himself and if it became generally known, on your family."

"For God's sake man tell me what it is."

I continued ignoring this outburst.

"I had no problem in borrowing Bobby, I hope you will excuse me referring to your son by his brat name but I am afraid that is how I think of the boy now, from Mr Williams. You will not be surprised when you hear the details that he places little value on what he regards and I think other right minded people would also, as a particularly degraded piece of brat flesh."

"Christ…"

I waived Mr Jones down.

"Mr Williams was allocated Bobby as a penal tribute by the District Juvenile court." (1)

"Well that's bad, but not perhaps too bad." Bobby's father sounded almost relieved and his next words showed that with time for reflection he was coming round to the idea of helping the boy despite everything. "He'd run away from home for whatever reason, and no doubt run out of money. Probably broke in somewhere looking for food to steal and got picked up by the police. The juvenile magistrates are notoriously quick to award sentences of penal servitude, it provides a permanent solution to the delinquency problem. It shouldn't happen but perhaps Mr Williams would be prepared to sell Robert to me for a few hundred pounds and I could then quietly smuggle him back into free society.

"I don't think there would be any difficulty in persuading Mr Williams to sell you Bobby at a very reasonable price. He certainly doesn't attach any particular value to the boy. As a penal brat he was of course destined for the mines and was only taken up to the house because he is a good looking little animal and the supervisors are under instructions to look out for potential fuck boys but he's served his purpose so far as that is concerned and he'll be sent off to the mines in a few days unless that is you intervene."

Mr Jones was silent for a moment a series of conflicting emotions crossing his face. Disgust, pity and affection all struggling for preponderance. It was time to resolve that struggle and I waited for him to give me the cue to do so. After a couple of minutes silence. He did so as I was sure he was going to do.

"Anyway, what was he caught doing that he was taken before the Juvenile Magistrate?"

"Well I suppose maybe he was short of money and hungry but I am afraid I wasn't stealing money or food. It was what apparently he is good at. The police raided a boy brothel. Not of course an ordinary one selling Tribute brats' bottoms, nothing illegal in that, but one catering to very specialized tastes of both customers and staff. He was there selling his backside dressed up, not that he was wearing anything else than a collar round his neck and a tribute mark stencilled on the side of his bum as a Tribute brat."

"He was caught pretending to be a Tribute Brat," shock was apparent in Mr Jones's voice.

"Yes, there are some free boys and rather more free men who get a kick out of doing that. Apparently our Bobby was one of them," I kept talking to give Mr Jones an opportunity to think and absorb the shock. "I am told he still had an erection when he was taken into court for sentencing. Everybody could see it of course because he was taken there immediately after arrest in the condition he was in when he was arrested, naked with a collar round his neck and a brand mark on the side of his pretty little bum. Caused a good deal of laughter I believe."

"You mean to tell me that he enjoyed pretending to be a Tribute Slut," Mr Jones's voice shook with fury. "He betrayed every damn thing we stand for, identifying with that filth. Does he want to hand the farm over to the brats; condemn his mother and myself to penury and worse. Well he wanted to be a slut, let him be one. I'm sorry you had all this trouble for nothing Warwick but take the brat back to Mr Williams and tell him he's welcome to the brute."

I wondered if I should remind Mr Jones that under our contract I was entitled to a five hundred bonus if I found Robert but decided that this was probably not the moment to do so. It would probably be better to postpone that to a later date when passions had abated and to do by way of an invoice submitted discreetly by post.

Jones wandered over to the window and I came across to stand by him. We found ourselves looking down on the yard. Bobby had picked himself up from where he had been knocked down by his father. He was back by the drinking trough on his knees trying to reach as far as he could get his hand into the narrow gap between the base of the trough and the flagstoned floor of the yard. His head was down as he peered under the trough, his bottom, attractively displayed, raised and wriggling with excitement. He had undoubtedly spotted something edible under there, at least edible so far as a brat was concerned, a frog or a newt or something like that, and was intent at getting at it.

