Scrimshaw & Zelamir

Tribute Boys
A Fantasy in Just One of Our Possible Futures

Book Three

The Summer Release Festival

Introduction

The Scene opens…

The Tribute System is indeed a cruel and spectacular way of reducing the strain on World Resources by culling unwanted boys before they reach the age of reproduction. Almost everybody in the free population profits from this system as well as pandering to their demands for entertainment by ever increasing horrors. There are however many rules, the main one is that a boy requests his Release from service at about fourteen years of age. His Release is then by his performance or his participation in a competition of his own choice. It is considered very disreputable to kill a boy needlessly, in this it is rather like our present day attitude to animals. However everybody gets very high on watching the boys mostly futile efforts to stay alive and the almost inevitable death agonies, be this in the flesh so to speak or through the media. One of the justifications of the system is that it obeys the laws of natural selection. Some boys, the best, do survive to be pardoned. Then they are feted like pop stars and are used to glorify the system.

The most prestigious event in Western Europe is the Great Summer Festival of Galicia. To be given the chance to perform here almost ensures that large sums in media fees will be paid into the boy's Guardian's Pension Fund, if he does not disgrace himself. There is much publicity about "It is not winning that counts but participating…" But winning does count, apart from fame and riches, it gives a faint hope of life. A winning boy may be required to complete his Release by killing himself at the President's order, but any that win ensure wealth for both their family and their beloved Master, and of course much honour.

Of course complex laws and rituals, both to uphold Tribute Law and to make the spectacles more splendid govern the whole event. The bottom line is that at this festival most of the one thousand Tribute Boys lucky to have been selected to compete will die in the next two weeks. Culled to ensure the prosperity of the free population. They will be killed by other boys, by animals, by their own failures to stay alive, or by obediently emasculating themselves then slitting their own bellies… Some will be executed for failing the rules of their competition, a condition they freely agree to. Some will be executed with prejudice by exhibiting cheating, cowardice or disobedience. For them there is no reward, no honour. Each year, some usually not more than ten or twelve, do perform so magnificently as to be granted life. Will any of our little heroes be among that number? Don Carlos is as usual staking both his reputation and his money on just that.

So reader, if you want to join the festivities read on, but be warned…

It is the late afternoon of the second Saturday of the Great Festival of Tribute, San Diego de Campos, Galicia, Spain, the year is 2100. Of course it is now time for siesta, some traditions most sensibly endure. The city swelters under the sun, the climate is much warmer now. Everywhere there is dust, and the all pervading stench of blood. In their various apartments the Tribute Boys, skilful, or fortunate, enough to have survived the first week of qualifying heats lie with sponsors, indulging no doubt in thanks for surviving thus far, and fitting as much sex as possible into their remaining hours or days…

Some will think back to the Grand Opening Parade only a week ago. One thousand magnificently fit and trained naked young boys of around fourteen years of age, each accompanied by a smaller boy a couple of years younger paraded through the streets. Of course they were also the most beautiful, and from every imaginable race and colouring. Their bodies were oiled to gleaming perfection, each adorned only by a ceremonial dagger round his neck on a chain or thong, and some short haired, some long and flowing and braided and beaded.

They marched in groups for each separate competition; their Masters distinguished by coloured ribbons tied in hair or round an arm. The competitions are many, and take place at different venues in Galicia. Some are familiar like archery, javelin, gymnastics and so on, of course these are now somewhat altered to ensure sufficient fatalities in a stimulating and entertaining fashion. Some are modern events like windsurfing, mountain bikes and roller blades. Other competitions are somewhat more gothic, and as such appeal to Don Carlos' sense of theatre, of these we will learn more later. Whatever the competition the heats ensure that of between thirty and one hundred entrants for each event are reduced down to manageable numbers for the Final. They also try and ensure those qualified for the final are fit and uninjured.

Some will remember in particular kneeling in their magnificent ranks waiting for the torch to be carried in. In front of them stood the marshalls for the Games. They are drawn from initiated Free Youths, they were imposing, even intimidating to the ranks of Tribute Boys, clad in leather thonged sandals, leather belt round the waist, a crimson breach cloth, and a crimson bandana. They carried a cross bow slung across their backs and a large dagger over the left hip. Nobody needed to restate the obvious superiority of the Free population over those lesser beings selected for the cull, their bearing and demeanour said it all.

The Torch had been carried by a group of specially selected Tribute Boys walking the length of the old pilgrim way non-stop. The leader carried the torch. If he faltered and was overtaken he passed it to the new leader. Those boys so exhausted as to fall were given the count of ten to recover and continue, or received a cross bow bolt from one of the marshalls. A hush had descended as the three survivors hobbled into the Great Square before the cathedral on bloodied feet. Two circuits of the square and the second boy collapsed, a marshall pushed him on to his back with his foot, and counted. At ten the bolt winged its way into the boys belly and he found the energy to scream and thrash for a while. Did he notice the bronze medallion being placed round his neck by another marshall? The third boy vainly tried to over take the leader, but failed after a further circuit; he received a silver medallion and was also dispatched.

The winner staggered up to the Podium of assembled Presidents, each garbed in dark purple robes, faces partly cowled. A figure in black with a white skeleton painted on capers around the boy as he kneels and presents the torch. A very small boy, perhaps in his first year of Tribute accepts it and carries it to the burnished bronze bowl that will contain the Flame. It is carried on the shoulders of six kneeling, rather larger boys, each a different colour and chosen for exceptional beauty, who steady it with their upraised hands. The Flame ignites with a woosh. It will be kept alight for the next two weeks, to the great discomfort of the naked shoulders and strained muscle's of the successive teams of boys who support it.

The Senior President beckoned a figure in red who examined the winning boy's feet and shook his head. Then he announced "The winner of the marathon walk is Thomas, his Master the Honourable George St John, from the Kingdom of England." Cheers ring out. "A purse of ten thousand Euros is awarded as well as the trophies."

A florid gentleman accompanied by a naked boy of about twelve years stepped forward and received a large silver cup, an envelope and a golden medallion, appropriately shaped as a scallop shell, on a crimson ribbon. The two men had a brief conversation; the Hon. George shakes his head. The small boy looking visibly relieved walked out and hangs the gold medal around the winner's neck. The Senior President spoke "The medical verdict is that he is unlikely to recover full use of his feet. Boy you are here by given permission to Release yourself according to the Law."

The boy perhaps beyond terror threw himself backwards, arms thrown wide, one hand clutching his drawn dagger, the smaller boy knelt between his spread thighs and quickly brought the boy erect, then small hand flashing to made him jet his last sperm over his own taught belly. He is rather was endowed for one so smooth. At this moment the wining boy reached with his dagger and in a quick stroke severed both testicles and penis. The crowd roars and some how he still found the courage to grasp the dagger in both hands and slit his belly upwards from pubis to sternum. His screams and convulsions were lovingly recorded in close up by the cameras, for later transmission to satiate lust of the masses for media experiences.

The bodies of the three boys were arranged before the Podium, the Gold flanked by the Bronze and the Silver for the celebratory media coverage. The cameras also recorded the rich and the famous savouring the spectacle around the main Podium, including Don Carlos, and zooms in on a pair of particularly beautiful young boys, bejewelled and decorated, in his entourage, Jan and Mishear. The small boy left his dying friend and presented the bloody trophy clutched in his hand to his beloved Master. The roar of the crowd reached new heights, they had seen the first blood and wanted more…

But the competitions are not the only way a boy can earn his Release, and fame, honour and wealth not the only motivation. In the darkening streets the crowds wait for the Procession to begin…

Chapter 1

San Diego de Campos. The second Saturday of the Galician Games.

Don Carlos speaks

I was also pleasantly surprised that Jonathan made it through to the Final; I was not expecting him to have either the courage or the stamina. This trade does show up some extraordinary talents in the most unpromising brats from time to time! I have asked Señor Maurice for a full and personal account, and tipped off my media friends that the brat might produce a good show, they are going to do a pre Final interview maybe. Few brats have sufficient oral skills and confidence to do this, Jonathan might just be able to. Jan produced some excellent material when interviewed last Sunday having been noticed at the opening Ceremony, full of love, honour and duty, spiced with a little hopeful and heroic bravado. The audiences loved it! Of course for the media he was told not to mention specifically that he had been generously granted early Release, they will love the revelation when it comes! His and Mishear's Release Performance holodisk is sure to be a best seller!

Now to watch the progress of these years little Saints with a special interest that my friend Don Pablo had been honoured to donate St Antonius, and I, St Sebastian. Well after months of training by the Priests we will see what they can produce. I have good reports of my ex brat, they even reckon he might play the whole thing out without being tied, that would be a first! As for the religion, a lot of superstitious nonsense! I doubt either brat with experience heaven eventually, but both will surely taste hell before oblivion. Still it makes an excellent show and very good object lesson for the boys still awaiting Release. I put one hundred Euros on at least one being able so show some life during mass tomorrow morning, at ten to one against! But now on with the procession…

I should have mentioned that having been awarded Freedom of the City a few years ago I am entitled to ride the route of the Procession Floats, being able to see the Saints progress at several places rather than being limited to one. Jan and Mishear will run at my stirrup, and I have had them kitted out in some rather nice silk capes in a saffron and chocolate floral batik. It complements their colouring nicely and the crimson high lights do anticipate their own performance. Rodolfo and his friends I have left at the Villa, with free licensee to enjoy themselves, both Rodolfo and Christian pouted a little and said they did not have any fun without me being there, rather touching. All of the whale boat crew are still very high on eliminating their first opposition crew, one from Lisbon, last Friday to qualify. Vincent and Vasco as usual doing convincing impressions of the futile squirmings and pleadings of the last small oarsman pinned to the boats thwart through his thigh, why do some waste their breath calling for the mothers that Tributed them and stand to gain by their deaths? And then they act out his convulsions as first Miguel broke his shoulder with a blow from the boat's foot bar and then Kumu cut his throat.

Well back to the present.

I ride down to watch Don Pablo's boy. The float as usual carried by fifty boys underneath the skirt, only their naked legs and thighs showing, They trot in perfect time to the beat of the Galician drum and bagpipe marching band at their head. All the legs are shining with sweat, a couple even reddened by blood from lacerated backs, or perhaps dripping though from above. They still have many hours to perform their duties yet. No doubt some will fail and have to be dispatched before the final arrival at the Cathedral.

Behind him on a magnificent Black, trots the figure depicting the Emperor, as yet 'unaware' of his catamites impending sacrifice that he might receive divine enlightenment. Behind him march the ranks of cowled figures of the Guild Members and the Priests. On the float St Antonius, looking every inch the devout martyr had succeeded in nailing his two ankles to the arms of the diagonal cross on which he is spread. He is a most attractive young man of nearly fourteen years, good local olive skinned, raven haired stock. The Priests have groomed him to the peak of health and religious fervour for this performance. As I noted when Don Pablo called into my place with him a couple of months back, they had excellent material to work on. The cross is laid back at an angle to ease the weight on the wounds until just the right moment. The boy tosses his pretty head throwing his sweat drenched locks about, mouth open in a scream that is drowned by the squeal of the pipes.

With a double roll of the drums the float halts beneath a house, where a couple stand on an upper balcony. St Antonius stifles his screams but still writhes as the man begins to sing a paean of praise in faultless Catalan, denoting his origins and the breadth of appeal of the ceremony. The man is silent and the boy recites in Latin the Kyrie. The crowd, initially a little noisy are still. The boy is passed a gleaming polished steel hammer and long nail by his little mignon, suitably dressed in a white surplice, decently slit down the left side to show his brand, it is now somewhat begrimed with blood.

St Anthony now pleads in Spanish. "Please me my little servant by letting me experience the bliss I found with my Master, one last time before I experience the bliss of heaven!"

The mignon kneels between the larger boy's spread legs and starts to fondle and fellate him, soon St Antonius is moaning with more earthly delights. The small boy stands back, semen dripping from his mouth; St Antonius had obviously been saving up for his last ejaculation!

With his left hand he positions the nail over his deliciously smooth pubis, grips it and drives the sharpened point a little into the flesh. He makes no sound but his mouth is wide and he gasps for breath. The mignon wipes his sweated brow with the hem of his surplice, giving a glimpse of a most desirable little body beneath. Then with the hammer grasped in his right hand, St Antonius strikes hard smashing the point through the pubic bone. Now he does scream and thrash wildly about. The mignon has to retrieve the dropped hammer. Once again he strikes and blood spurts from the boys still erect penis. A third blow and the point emerges from the perineum, it takes four further bows to drive it well into the timber of the joint of the cross, later it will have to help to support his weight. Exhausted by his efforts he drops the hammer, and claws at his wound, the pipes start squealing and his screams are drowned out once more. The drums roll and off the float trots, every jolt bringing the little Saint the further agonies he so fervently desired to bring him to his promised heaven… I do hope he will not be too disappointed.

I wheel the horse round to canter back to see how my own little St Sebastian is faring and a man pushes his way past the marshalls and starts to run towards me, I wave them back from restraining him he probably only wants to fondle one of the boys. To my surprise Jan gives a little gasp and sinks to his knees, the man grabs him up into his arms, kissing him. The boy looks back at me in fear and confusion.

"I think you should release my boy now Señor." I say beginning to feel anger at this embarrassing display of emotion.

The man with tears in his eyes does so and comes over to me, "Please forgive me Señor, I speak no Spanish…"

"Explain yourself in English then."

"Forgive me again Señor. This boy is my son, my wife Tributed him against my rights over three years ago and I have been searching for him ever since. I only knew he was here when I saw the newscast last week. Please allow me to talk to you in private about the matter, I wish to redeem his Tribute. Thank God I found him before his Release!"

"Is this true Jan?"

"Yes Master he is my blood father, don't let him take me away from you…"

"Silence or I will have you publicly whipped!"

"Señor, I regret your timing is rather bad, the boy has already been granted his Release and will dance with his partner on Monday next week. You will of course be invited as an honoured guest, but I am sure you understand the Law? Here is my card, please do call tomorrow and fix an interview with my secretary. I do not discuss such things in public."

The man looked devastated, but agreed, perhaps embarrassed by his all too public show of emotion, then I noticed the cameraman who had caught it all. My first rage at the intrusion turned to the realisation that this could be a story that might grip the world, and be oh so very profitable for almost all concerned. I touched my hat and cantered off, a noticeably ashen and shaken Jan and a confused Mishear reverting to type to pace effortlessly at my stirrup to where the next float awaited us.

The story of St Sebastian of Tarifa is well known. But to see it played out is always stimulating. Having been detained by the man claiming to be Jan's blood father we were a little late arriving. The little Saint is looking very fetching although only twelve years old, he seems confident. His smooth olive flesh has filled out somewhat with all the Priests indulgences and gleams with health, his long shining black hair has been cut neatly so that it forms a fringe over his eyes and round his ears in a straight line. He had already 'lost his virginity' to the Moorish Admiral, and his blood and semen smeared thighs bare witness to the success of the operation.

Hassan who is, shall we say, rather well endowed had as usual been selected for the role of Admiral. Although masked his magnificent ebony physique could not be mistaken. I also notice that Hassan as skilful as usual has ensured the brat experienced his own orgasm and his immature sperm glistens on his belly. The 'Admiral' was now demanding that Sebastian renounces his faith and become his catamite with the rest of his delectable harem. The boy refused and the Admiral ordered him to be secured to the tree trunk set up on his float for the purpose.

"Although I love you Lord, I love my father and my faith more. You have no need to tie me, whilst I am able stand I will endure every trial!"

The crowd loved this departure from tradition, much better than the normal bratish struggles to avoid the inevitable.

"So be it boy. It grieves my heart to see such a pretty body penetrated by other than a penis. Recount you faith and your wounds will be dressed."

"Never my Lord!" The boy mounts the first float and stands with his back to the tree, arms spread wide. "Test my Faith and see, loose your arrow when I cease singing!"

True to his boast he ignores the leather thongs that hang above his head, later I suspect he will have to grip them to support himself, even if he is not actually tied to hang by his wrists as is usual. The drums roll and then are silent. The high boy's voice, harsh in the Spanish style, rings out with the Kyrie that is used in both ceremonies, but only the first phrase as to complete it would be blasphemous. He repeats it three times then is silent.

The 'harem boys' all drawn from the St Iago Middle School Archery Club are magnificent with their oiled bodies and green loin clothes and masks. The have a single cross belt and quiver from finest boy skin leather, the quiver contains five arrows. As usual there are nine of them arranged kneeling in three ranks on the second float with the 'Admiral'. He drops his hand and the first rank stand, draw bows, hold the pose so that everybody can appreciate the superiority of the free boy, then the first looses his arrow with a twang.

Almost immediately there is an audible thud as it hits the smooth flesh of the little Saints right thigh and penetrates deeply. The boy gasps in pain and staggers. Then with broken half sobbing voice repeats the Kyrie once more, as the final note dies there is a twang, a thud and a gasp as the second arrow is loosed, this time into the left shoulder. For the final time the saint sings, this time audibly sobbing, but still managing to stand. This time the arrow thuds into the smooth belly just above the right hip. This time he screams and drops to his knees clutching the wound. The drums roll again, and he staggers to his feet to stand spread armed against his tree erect, still later no doubt he will request to be tied.

The parade move off, the floats carried in the same fashion, and preceded by a 'Moorish' drum band and followed by the Guild members in their pointed cowls. I follow, after about five hundred metres, the float is halted the 'Admiral' demands "Recant or die!" The middle rank of Archers stands. It is noticeable that all three are now fully erect, later no doubt the will be rewarded by being ordered to relieve themselves. An especially lucky one may well be selected to give the little Saint a reminder of the fleshy joys he is renouncing by masturbating him to further ejaculations. The boy replies with his first Kyrie and once again the arrow is loosed, this time it thuds into the wood between the boys spread legs. Thus providing him both suspense and some support when his strength and resolve begin to fail, nice touch or lucky accident? Only the Priests from the school know, it is they who train and instruct the little archers.