"All brats are the same," I remarked to Mr Jones, "only one thing they really care about and that's their stomachs. You knock him down and what does he do? Goes straight back to foraging for food. Shows they don't feel things the same as we do."

"He is a pretty slut," Jones said quietly, almost speaking to himself.

"Yes," I said, "good strong legs and look at the muscles in his rump, not an ounce of excess flesh. Why don't you give him a good fuck before sending him back to Mr Williams? He won't mind. I know that he's finished with the boy. And it'll help you put him out of your mind and it'll help Bobby too. Unless you do something like that he might go on hoping some time you'll relent and somehow rescue him. Much better and kinder that if the brat is made to recognize there is no hope for him and that he must just accept his servitude."

"He is a pretty slut," Mr Jones said again.

I did not hesitate any further. I threw the window open and shouted out.

"Bobby you idle lump of dog turd get your arse up here whore. I've got a gentleman up who wants to fuck it."

Bobby jumped to his feet and set off at the run for the house. A few isooctane seconds later I could here the thud of his bare feet as he pounded up the stairs to my study. Then the door burst open and the boy hurled himself through it into the room. He threw himself to his knees and pressed his face to the floor.

I waited a moment seeing if Jones would speak but he remained silent staring down at the back of his kneeling son with a face carved out of stone.

"Stand up Bobby," I ordered.

I saw a momentary flicker of hope cross the boy's face as he saw his father standing looking at him to be immediately extinguished as he caught sight of the expression on the man's face.

"Dad," Bobby said pleadingly and was immediately slapped hard across the face by his father.

"Face down across the desk whore and get your bum up to be fucked," his father grated.

"Get your bum up!" he repeated fiercely.

Bobby made no further attempt to protest but got into position pushing his bottom up as high as he could.

"Hands round the back of your bottom and pull the cheeks apart. Show me your boy cunt, slut."

Obedient to his father's command Bobby reached behind him and digging the tips of his fingers into his bottom's crack pulled it as wide apart as he could.

Mr Jones bent forward to inspect it and then jabbed his thumb into the boy's hole with such force that he buried its length in his bottom. Bobby squealed with surprise and pain and his father swore at him and told him to be quiet.

"You're quite right," Mr. Jones said to me as he turned his thumb in Bobby's bottom causing the boy to moan and wriggling on the desk top, throwing back his head in excitement "he's been fucked often and hard. It's as loose and stretched as a Port Said's whore's cunt."

"Well it won't take me long to bury my cock in his rump."

"Do you want some jelly or shall I call Timmy and have him suck your cock to get it wet and slippery."

"Certainly not I want the whore to feel this and to remember it till the day it dies. Which won't I understand be all that longed delayed. I'll fuck him dry."

Saying this Mr Jones took a firm grip of his son 's hips and drove hard into his bottom. The force of the man's thrust lifted Bobby bodily in the air and drove him forward over the desk. Dragging him back into position Mr Jones drove forward again and again hammering his distended cock deep into his son's guts. The man's hoarse panting, the shrill squeals and cries of the boy as his bottom was brutally penetrated, the thump and crash as Mr Jones forward thrusts lifted Bobby's feet from the floor and forced him forward across the desk filled the room with sound. Mr Jones was a big man with all of a big man's strength. Soon he was bent back like a drawn bow the muscles in his buttocks pumping as he filled the moaning brat's bottom with cum.

He pulled back and there was the sound of a cork being drawn from a bottle as he pulled his cock clear of Bobby's hole. Mr Jones grabbed hold of Bobby's collar and pulled the boy roughly round so that his head was buried in his father's crutch. The brat did not need to be told what to do. His head moved vigorously and wet sucking, licking noises came from him as he set to work vigorously cleaning from his father's cock and pubic hair the cum, blood and filth that stained them.

With Bobby's face pressed into his father's crutch I was presented with an excellent view of his bottom and could see the blood and indeed other liquids oozing from his hole and beginning to run down the inside of his thighs. I thought of my carpets and shouted for Timmy. (2)

There was the soft thump of bare feet running up the staircase and Timmy burst in the door throwing himself to his knees and pressing his head to the floor before glancing up at me. I jerked my thumb at Bobby. With that brat's raised bottom dribbling cum the meaning of that gesture was clear.