The second Kyrie brings the response of the second arrow loosed into the boy's thigh close to the first. I do find the way a boy tenses every muscle in anticipation of the agony of penetration of a loosed arrow, the parted lips displaying the white teeth, the little gasp on impact and then the scream very erotic. With little Carlos I see the tortured muscle ripples underneath the olive brown flesh, smooth and oiled to gleaming perfection, and am painfully hard. The third arrow misses the boys tear stained cheek but pins his left ear to the tree, now he will find it difficult to fall, how thoughtful! The drums roll and the float moves off. The crimson blood trickles down his olive skin, now glistening with sweat and his chest heaves with sobs. He has a long decent into hell ahead of him before his final vigil on the altar steps, should he last that long. I do hope so twenty to one is rather good odds. I am pleased with my ex-Tribute Boy's first showing of inventive courage and am confident he will bring honour as well as the small financial gain.

But now I think I will retire, I also feel myself very hard and excited by the Saints opening sufferings and need to relieve the pressure, I see both Jan and Mishear are hard too. Jan in particular needs to be reminded that he is my Tribute Boy, whatever his blood father may wish, he will not, I feel, be unresponsive. Sunday will be a tedious necessity. I have no wish to see the boys condemned to the Auto de Fé perform. One does not wish to give the Priests too much encouragement! I will of course attend mass, it is not done to miss such an important social event, anyway I will have to personally check out poor little Carlos to see if he can manage a moan or a spasm of some sort. I am hoping that Christopher and my two boys will acquit themselves well in the Final of the Coursing on Monday. I know Christopher is rather nervous, proud to have been selected, to be in the final two out of forty hopefuls is a worthy achievement, but rather over awed by his rival a Japanese youth with particular talents. Perhaps I will arrange with the President that Ritchie be run against the Japanese? It would give me some revenge for all the trouble he has caused! I am sure that Christopher will not dishonour me none the less and am savouring his runs, with fifteen very fine brats to show his skills on. I am rather looking forward too it…

Chapter 2 (1st part)
Boy Coursing

Chapter 2a

Maurice describes Jonathan's training

Jonathan lay face down at my feet. He was good to look at. The many bruises and scars that a few weeks ago had marked his body had faded as they do when the flesh is healthy and young. The only exception was the livid scar along the inside of his thigh, clearly visible from where I sat, where the German boy's spear had caught him. A skilled doctor would no doubt have seen that the wound healed without leaving a noticeable mark but the services of such a person would not be wasted on mere Tribute Stock. The brat was lucky that Karl had done a rough but very adequate job of patching him up. Still apart from that one blemish he was a good looking little whore, dark haired, his nut brown skin with the sheen only good health can bring, taught young body not carrying an ounce of excess weight.

I watched through half closed eyes as Guy, kneeling beside the older boy dreamily kneaded oil into his already glistening body. I noticed the child's pricklet was erect and it's tip wobbled slightly as he worked. As I watched I saw the muscles in Jonathan's bottom begin to contract.

"Stop him," I commended sharply. Instantly Guy pressed his fingers firmly into the brat's body just behind his hairless balls. Jonathan moaned and after a second or two had passed relaxed. A frustrated sob was wrung from his body. I smiled quietly.

Only a fifteen minutes or so earlier I was deep inside the boy pounding my swollen cock into his hot young body as he moaned and writhed beneath me.

"More Master more… harder Master harder," he whimpered over and over again as I thrust ever more urgently into him.

But it was not to be. At the last moment I withdrew my cock and pushed my finger hard into the child's perineum aborted his orgasm. When he was quiet I had him take my seed in his mouth. Tears were streaming down his face as he did so. For the last four weeks I had refused him the temporary but complete release that only ejaculation can give to Tribute Stock while working him over and over again to the point of orgasm only at the last moment to deny it him.

Many sponsors, indeed perhaps all, take a very different line with their charges. They ease them along their way to their final ordeal on a flood of semen. If religion was the opium of the masses in the old capitalist society sex is the opium of Tribute Stock in today's new order. Sex is something the sponsors both use and enjoy for not only does it keep the brats from rebellion in what will probably be their final days on earth but also the performance of the all but doomed sluts becomes ever more wilder and urgent as the days pass and the agony of their Release draws nearer.

I had chosen to forego this instrument of control and means of pleasure reluctantly although, so far as the last was concerned, I have to say as the days passed and the tension and frustration grew in Jonathan, entering him became like trying to ride an unbroken mountain pony. It was however a deliberate decision based on considerable thought.

I would not say this in public, for the new world order is intolerant of criticism, but I think the Tribute System a cruel one. I am not happy to be part of it and to work within it but what is the alternative? As the great oil famine showed this world has limited resources and we must somehow conserve them. The Tribute System controls through it's systematic culling of the subject stock world population and the exploitation of that stock does something towards making good the current energy deficiency. Under the system Tribute Stock suffers cruelly. Without it we would all be starving. At least the system allows some of us to enjoy a civilised way of life.

As there is no practical alternative to the New Order, I see it as my duty to ensure that, insofar as I am involved in it's operation, it works efficiently. Since if it works efficiently not only do those the system is designed to benefit do so to the maximum extent but the sufferings of those that are exploited by the system are minimised. The one follows from the other for the penalties imposed on the Tribute Stock for the slightest sign of dissent are so draconian and the control exercised over them so complete that, miserable though their condition is, it is better that they accept it for there is no chance at all that they can escape from it.

I was not pleased therefore when Don Carlos referred Jonathan to my care and the boy himself proved so stubborn in his insistence that he would seek his Release on the coursing grounds. He was a gentle dark haired little lad whose sweet voice had often delighted me when he was chosen to sing in praise of that god, whom the church taught had no concern for him and his like, in the great Cathedral of San Diego de Campos. While the other brats, when allowed would engage, in rowdy games on the beach he would creep off and labour happily away with a stump of a pencil creating drawings, often of remarkable clarity and vigour, on a scrap of crumpled paper. That such a child should be condemned to end his days on the blood soaked sands of Coruña Bay seemed wrong. Better I felt if he had chosen to be gelded. Don Carlos knew the nature of the brat and would have arranged for it to have been done kindly. Taken behind the kennels by Karl, a quick slash with a sharp knife, the severed parts tagged and sent off to the local offices of the Population Control Executive for registration and then training as an artist and singer. The boy had talent and he might have prospered.

But it was not to be. He had to be like every other slut on the Hacienda and strive to proof his love to his Master by displaying it through his bravery in the Release he sought. And I, as I had been appointed his sponsor, resolved to do my duty by the brat, to lead and coax him forward, to see that he faced the agony of his Release with fortitude and performed as well on the coursing field as he could.

So far as performance was concerned I had not expected much. He was regarded by the other brats with amused contempt, as a wimp, and so far as I could see that reputation was deserved. He was a pretty boy, he would have not been on the Hacienda if he was not, but even by the standards of Tribute Stock he was small for his age. In addition he had none of the rough competitive edge of the other brats. I meant to do my best for him but I thought at the outset that would be at the most survival for just the first two or three laps of the opening heat.

Don Carlos must have felt the same for he sent him to run for Karl at the practice hunt and then into the Picos to serve the hunting party there, obviously intending to toughen him up for the ordeal ahead. While he was away I spent much of my spare time watching and analysing the tapes in the Hacienda library of past coursing contests. Such tapes are usually watched by those who get a thrill from seeing, lithe brown skinned boys fleeing before the gleaming swords of the horsemen, the bright steel flashing in the sunshine as it hacks and probes at their naked bodies, the dark blood spurting from the open wounds and the limp broken carcasses lying tumbled on the sand. I watched to study the way the contest was run, to try to identify the qualities that brought a brat success.

The general arrangements for the coursing contest at the Carnival at San Diego de Campos have been established many years ago. The coursing takes place on the wide sands of Coruña Bay. Over a two hundred metre length posts are driven into the sand marking out a zigzag course that the brats have to run. Two horsemen, free youths in their fourteenth years, armed with short pointed single edged swords start fifty metres behind the brats. Both horsemen and brats set off at the same time, the aim of the horsemen to kill the brats, the aim of the brats to evade the horseman. At the end of a lap the horsemen ride through the surviving sluts to a line fifty yards beyond them. While they do so, teams consisting of two sturdy sluts in their sixth year of service and a younger smaller brat carrying lengths of ropes with large hooks on the end clear the course of the fallen. They work fast, the smaller slut drives the hook into the carcass, the two bigger ones hauling it to one side of the track with the rope where it is left until the end of the contest.

The course is lined with mounted marshalls armed with cross bows and heavy whips with which to drive back onto the killing ground any brat who might in his terror try to escape.

While the laps are being run the contestants mignons race along the side of the track screaming encouragement. They and they alone are allowed onto the track to assist their champions if they are wounded but any mignon who does so runs a distinct risk of being involved in the general carnage himself as in the excitement of the chase one a naked boy looks very much like another.

An initial entry of one hundred brats is accepted. These are split into five groups of twenty boys for the running of the opening heats. These take place over five days. Each group running on a different day. Laps are run in each instance until only three brats survive and these three go onto the finals.

The riders are only allowed to take two brats each lap, so each heat involves running at least nine laps.

A different pair of riders take part on each day that the heats are taking place and the President of the course selects the two best riders to take part in the finals. At the end of the coursing, before deciding the fate of the winning brat, he awards a sword with a belt and scabbard made out of the highest quality boy hide to the free youth whom he judges to have been the best rider.

Different arrangements apply in the latter stages of the finals but I did not bother to watch these. I was sure that Jonathan would have departed the contest and this world long before they were run.

Watching the tapes the first thing that struck me was that there were very few clean kills. The swords were made for thrusting rather than cutting. They had neither the edge nor the weight to sever an arm or lop off a head. Very, very, occasionally a rider would get a brat in just the right place, running to his right and slightly ahead of his right stirrup, and then he would stand in his stirrups, raise his sword above his head and bring it down upon the slut's head splitting it open so that he fell as if pole axed blood and brains oozing from the open gash in his skull. Such feats were greeted with wild applause. Slightly more often a free youth would essay the blow and miss. Then he would find it difficult to keep his seat on his mount while the audience howled with laughter at his misfortune.

But even when used for stabbing, the swords rarely produced a straight kill. Very often I saw a free lad jabbing away as hard as he could with the point of his sword and the brat staggering on blood streaming down his back from the open cuts. In order to kill a free youth had to find a gap in the brat's rib cage though which he could slide his blade into the heart or lungs of his victim.

Then I began to study the way the brats ran over the last five years, paying particular attention to the behaviour of the winning brat in each instance, to see if there was some common pattern that ensured success. I played the tapes through many times and at first I could see nothing. Certainly there seemed to be no particular common and pre-eminent physical characteristic that marked them out as winners. They were all fast runners but only one was the fastest in his year, they were all agile and quick but many who failed were as good or better. Then I noticed one thing. The winners all favoured the left hand side of the course and if they were pursued by a rider they tended to run bearing to the left. In only one year was this not so and in that year one of the free youths selected as a rider was left handed.

After that I started to study the tapes to try to identify if any particular points in the event that were specially dangerous. I soon saw that the point where the first two stakes in the course were fixed was the site of a great deal of mayhem. This was specially so during the first four laps of the qualifying heats and the first lap of the finals when twelve or more naked brats were all struggling together to force their way past this choke point and the two riders were slashing at their backs with their swords, eager to force them on so that they could show what fine and skilful horse men they were. It was not often that a brat was killed or disabled here, for the free youths would gain no glory from a kill there, but many were wounded and that made them easy prey later on as the pain and the loss of blood sapped their strength and slowed them. I watched the riders. I saw that they would canter down together onto the mass of terrified boys swinging their swords in their right hands eager to be in among their prey. Again I saw that the boys to their left were much less likely to be wounded than those to their right.

A tactic occurred to me that might serve to get Jonathan through the first three heats or so and that was the best I thought I could possibly manage for him. Simply running to his left would never ensure him or anyone else victory but with a bit of luck it might just give him enough of an edge to ensure that he avoided the disgrace of being one of the first of the brats to fall. If, that is, he had the courage to do so. It takes nerve to run into the path of a pursuing pony when you can hear the fierce drum beat of his hooves bearing down on you and you know on his back is a youth bigger and stronger than you intent on killing you.

My first reaction when Karl called on me at my bungalow on his return from the practice hunt was surprise. While I recognise that Karl, while being stubborn opinionated and unimaginative, does have virtues, I think he simple thinks of me as merely clever and that in his mind is not a compliment. As a consequence his visits had been rare and always had a direct and obvious business purpose. On this occasion there was so far as I knew no such reason for his presence.

My surprise increased when he informed me, once I had poured him a largish whisky, a tipple to which I feel his is somewhat over partial, that he had placed a bet on Jonathan to win the coursing event and that he was wondering whether as the boy's sponsor I thought he had any chance of getting his money back. I remarked that I hoped he had not wagered a large sum and spilt my own whisky in amazement when he told me the amount involved. I had not thought of Karl before as being a gambling man, nor of being wealthy enough to venture such an amount on a wager.

Startled, I had the bad taste to express these thoughts out loud. I received in reply an embarrassed and muddled account of how one of the German youths had substituted a hunting lance for a practice one, how Jonathan had spotted that and had tripped the little tart Vass who was due to run and ran in his place. How when the German youth was right on him and about to run him through Jonathan had turned under his pony's hooves. I was not quite clear how all this prompted Karl to venture a good part of his life savings on the chances of a no hoper like poor Jonathan winning. However I was left with the strong impression that the brats' nickname for Karl, which I should not have known but did, of 'Rollo' was well chosen. 'Rollo' being a sort of sweet with a hard shell and a soft centre which indulgent visitors to the hacienda sometimes gave their favourite whores as a treat.

I told Karl as gently as I could that I thought the best thing that he could do was to make arrangements to save something from the wreck by laying as much of the bet off as he was able. I said that I thought, now I knew Jonathan had nerve, he might get through the first few laps of his qualifying heat but to expect him to survive beyond that was to live in cloud cuckoo land. I was certain that Guy was one mignon whose balls would still be attached to his body at the end of the festival.

Karl departed crestfallen, muttering about having led other people to wager on Jonathan and feeling responsible for that.

Jonathan himself had come back from the practice hunt in a pitiable condition. The great scar on the inside of his leg where the lance had cut him was only the largest and most noticeable of a myriad of scars, burns and bruises that now disfigured the previously satin smooth brown skin of his body. Like all boys though, he had remarkable powers of recovery and within a couple of days, while the marks remained, he was grinning happily and proudly showing off to me the expensive box of crayons that Karl had bought him, confirming further to my mind that his nickname was well chosen.

I was not over happy when Don Carlos announced he was including the boy in the party of Hacienda brats he was sending to serve the German hunting party in the Picos. I would naturally have had no reason to object if he was being included in the group simply because those particular guests took pleasure in abusing him. He was a Hacienda brat and he existed to serve our paying customers in whatever way they demanded. That was not however the position. He had requested and been granted his Release. From that moment forward only one thing mattered in what were probably the few remaining weeks of his short hard life and that was to ensure that he brought no dishonour to the Hacienda when the final test came. As his sponsor it was my responsibility to see that this was achieved. I felt so strongly about it that I put my doubts to Don Carlos.

"You are a good man, Maurice," he said having heard me out. "Now tell me, do you think the brat will win the coursing?"

"No Sir," I said, "he might, with luck, survive a couple of runs in the opening heat but no more."

"Well Maurice, the slut is going to die anyway. If he goes to the Picos and survives he will be fitter and harder than if he did not and may last a little longer on the coursing grounds. That will bring the Hacienda some little honour. If he dies in the Picos, well, very shortly he would be dead anyway and I will see the Germans pay so that his mother and father are looked after in their old age."

He paused and then spoke again softly.

"And in the end, Maurice, there is the boy himself. A Tribute Brat's life is a hard one. At least I try to give my brats the chance to feel pride, just once, in themselves even if it is only in the final agony of their Release. He will not feel that unless he has outlasted a few of his peers in the contest."

I said no more to Don Carlos but when next Karl appeared to worry over his bet I did suggest that he should try to keep the brat out of the way of the Germans.

Well Jonathan returned from the Picos. He had collected a few more bruises and whip marks but no scars comparable to the one the German youth's lance had scored across the inside of his thigh. There was a mysterious bandage taped onto the palm of his left hand. The mystery being made all the greater by the fact that every slut returning from the Picos including little Guy had a similar one.

I asked both boys about it when I got them back to my bungalow. They stood side by side, shifting from one bare foot to another, avoiding my eyes, while indulging in that muddled and incomprehensible muttering that is the final tactic of a brat who wishes to avoid answering a question. I could easily have flogged the answer out of them but it seemed hardly worth the bother and by the marks on their shoulders and rumps they had already to my mind been beaten enough.

Karl was no more forthcoming when he looked in at the bungalow at breakfast time the next morning, muttering something about 'things best forgotten'. He then refused my offer of a whisky, saying that it was too early in the day, the first time that I had ever heard him suggest that any part of the day was unsuitable for that purpose. I sent Jonathan to fetch him a coffee.

"We've brought the brat back in pretty good condition for you," Karl remarked, running his hand up the back of the boy's thighs as the lad bent forward to place the cup on the table beside him.

I had to agree for despite the bruises and welts that so liberally marked their young bodies both the brats were physically in excellent shape.

"Well then," said Karl, "do you think I'm going to loose my money now."

"Jonathan is still Jonathan," I replied feeling oddly somewhat awkward about condemning the slut's chances in front of him. "He's a nice gentle little animal. He's just not rough enough nor big enough. He'll let himself be pushed into the path of one of the riders by the others. Then it's a few sword thrusts in his back or if he's lucky his head cracked open with a single blow and it's the end of him. There are no rules out on the coursing field you know. The brats are running for their lives."

"I suppose so," Karl said gloomily squeezing the boy's thigh. "It's a lot of money I stand to loose as well."

"Still," he continued with a grin, "he's like the other Hacienda boys in one respect. He's a really hot little bitch. You can tell it from the condition he's in now."

He flipped the tip of Jonathan's little boy's cock that was standing to attention to illustrate his point.

"He's a good little whore," I agreed glad to find something to praise in the boy.

"You should have seen him at old Bartolemé's farm," Karl chuckled earthily and Jonathan shifted uneasily under his hand. "The boss put him up on the table after supper and had him shag Guy. The pair of them went at it like hammer and tongues. I thought maybe the table'd collapse under them they got so excited. You could hear his belly slapping against Guy's bum a mile off."