Seconds later Timmy's head was pressed tight into Bobby's bottom and I could hear a wet lapping sound as the boy eagerly used his tongue to clean the man's juice from his fellow slut's hole.

All the time this was going on I was wondering nervously if Richard was going to loose interest in tormenting his pretty little playmate and decide to join us in the study in which case I was sure my carefully constructed fantasy would collapse exposing me as a thief and a liar. However time passed, Bobby had licked and teased with his teeth the last fragments of clotted cum from his father's pubic hair, Timmy had cleaned his fellow slut's hole of filth, and Mr Jones was showing every sign of being about to go without Richard putting in an appearance.

"I must say," Mr. Jones said knocking Bobby back on his heels by driving his knee into the brat's face, "I feel better for fucking the little tyke. It establishes and clarifies his status as a brat. I need no longer spend time searching for my lost son."

"Stand up boy," Mr. Jones ordered and Bobby scrambled hastily to his feet to stand head bowed his hands held flat against his thighs making no attempt to hide his nakedness from his father's gaze. It was clear there was no confusion any longer in his mind as to his servile status.

"He is a good strong boy," Mr Jones remarked prodding Bobby's thigh with his forefinger.

"Look at the muscles there and – turn round slut – in his rump. You know he's almost strong enough and heavy enough to be harnessed to the plough. Give him another year and he'd be right. I've got half a mind to make an offer to his owner for him."

"Better not though," he continued after a moments thought and greatly to my relief, "might upset the wife and maybe cause comment among my neighbours."

"Have you finished with the sluts?" I asked.

Mr Jones nodded

"Good, get out filth," I ordered hurrying the two boys out of the room with kicks up their bottoms that sent them tumbling down the stairs to land at the bottom a tangle of naked arms and legs at the foot of the stairs. They sorted themselves out and shot out through the door into the yard.

Taking Mr Jones by the elbow I led him firmly to the gate to the road and saw him on his way back to the farm.

"Had a good time Richard?" I asked when he reappeared accompanied by his little favourite now badly bruised and loudly sobbing.

"Yes thank you Mr Warwick," the boy replied with a broad grin, "I am afraid I have snapped a couple of the brat's fingers though I hope you don't mind. I had him put them through the gap on the hinge side of the open bedroom door and closed it on them. I just wanted to see what would happen. The slut hasn't stopped crying since."

"Of course I don't mind. I like to see a boy with an enquiring mind."

I turned and walked with Robert towards the drinking trough where the pony was tethered with Bobby squatting nearby.

"And Richard, I am afraid I've been a bit rough with Bobby. I got rather bored working on the accounts and decided I would accept your invitation to fuck the whore and I got a bit over enthusiastic and ripped his hole."

"Bobby," I said to the brat who on our approach had got down on his knees and pressed his face to the ground, "get on your feet slut and show the young Master your boy cunt. Quick slut."

The brat scrambled quickly to his feet and turning bent forward before reaching back to pull his arse cheeks apart, presenting his bottom for inspection. It was obvious that Mr Jones had not spared his son's bottom when he penetrated it. The hole was inflamed and enlarged and blood was still oozing slowly out of it and trickling down the inside of the slut's thighs.

"I wonder if I've injured him internally with him bleeding like that. If I have I don't suppose it matters too much. He'll be butchered for his kidneys in a couple of days time anyway."

"That's right Mister Warwick," Richard said cheerfully, "I'm sure he'll last till then. It isn't as though he's losing a lot of blood."

"Come on boy," he continued landing a resounding slap on Bobby's rump, "unhitch the pony and hold him for me. I'd better be getting home."

A minute or two later I was standing at the yard gates watching Richard seated on the grey pony trotting briskly away from me with Bobby running by his stirrup. I wondered if the brat was running with his legs a little spread.