"Well," he said laughing again at the memory, "I'd better be off got to see the boss. Let's hope the next lot of hunting guests are easier to handle than those bloody Krauts."

As he left I wondered whether what Karl had just told me provided a key to producing a further improvement in Jonathan's performance. Not to get beyond the qualifying heats of course but at least to survive a little longer in the context. He was a naturally sweet tempered child and that weakness would condemn him to an early death but supposing I could pervert his nature.

I pulled Jonathan down onto my lap. Eagerly the whore wriggled his tight little rump into my crutch. I felt myself harden. I was only wearing my dressing gown. It slipped open allowing my cock to lie along the cleft of the slut's bottom. Gripping him under the arm pits, I shoved him forward, bending him over the edge of the breakfast table, knocking over my coffee cup. My half empty glass of orange juice fell to the floor and shattered.

Guy hurried forward his hand already slimy with lubricant. Hardly giving the boy time to perform his task I drove my prick into his friends bottom. There was a brief moment of resistance but then I had forced the brat's sphincter open and was deep inside him. Thrusting brutally I buried the full length of my cock in the boy's bum.

"More Master more," Jonathan whimpered as he writhed impaled on my cock.

I rode him until I felt him to be at the point of coming and then tore my cock from his bottom. I drove my finger tips with brutal force into his perineum just behind his little hairless ball sack. His fingers tore at the table cloth as I aborted his orgasm.

"Not now Jonathan not now." I whispered. "When you win. Only when you win."

That was the first of many such occasions, for, from that time forward, although I have entered the brat many, many times, I have never allowed him to come. At night, when I have finished with him, I clamp a ring tight around his testicles so that he cannot find relieve even in his sleep. In the day time, when ever I felt capable of it, I entered him but never have I allowed him the luxury of an orgasm. The boy has suffered. Every time now he pleads with me to allow him to come, "Please Master please just this once. Just this one time Master". But my reply is always the same. "When you win Jonathan. Only when you win," I say softly as I kneel between his legs, cum dripping from my own flaccid cock, one hand pressed into the small of his back to pin hold his writhing body still and the other forced cruelly into his body.

Of course I don't expect him to win. Not even now when he has done so well. But it has worked. It has worked very well. Much better than I had ever expected.

Chapter 2b

Maurice describes the beginning of the festival and the Opening Heats of the Coursing

I commandeered a bicycle from the brat's pool for Guy and for long hours he peddled determinedly up and down the back roads of the Hacienda away from the gaze of the other sluts with Jonathan running behind him. I had to give the boy credit he did try. Most afternoons I managed to accompany them on a pony. It was only at the very end of the run that I had to use my riding crop on the lad's bare bottom to get him to give that last extra bit of effort that only pain can extract from a boy.

In addition, when ever I had the energy, I would ride the slut thrusting deep into his body, working him just short of the point of climax and then denying him that ultimate pleasure. I am approaching middle age and at times my energy failed me then I would use my fingers or a wooden plug to drive the boy to the verge of ejaculation before cruelly cutting short his ecstasy. Always at the moment of denial my message was the same "Not until you win Jonathan. Not until you win."

I remained firm in my resolve though the boy pleaded with me for mercy and often as I fell asleep I could hear him sobbing quietly with frustration. Guy troubled by his friends sufferings tried once to intervene on his behalf. Once only for the thrashing I gave him for his temerity in concerning himself with such a matter silenced him on this point although he made enough noise in all conscience while I was warming his bottom with my belt.

The day came for the grand opening march. I stood among the crowd of free citizens in the great square before the Cathedral of San Diego de Campos watching the parade of the contestants. Canvas sheets had been spread about the edges of the square providing welcome relieve from the glare and heat of the sun.

First came the sound of the tramping feet and the pompous blare of a military band. Then a crash of sound as the band of the Italian Bersagliero with their high white plumed hats, the front rank bearing their great brass horns around their chests, swung into the square. It is a tradition that a crack military unit from a different neighbouring nation should attend each of the great festivals showing that the new order transcends national and racial boundaries. At the moment the band entered the square the guns of the battle cruiser moored off Coruña on which the Crown Prince of Spain was entertaining the Deputy President of the French Republic and the Prince of Wales crashed out a ten gun salute. To the roar of this the Alpine troops entered the square performing their weird swaggering march, arms swinging, knees lifting high at each step, bayonets fixed.

I cannot think that it is not completely a coincidence that troops with fixed bayonets are so much in evidence during at least the initial stages of the games when such great numbers of the Tribute Stock are assembled. There has never been an uprising but one cannot be too careful and with a thousand brats trained to peak physical condition, all knowing that by the end of the fortnight all but a handful will have died painful deaths, the potential for mutiny is there. It only needs a spark, one slut to forget the obedience and gratitude he owes his master and there could be very serious trouble.

Then after the soldiers came the marshalls. Free youths, whose every movement breathed arrogance and pride. Their cross bows slung across their bare shoulders, crimson loin cloths providing a vivd splash of colour and contrasting with the black masks that shielded their faces and gave them a sinister inhuman air.

And then the contestants and their mignons entered the square. Two thousand boys of all races and colours, just beginning or on the verge of puberty, the sun glistening on their naked well oiled bodies. The crowd roared it's applause as they marched in, rank upon rank of the most delectable young animals. Aroused by the noise, the excitement and the mobs admiration every one had an erection. Two thousand beautiful sluts sporting two thousand stiff little pricks… no wonder the crowd whistled and cheered.

They were a pleasure to look at. I was saddened though to see when the boys destined for the coursing field marched by that, while Ritchie was in the front rank a scarf in the Hacienda colours of yellow and red tied round his left arm, Jonathan and Guy had allowed themselves to be jostled to the very back of their contingent.

Behind the contestants came two companies of the Royal Hispanic Marines. They marched into the square at a sharp light infantry pace. Their green berets and automatic rifles showed that they were for work rather than show. They came to every boys' festival at San Diego de Campos. Karl's fathers old unit, he had a standing invitation to their Sergeant's mess. If he behaved this year as he had in the past, he would come back from it most evenings, red in the face, unusually loquacious and even more opinionated than usual.

The soldiers lined the sides of the square. The marshalls with a good deal of kicking and shouting got the brats lined up in ranks in the full glare of the sun across the centre of square. A shouted command and the sluts as one knelt. Glancing along the rows of bowed heads I found I could pick out easily the Hacienda brats. Their heads were bowed lower, their backs drawn up straighter and their knees spread wider than their companions. They were a credit to Hassan, who must have been proud, for he attached great importance during their initial schooling to inculcating correct deportment and all brats spent many painful hours under his tuition on the special bench that he had designed to achieve this.

A further bellowed order and suddenly two thousand lovely boys' rumps were thrust up into the air as the sluts prostrated themselves, kneeling on the cobbles. The Presidents, sombre in their purple robes, began to file slowly on to the podium to wild cheering from the mob of free citizens. Whether this cheering was prompted purely by the appearance of the Presidents I somewhat doubt.

The podium filled up slowly. There was a further pause while the brats remained unmoving their rumps open and exposed to the view of the crowd. Behind the Cathedral a Verey Light soared up into the blue cloudless sky. The guns of the battle cruiser roared out again. The partly masked Presidents rose in sombre anonymous dignity to their feet. Out onto the podium, to the enthusiastic cheers of the free citizens, stepped the Crown Prince of Spain followed by the Cardinal Arch Bishop of Burgos and the Prince of Wales. The two temporal Princes' in the uniforms of the admirals of their respective navies the dark blue and plentiful gold braid contrasting with the crimson of the cardinal's robes. There was a slight scuffle as the spiritual and temporal powers disputed precedent and then the three dignitaries were standing side by side. I noticed the Cardinal was looking very bad tempered and was standing to the left of the Crown Prince. I assumed from that, that he had as little success as his predecessors from the time of Thomas á Becket had had in pursuing this particular controversy with the British crown.

The Crown Prince raised his hand acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd who responded with redoubled cheering. Through out this time the Tribute Brats had remained huddled silent on the ground abasing themselves before their natural Masters. It would have been as insolent of them to cheer as to hiss their betters. Their part was only to obey, to serve and inevitably to suffer.

The Crown Prince made repeated attempts to speak but every time his efforts were drowned by the roar of the crowd. Finally though he managed to make himself heard over the cheers.

"Fellow citizens," he began living up to his popular reputation, "the great Festival of San Diego de Campos has established itself as the greatest celebration and affirmation of the New Order. That order that ensures the prosperity and well being not only of our Nation, but our Continent and indeed our World. That order that I see in all it's power and glory presented in miniature before me now. You my friends, my people, happy and prosperous, the Tribute Stock, mere brutes, their lives given meaning only by their service to their betters, huddled at your feet waiting to suffer and to die for your entertainment. Nothing can challenge the army and the people when they are united, neither the treachery, nor the rebellion, nor the ingratitude of the servile population. It is this order, this unity, that we celebrate over the coming fortnight while allowing the Tribute Stock to prove their love, gratitude and loyalty to those who have given purpose to their lives by allowing them to serve."

The Crown Prince sat down to renewed and even louder applause. Both the Cardinal and the Prince of Wales started to their feet and began to speak simultaneously. The Prince of Wales having the louder voice prevailed.

"The New Order we celebrate make us one with nature and the planet," he shouted over the Priest's weaker voice. "One with the other creatures with whom we share it."

He paused rubbing his hands together struggling to find words to express what he obviously thought was a deep truth but seemed to me perhaps mere platitudes.

"The environment is a delicate thing. One species will if it becomes predominant unless checked, unless managed, upset the balance that ultimately assures our survival and the survival of all life forms. Nature is very precious but it has it's own stern rules and to preserve nature we must obey them…"

The man prosed on becoming lost in a cloud of mystical verbiage until he eventually sat down and at once the Cardinal started to his feet. He did not have to wait long for the polite smattering of applause that greeted the end of the Prince of Wales's speech to die away.

"Look," he said gesturing to the rows of up raised rumps of the Tribute Brats, "and tremble. They are but filth, scum, but scum if it is allowed to float to the service of a pool will suffocate all the higher forms of life that live in it. Keep them down my children, keep them down. People speak of tolerance and gentleness. Would you be gentle, would you tolerate an assassin who lurked outside your bedroom window loading a revolver or sharpening a knife? Yet such an assassin would only threaten your own life and property. These brutes if they were allowed freedom would destroy you, your families the very civilisation in which you live indeed even the holy church. You would not tolerate a threat to you life and property how much less should you tolerate a threat to your church and through your church to the well being of your immortal soul."

"God in his infinite wisdom has given us dominion over 'the beasts of the field' for our benefit. The brutes that kneel before you now are mere animals without souls and are among those over whom god granted us rule. It would be sinful to reject god's gift and not to exercise it for the purpose for which it was granted the glory of the holy church, the preservation of your immortal souls, the service of our material needs of every sort."

"The children of Cain……"

What more the Cardinal had to say though was drowned in a rising tide of cheering from outside the square. It reached a crescendo and into sight staggered a Tribute Boy carrying a flaming torch. He was so exhausted that he could hardly walk. Eyes glazed, body caked with dust, his legs were torn and bruised from where he had fallen, his bleeding feet leaving damp red patches wherever he stepped, he began a weary parade round the square. Behind him staggered into a view a second and then a third boy both in equally desperate condition.

A sharp order rang out and the ranks of crouching sluts straightened themselves lifting their faces from the ground.

The boy with the torch completed one circuit and began another. The two other boys plodded wearily after him. The crowd yelled and screamed in their excitement as the kneeling brats watched silently. A further circuit and then one of the following boys stumbled fell to his knees, dragged himself painfully to his feet but then fell again.

A marshall walked over to the prostrate slut. Suddenly all was silent. He rolled the brat onto his back. He unshippped the cross bow from his back and levelled it as he counted slowly, remorselessly, to ten. Then the string twanged as it sent the iron dart thudding into the doomed boy's stomach. An almost imperceptible ripple of movement and sound ran though the ranks of kneeling children. The soldiers lining the square stood unmoving for it was not an expression of revolt but merely of realisation and acceptance. Realisation that their time soon was soon to come and acceptance that this was what the inexorable rules of the Tribute System decreed. The giant electronic counter at the side of the square opposite the Cathedral clattered into life as it recorded the first killing of the games. The free population screamed and whistled in their excitement, their blood lust aroused.

A further circuit of the square and after a desperate attempt to rest the lead from the torch bearer the other brat fell not to rise again and the death count rose to two. The torch carrier painfully mounted the podium, the torch was taken from him by a fresh and much younger brat with years of service before him. The torch bearer, self emasculated, sliced open his belly, escaping by the only way open to a Tribute Boy from his life of service. The first of many that would take this route in the following two weeks.

Again an order was screamed. Again the kneeling brats prostrated themselves.

The two princes and the cardinal rose and chatting together made their leisurely way off the podium. Then the cowled and gowned figures of the Presidents began to follow them laughing and chatting together as they waited for the gangways to clear while all the time the naked brats huddled in their ranks in the blazing sun, the hard cobble stones pressing into their knees.

I knew it would be sometime before Jonathan and Guy would be released from their place in the ranks of waiting sluts into my care. I wandered over to the great bronze bowl in which the oil ignited by the torch now blazed fiercely. It was not the bowl that interested me so much as the six brats who supported it. They knelt facing outwards, bearing the weight of the bowl on their bare shoulders, their arms lifted high above their heads, their hands grasping brackets set in it's highly polished sides to keep it steady. They were beautiful little animals, each different, each an exquisite example of it's type. A Negro boy with black limbs gleaming like burnished ebony knelt next to a boy with almond eyes and skin the colour of the finest marzipan while next to him was a dark haired, nut brown, brat from the Levant. I wandered slowly round the bowl admiring each one of it's supporters. It struck me that their variety was an excellent illustration of the universal nature of the Tribute System.

A soft whimpering rose from the kneeling brats as the hot metal scorched their flesh and the cramps racked their bodies. I moved away from them. I had begun to find the heat thrown out by the bowl combined the sweet smell of burning flesh oppressive. I glanced at the clock on the great tower of the Cathedral and saw half an hour had passed since the cauldron had been ignited. The kneeling sluts had seven and a half further hours to endure until they were replaced by another team.

Under the supervision of the marshalls the Tribute Brats were being dispersed a row at a time. I could see that Jonathan and Guy's file would be the next but one to be ordered to their feet. There was plenty of time though for the marshalls did not allow a rank to rise before all the brats of the previous one had cleared the square. The heat in the square even under the canvas shades was fierce. I wandered over to a stall and bought an ice cold bottle of coke. I stood drinking it looking out at the brats kneeling in the blazing sun. They had been out there in it's merciless blaze for more than two hours now. I was glad I was not amongst them but then I was not a brat. They do not feel things the same way as we do.

At last the two brats were allowed to break ranks. They trotted over to me. I could see the marks of the cobbles impressed on their knees. I handed my empty coke bottle to Guy and ordered him to run and put it into a waste bin.

I turned and walked away signalling Jonathan to follow me. I saw him cast a longing glance at the stall and smiled indulgently. Silly lad, he might as well long for the moon, such luxuries as coke or ice cream were not for such as him. There was the slap of running bare feet and Guy joined us panting from his short errand. Followed by the two boys I made my way out of the square.

Jonathan had been drawn to run in the first heat on Monday morning and there was now but one full day to go before that. The death of the three brats in the Cathedral square and the sound of the mob baying it's blood lust must have left him in no doubt of what lay before him.

I doubted if he would survive long on that first day but still I did not relent from my refusal to allow him sexual fulfilment. That night I brought him to the point of orgasm many, many times, but always at the point when I felt his body quiver with the onset of that one pleasure permitted at his Master's discretion to a Tribute Brat I refused it. Fortunately I felt no need to exercise any such restraint over myself. After I had finished with him I clamped the cock ring close about his testicles. I was by then exhausted and I fell swiftly asleep despite the brat's persistent sobbing.

I made Jonathan train hard all Sunday. That night, the night before he was due to run in his qualifying heat which I did not expect him to survive, I treated him no differently than I had on any other night since I had started training him.

Some might think that this was hard on the brat. To deny him a last orgasm before he was taken out to be slaughtered for the entertainment of the crowd and indeed it was hard on the slut. Not least because the other brats whose time was approaching were allowed almost unrestrained licence. The whale boat crew when they were not earning the envy of all the other brats by being serially fucked by their beloved Don Carlos, serviced each other. Xavier went about the place, with an almost permanent erection, glowing with pride at his status as Christopher's special whore. Ritchie and the rest were all visibly on heat and getting and giving satisfaction. The atmosphere in the villa where we lodged, indeed the atmosphere in the whole town was heady with sex. Only Jonathan was excluded from this orgy of boy lust. But that exclusion was for a purpose and served a higher end than the happiness of a mere Tribute Boy, for what was at stake the reputation of the Hacienda and the prosperity of his Master.

I suppose I came perhaps four times that night as Jonathan moaned and twisted under me while denying him any release. His pleas and sobbing becoming more desperate as the night progressed. I realised I was incapable of coming again but that did not mean that I released the boy from his torment.

I took him face down across my knees. He lay there his legs spread, his bottom raised and open as I worked my fingers inside him. I do not know how many times I worked him to the point of climax and then aborted it. The process had become for me almost automatic although judging from the sounds my probing fingers were ringing from the brat and the writhings of his naked body it was not so for Jonathan. Then suddenly he screamed, his body arched upwards and went rigid, his bottom clenching so tightly that he bruised my fingers. The screaming went on and on shrill and unwavering. I tried to wrench my fingers clear of his rump but I could not break it's grip. Then just as suddenly the convulsions began. His bottom momentarily relaxed and he rolled from my knees onto the floor where he lay his limbs thrashing uncontrollably. A pool of pungent amber fluid formed on the marble paving where he had wet himself. He no longer screamed but his breath came in short rasping gasps.

Grabbing the slut by a wildly flailing leg I hauled him bodily clear of the pool of urine. Pulling a blanket from the end of the bed I wrapped him tightly in it to control the wild contortions of his body. I sent Guy to fetch a bucket and cloth and panting slightly I sat down to consider the position.