For three weeks or so I heard nothing from Richard or his father. Then one day Richard turned up on the grey pony but without a running brat. I opened the gate to the yard for him.

"How is your father doing Richard?" I enquired as he swung out of the saddle and slid to the ground.

"Fine thank you Mr. Warwick," the boy replied smiling, "He had no problems accepting Bobby's kidney so that brat served its purpose in the end."

"He's sent me over with an invitation to dinner tonight. He's going to ask you to take charge of his Russian enterprises. He says there's great opportunities for profit out there but it needs a man with initiative and drive to realize them. He's going to offer you a salary and a share of the profits if you take the job and I am to come with you because he says I will learn more with someone like you in the field in a year than I will in five years at school."

"Well that sounds pretty promising Richard though I'll need to know a good deal more before I make my mind up."

"I hope you do take the job Mr Warwick. It'll be much more fun out there with you than sitting in a classroom in this country. Dad is quite serious about it. He's arranged to have a Russian serf boy trained to speak English sent here so we can pick up a bit of Russian before we go there. I am to pick him up at the airport tomorrow morning. Do you want to come? We can watch his inward processing which should be fun. Serviles from non-Tribute jurisdictions have to be made compliant with Tribute rules." (3)

"I'll come along with you Richard provided your father and I can agree on terms this evening."

"Well I hope you do and Dad told me to give you this."

Richard reached up and eased a vicious looking crop from under the side of his saddle. A thick bone handle ended in a three foot [90 cm] tapered rod covered in plaited leather.

"The handle is made from the bottom half of one of Bobby's thigh bones. The crop is made from a tapered steel rod that runs right the way through the handle covered with strips of hide taken from his carcass. Dad said you ought to have something to remember the slut by because it was you who sold him to us in the first place and then caught him and brought him back to us when he ran away and if it wasn't for you Dad would probably be still on dialysis instead of having a brand new brat kidney inside him."

"And he says he's sorry it's not something a bit more fancy but the slut had been flogged so often and so thoroughly that its hide was ruined for fancy work. But maybe you'll find it handy for taming Russian serf boys."

"It certainly feels pretty good," I said testing its weight and action in my hand.

"A good stiff cutting cane'" I said with enthusiasm.

"And dual purpose too," I remarked fondling the rounded knob of bone at the base of the handle.

Glancing round I saw Timmy carrying a couple of buckets of water across to the holding cages.

"Timmy," I shouted, "come here you idle lump of dog shit."

The brat dropped the buckets and ran across to me.

I watched him coming flexing the crop in my two hands and smiling in anticipation.

Timmy dropped to his knees and pressed his head to the ground at my feet but not before I caught him stealing a fearful glance at the rod in my hand.

"Timmy," I said gently, "the young Master has brought me a present. Look at it child. Its handle is made from a bit of Bobby's thighbone. Isn't that nice and thoughtful of the Young Master?"

The boy croaked something incomprehensible and began to whimper.

"It's a crop to use on lazy stupid sluts like you." I continued, "do you think it will help you to be a better slut if I apply it hard enough and often enough to the tight little bum of yours?"

The whimpers rose to full-throated sob.

"Well we'll just have to find out Timmy won't we sweet?"

"Up on your feet, take a good firm hold of your ankles and get that sweet little bottom of yours right up in the air."

"Why are you sobbing you silly child. I haven't started yet. It'll be time to cry when I use it on you."

"But now I come to think of it it's a few days since you've had your bottom fucked and maybe it would be a good idea to loosen it up a bit. Fortunately there are more uses for a quality item like this than striping a lazy little slut's bottom."

I spat into the palm of my hand and smeared the saliva over the rounded bone end of the crop's handle. Grabbing the brat by his collar with my free hand I held him doubled over while I forced the handle up his bum with a single fierce thrust. The strangest mixture of noises, whimpers and groans indicative both of pain and lust, came from the boy as I set about vigorously pumping his bottom.

Eventually Timmy's legs gave way under him and I allowed him to collapse on his knees.