So far as the brat himself was concerned there was not really anything to decide. The position was as with any item of Tribute Stock, either he would get better or he would not. I could only wait and see. There was obviously no question of getting medical assistance, that was for free citizens not brats. The only question really was what do with the little brute mean while. He was no longer screaming but the harsh rasping of his breath as he fought for air would make sleep for myself impossible if he remained in my room.

I got a couple of belts and securing the blanket about him with these I dragged him out into the corridor. Letting him have a blanket was in itself an almost unheard of indulgence. Brats unless required to share their Masters bed were normally not permitted such luxuries and were expected to keep each other warm by the heat of their combined bodies. I thought the somewhat special circumstances probably justified in this instance a departure from normal practice.

After Guy had mopped the floor clean I sent him to keep Jonathan company in the corridor.

I woke the next morning as is usual, desperate for a pee and with a raging hard on. As I made my way down the corridor to the lavatory I passed the two brats. Both boys were wide awake. Guy was sitting, his back resting against the wall, his bare legs stretched straight out in front of him. Jonathan lay still wrapped in his blanket with his head pillowed on the younger boy's thighs. He was staring unseeingly into space and an occasional shudder wracked his otherwise inert body. Guy's eyes rested on my swollen cock as I passed him.

I returned from the toilet the pressure on my bladder received but my prick still erect. I pulled the blanket away from Jonathan and kicked him to his feet. I spoke to him but his reply was an incomprehensible croak. He seemed to have difficulty in focussing his eyes and in co-ordinating the movement of his legs and his whole body trembled violently.

Normally I would have started the day by fucking him but there seemed little prospect of pleasure in that in the present circumstances so I made do with young Guy. I have to say the child was a most satisfactory substitute.

Jonathan ate nothing at breakfast although I had had a plate of boiled offal specially prepared for him. It seemed almost pointless taking the brat to the coursing grounds he would clearly be dead meat before the end of the first lap. However he was entered and he would have to appear even if it was only to be immediately butchered.

I refused Don Carlos's offer of a lift in his vintage Range Rover. I did not want to expose Jonathan in his present state to the sneers of Ritchie who was not running that day but who was being brought along to watch. I ran my two to Coruña in my own much smaller vehicle. Even so the walk from the car park to the coursing grounds was not pleasant.

Jonathan did not struggle but he moved like an automaton, requiring constant guiding and stumbling as he walked. The streets were crowded with people hurrying to watch the spectacle. This being merely a qualifying heat and not the finals entry was cheap and the crowds were largely made up of members of the poorer classes who were by reputation more noisy and outspoken than their social superiors. Certainly many of them expressed their estimates of Jonathan's chances with pungent clarity and devastating honesty. This was made no easier to bear by the fact that I largely agreed with their comments.

Things got no better when we reached the coursing grounds. I saw Don Carlos cast a sharp glance at Jonathan and shake his head. Ritchie who was not running that day but had been brought to watch audibly expressed his opinion of "gutless sluts who would disgrace the Hacienda and their Master." I had to order Guy sharply to heel before he threw himself at the larger boy in a furious defence of his friend.

Only Christopher who was to ride that day brought some comfort but that of a fairly desperate and cold nature. He strolled up looking magnificent in his youthful self confidence. Dressed in the uniform of a free rider, loin cloth, broad leather belt with his short sword hanging over his left hip a scarlet bandanna wrapped round his head he carried himself with a careless arrogance. Xavier who was acting as his groom walked behind him leading the fiery black pony on which he was to ride, the slut's eyes, which followed his Masters every move, full of devotion and love. It was remarkable how Christopher had imposed his will on one of the toughest wilfullest brats which the penal system had ever inflicted on the Hacienda.

"I was going to offer to let Jonathan feel the point of my sword," the good natured youth said as he came up to where I was standing, holding Jonathan by the nape of his neck, "I thought it might encourage him but…"

"I'm afraid it would be wasted, Christopher," I replied sorrowfully.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Maurice. I know Dad doesn't. He was remarking to me last night how much effort you had put into trying to get the best out of the slut."

"It's not going to do the Hacienda any good though, Christopher. Having one of our entries collapse like this."

"I tell you what," he replied after a moments gloomy thought, "you kick him out onto the course when the starting pistol goes and if he doesn't run I'll drop him. It'll be better for the Hacienda and the brat that way."

But not I thought for your chances of being selected to ride in the finals. There was no honour to be gained by killing a brat before he had even begun to run. But the offer was typical of Christopher's generous nature. It was lucky I reflected that this was a qualifying heat rather than the finals where during the closing stages at least a rider was disqualified from coursing a brat belonging to a close relative. In the opening heats it was assumed that the chance of winning the honour of riding in the finals would outweigh any temptation to show favour to a particular brat.

"Now I'd better get into position he continued, "the President of the day has just arrived. And the other rider is there already. He's called Goran. He comes from Montenegro. He's meant to be good."

He swung into the saddle and cantered off to get to the riders start line.

I walked Jonathan to the brats' start line, some fifty metres in front of the riders, and stood there still holding him firmly by the nape of the neck. The other sponsors were lining up with their charges, the men fussing over the naked brats, some rubbing extra life into firm young thighs, others whispering encouragement or administering comforting pats and squeezes to their sluts who shifted nervously as they waited, jittery as untried young colts. One or two cast quick glances at Jonathan and looked just as quickly away, dismissing him as any sort of challenge. The mignons, a hoard of small naked boys, jostled excitedly at one end of the start line shouting shrill cries of encouragement to their elders.

I stood gently squeezing Jonathan's neck, knowing that the boy whose living flesh I could feel warm under my hand, would soon be lying on the sand with his brains seeping from his fractured skull. At least I told myself it would be quick for him which was more than could be said for the end of most Tribute Stock.

I looked down the track. The coursing ground had been set out, ropes funnelling the boys down to the first gate and then in a series of sharp zig zags to it's further end some two hundred metres away. marshalls armed with heavy whips were taking station at intervals along either side of the course ready to drive any brats who lost heart back onto the swords of the riders. Gangs of Tribute Brats armed with hooks and ropes were waiting ready to clear away the carcasses of the fallen sluts. A detail of soldiers wearing the green berets of the Marine Commandos were present in case of real trouble, relaxed, but subtly menacing. All along the track the crowd of spectators stood, their raucous noise momentarily silenced in a tense expectation of the excitement to come. I noticed that the spectators were particularly thick at the approaches to the first gate. That would be where normally the first blood would be spilt and the execution begin. On this occasion though I thought miserably one brat would die even before it reached that point.

I saw the President had entered his box. He raised his hand to give the signal to the starter to begin the event.

"Keep to the left," I whispered urgently into Jonathan's ear more from feeling I should say something than any expectation that he was in any state to understand what I said or to act on it if he did understand it.

Suddenly the boy went quite still. The trembling that had shaken his whole body ceased.

"I worked that out myself," he said in the coolest of tones. To have spoken like that to a free citizen would in normal circumstances have earned him a severe whipping but these were not normal circumstances. In any case before I could recover from the shock of being addressed with such apparent insolence by a brat the starters pistol cracked and the sluts, with Jonathan running full pelt with them, were off.

There was the thunder of hooves behind me and I and the other sponsors had to run to get out of the way of Christopher and Goran. We could not have made a very dignified sight; twenty reasonably prosperous middle aged men scuttling out of the way of two wildly galloping youths.

The two lads raced past us their ponies hooves kicking up loose sand from the beach as they rode down on the fleeing brats. The sluts had been forced together as the course narrowed and all I could now see was a mass of desperately struggling brown bodies as they fought together to force their way past the first gate. Their struggles became more violent as they heard the thud of the hooves of the approaching horses. Three or four brats had managed to break clear and were once more running fast. More were following them but the horsemen were now on them. I saw the sun glint on their swords blades as they slashed at the bare backs and shoulders of their quarry. A shrill scream went up from the sluts that could be heard even over the roar of the crowd. Steel bit into bare flesh, splitting tanned skin, blood welled from open cuts and flowed down smooth flanks.

The riders were striking now to wound not to kill. Indeed an outright kill with a sword of the sort with which they were provided was not easily achieved. The swords were sharply pointed but it is not a simple thing to aim a thrust at the back of a moving brat so that it slides between ribs and backbone to find a vital spot. They had a cutting edge but they were far from razor sharp. If wielded with sufficient force they would lay open a deep gash in a naked boy's flesh but they would not sever a limb or lop off a head. The only certain way to achieve an instant kill was to deliver a heavy stroke down on the top of brat's skull cracking his head open. But that was not easy to effect when a slut was running and you had, in order to get sufficient force behind the blow, to stand in your stirrups and to lift the sword as high as you could above your head.

The tactic for the riders was therefore to weaken, to maim and then to wound so grievously that their prey fell and could not rise. That was enough, for once down and unable to rise a hook would be driven into the guts of the fallen brat and he would be hauled to the side of the course. It didn't matter if the slut was alive or dead when the hook went in, he would certainly die afterwards, perhaps though, sometime afterwards.