"Get back in position," I commanded, as I pulled the handle clear.

"Now I want you to show the Young Master what a well trained brave little whore you are. You know the rules don't you?"

"You stay down with your bum up in the air ready for the next stroke until I give you permission to stand up. You don't straighten, you don't drop to your knees, you don't take a step forward or make the slightest attempt to avoid or ward off a blow."

"Understood? Good."

I gently laid the crop across the curve of his raised bottom and, as always in these circumstances, felt my throat tighten with excitement as I saw the muscles in his rump tense in anticipation of the agony to come. It is surprising how the simplest and commonest of everyday activities such as flogging a small naked boy can still excite after all these years.

"Steady boy," I said as I raised the rod over my right shoulder.

I paused and a muffled sob escaped from the trembling boy bent naked in front of me. Then taking a half step forward to get all my weight behind the blow I brought the cane down. The rich hiss of the descending crop was interrupted by a sharp crack as it struck the boy's taughtly stretched skin. Like a knife slicing through the skin of a melon to cut into the sweet flesh below the stiff leather covered rod bit into the brat's bottom. For an instant a thin white line stretching across the curve of the brat's rump marked the point of impact. Then blood filled the cut turning the line from white to brilliant red.

Timmy staggered under the impact of the blow Strange sounds came from the little slut. Breath rasped in his chest as he fought to fill his lungs with air driven from them by the shock of the pain supplemented and then eventually replaced by moans and loud whimpers.

"Gosh Mr Warwick," Richard exclaimed, "that crop really slices up a boy's bottom. Can I have a try with it?"

"Of course you can Richard," I replied laughing indulgently at his youthful enthusiasm.

Timmy's sobs increased substantially in volume.

"Shut up slut," I commanded clipping him hard on the ear. "Don't be stupid the young master wants to see if he can cut you open with the crop. No amount of screaming or sobbing will stop him. So you might as well shut up."

"It isn't Timmy," I continued in more reassuring tones, "that you have done anything wrong or he is angry with you or anything like that. It's just he wants to see how deep he can cut into your flesh with it. You keep down like a good slut and maybe I'll let you suck my cock after this is over. It's gone as hard as rock."

"Richard," I said handing him the crop, "here you are. Can I suggest you try it across his shoulders? I'd like to see how it works where the bone is nearer to the surface. Remember give it plenty of follow through, aim a couple of feet or more beyond the point of impact."

Richard took a few preliminary cuts with the rod getting the feel of its weight and play as Timmy cowered sobbing, his body trembling in trepidation as the crop hissed and sang through the air over his bent naked body.

At last satisfied Richard gently rested the rod across the boy's bare shoulders that tensed at its touch. Then the lad screwing his face into almost a caricature of fierceness and determination brought the crop whistling down

Richard whooped in triumph as blood welled from the gash carved across the brat's naked back.

"I knew I could do it Mr Warwick," he said proudly. "I reckon that crop will be really useful if you take up Dad's offer of a job in Russia. Now I must be getting back home. I promised I'd let them know if you we're coming over this evening for dinner. You will won't you?"

"I always enjoy dinner with your Mother and Father when I am lucky enough to be invited and I will at least listen to what your father has to say about his Russian offer."

Richard swung himself back in the saddle and trotted briskly off home. I reached out for Timmy and pulled him round to face me. With my thumb under his chin I tipped his head back so I was looking down into his tear and snot blotched face. I bent down and kissed him fiercely on his mouth crushing his lips and tasting the salt of his tears. His lips parted and I thrust my tongue down his throat. His arms came up around my neck hugging me in the tribute brat's perennial but vain search for lasting affection. I let him hang there for a few seconds no doubt dreaming of being loved and then placing my hands on his shoulders forced him down onto his knees.

He had come to me when he had first been tributed with the brand mark on his flank fresh and raw so he knew what was required of him. He took my swollen prick into his mouth. While he worked on it I dreamed of Russia, of great wealth, and of serf boys broken and toiling for my profit.

The End