The riders had burst through the crowd of brats. I saw Christopher bend low in his saddle and slash a boy across the back of one thigh. The slut continued to struggle onward dragging his wounded leg while Christopher stabbed and slashed at his defenceless body. The boy went down. He struggled back to his feet throwing up an arm to ward off a downward cut of Christopher's sword. I could see blood spurt from the fresh wound on his fore arm. He took three more paces and received three more cuts. He sank to his knees. Christopher thrust downward hard into the boy's back with the point of his sword. The force of the blow sent the brat face down on the sand. A small brat carrying a hook ran out onto the course. He rolled the boy onto his back and drove the hook into his stomach. Two larger boys hauled on the rope dragging the broken body clear. Even now the brat was not fully dead for his limbs still twitched occasionally.

I looked back down the course. Another boy was being dragged clear, so Christopher's rival had also done his work.

The brats had reached the far end of the course, the two riders had cantered past them and were turning to begin the second lap. The brats were all crowded together and I could not see Jonathan. Was he the fallen brat? Not Christopher's, I knew he was not that one, but the other one. It was too far away to tell.

"Morning Maurice"

I turned, it was Karl. He was holding a pair of glasses. I am afraid without even asking I grabbed them from him and focussed them on the fallen slut.

"It's not him," I exclaimed.

"I could have told you so," Karl remarked coolly. "The boy's still up and so far as I can tell unmarked. You'll spot him if you put them on the crowd of brats. He's doing well so far."

I swung the glasses onto the sluts. They had begun running again. I could see Jonathan slightly left of centre going well.

"He's not marked," I shouted excitedly.

"So far as you can tell," Karl said more soberly. "You wont be able to be sure until you can see his back. That's where they get cut generally."

"Karl," I said handing the glasses back to him, "I'm sorry. I didn't think. It was very rude of me."

"That's all right." Karl chuckled, "after boy hunting, boy coursing is about one of the most exciting things I know. And you've trained the brat. Grabbing them off me like that makes me think you're human after all."

I hardly noticed this comment in the excitement. Jonathan was not hurt and he managed by running fast and intelligently to keep out of trouble as the field was inexorably thinned. But it became progressively more difficult for him as the number of runners decreased and he tired.

It was at the beginning of the seventh lap when disaster struck. The sluts were down to eight runners and the boy was still unmarked but clearly tiring. He had turned and was passing a badly cut up slut. Goran was cantering down on the pair of them clearly aiming to finish off the wounded brat. Just as Jonathan drew past him the other boy, bigger and heavier than Jonathan, grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him back in front of Gorans's pony. Jonathan lost his balance and fell. He was quickly on his feet but at that moment Goran drew level. He could not be expected to pass by as tempting a target as Jonathan's thin unmarked shoulders and he did not.

He whirled his sword above his head and brought it crashing down across the brats unprotected back in a terrible stroke. So heavy was it that it would have cut the brat to the bone only fortunately Jonathan was not properly on his feet so he fell forward onto his hands and knees escaping the full force of the blow.

He knelt there a moment blood streaming from the deep gash that the sword had sliced across his back. I could hear Karl beside me shouting at him to get back on his feet. I too was screaming curses and encouragement at him. He was up in a second.

Goran had been travelling at a full canter. As soon as he delivered the sword cut he had hauled on his ponies reigns checking it so fiercely that it reared in the air. He lost a few seconds regaining control of his mount and turning it so that he could ride back at the boy. All this gave Jonathan time but his position was now desperate. Goran was ahead of him. He had to get past the free youth if he was to complete that lap but a brat was infinitely more vulnerable when he was facing a swordsman than when he was running away from one. A single thrust of the swords point into Jonathan's guts would leave him writhing on the ground ready for the hook.

Guy ran out onto the course grabbing handfuls of sand and using them to staunch the flow of blood from Jonathan's torn back. Both boys watching Goran as he swung his horse round to face them.

Suddenly Jonathan darted off to the right Guy for some reason running beside him. Goran turned his pony and kicked it forward easily blocking them. Jonathan jigged back to the left but Guy ran straight on at the head of Goran's pony. Goran confused, hesitated and Jonathan jinked again threw himself on the ground and rolled clear under the pony's belly. The pony alarmed, reared up. One hoof slammed down on Jonathan's left thigh grazing it deeply, blood streamed down the front of his leg. Guy screamed and waved his arms at the pony's head frightening it still further.

I could see Goran's face twisted with fury as he fought once again to bring the animal under control. He lashed out angrily at Guy with his sword. The youngster jumped back but the point of the sword caught him on the shoulder sending blood streaming down the front of his chest.

Goran wasted no further time on the younger boy but set off in pursuit of Jonathan. The brat had gained a metre or two lead but that would not be enough to get him out of trouble. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Goran's pony close behind him. Goran raised his sword to strike again but Jonathan run in under his horses head dodging the blow and causing the animal to swerve away from him.

"He won't be able to pull that trick again," Karl muttered in my ear. I became aware that he was holding my arm in a grip so tight that it hurt.

Goran yanked furiously at his ponies reigns. Jonathan had gained a few more precious metres but not enough. It was clear from the way the youth shortened his sword arm and set his body to turn the pony to the left that he was ready for the slut to try to dodge to the left again. Jonathan waited till the last moment fainted left and then spurted to the right. Goran completely off balance lashed out desperately. The point of his sword scoring a bloody line down Jonathan's back.

That was of no immediate importance. What was important was that Jonathan was running fast down the track while Goran was at a stand still right up against the side of the track. Jonathan had survived another lap.

It was lucky for Goran, desperate not to have to face the dishonour of riding a lap without downing a brat, that he caught up with a badly wounded slut just short of the line. Rising in his stirrups he brought his sword crashing down on the top of the brat's head. The boy fell as if poleaxed, his skull split open, grey brains and dark red blood spilling from it onto the sand. The crowd roared their applause.

There were six sluts left on their feet. Three would go through to the finals. Two more laps to run.

Karl said nothing but passed me his glasses.

"Goran'll go for him this time. He won't want to let a slut get away with out smarting him," I said unhappily as I focused the glasses on the sluts gathered at the far end of the track.

Guy had somehow managed to get up there and, his own wound stanched, was with Jonathan, dabbing more sand on his back in an effort to stem the flow of blood. While Guy worked on him Jonathan was sidling across the track well back from the start line. The manoeuvre seemed to serve no useful purpose and I feared that the brat had lost his mind. That did happen occasionally and it always added greatly to the amusement of the crowd. Jonathan moved so that my view of him was obscured by another brat behind which he was standing. I saw with a start that it was the slut who had tripped Jonathan at the beginning of the previous heat.

Christopher and Goran began to canter down on the six sluts, all now tired and to varying extents bloodied. The brats began to run and Jonathan smaller but, despite his recent wounds fresher and less damaged, than the boy he was standing behind launched himself at the slut in a classic rugby football tackle, his arms clasped about the other brat's waist. They both went down. I swore. I could not see what Jonathan could gain from this tactic. No doubt Jonathan owed the other boy one for tripping him but if he thought Goran would go for the other slut rather than himself if given the chance he was mistaken. In Goran's book, Jonathan owed him one for out smarting him in the last lap. Anyway the other boy was bigger than Jonathan and he would have no trouble in shaking my brat off. But it was Jonathan that was first up, blood streaming from his mouth as he sped away. It was not his blood. The brat he had downed was staggering painfully to his feet his hands clasped to his crutch dark fluid spurting out from behind them.

I passed the glasses without comment to Karl.

"My God," he breathed, "what have you done to the boy."

I wondered that too.

Goran seeing the brat standing almost stationery in front of him checked his pony. I could imagine the thoughts racing through his mind. Here was an easy target, should he pass it by in order to get his revenge on Jonathan? There was one more lap to go. He could get him then and by then he would be slightly more tired and his wounds would have slowed him up a bit more. He knew Jonathan was a cunning little slut, better to get another straight kill with the acclaim that that brought him now and leave dealing with him till later.

The decision made he reigned his pony in. The slut looked up at him as he swung the sword up over his head. He made no attempt to evade or ward off the blow but there stood still like an animal brought to slaughter awaiting his end. Indeed that was precisely what he was. The blade flashed down, the brats skull split open and the crowd once more roared their applause.

Waving his sword in acknowledgement of the crowds cheers Goran cantered down the course past Christopher who was grimly hacking at the back of a slut who though on his last legs would not drop. Finally though Christopher's slut could stand it no more and, sinking first to his knees, collapsed face down on the sand. Christopher sat on his pony a moment looking down at the brat's body, blood welling from the multitude of cuts, until satisfied that he was down to stay.

Four brats left, one lap to run and one brat to eliminate.

Reaching the start line Goran immediately spun his pony round and as I had foreseen, ignoring the three other brats set off in pursuit, of Jonathan. Christopher, delayed by the time it had taken him to dispose of his last brat, was somewhat behind him.

"He's had it now," I said lowering the glasses. "Goran'll chop him to bits."

"If Christopher could only get a quick kill…" Karl said wishfully refusing to abandon hope.

Goran was much more cautious in his assault on Jonathan this time round. The brat had got the better of him the last time and he was not going to let it happen again. Almost level with Jonathan he pulled his pony back into a fast trot and keeping an arms length behind the running brat began to slash methodically away at the brat's shoulders and bum. Each stroke cut deep into the boys flesh. Soon Jonathan's body was thickly streaked with fresh blood that glistened damply in the sun light.

It seemed to me that Goran was deliberately taking his time destroying Jonathan, exacting his revenge for his earlier humiliation. The one danger of his doing this from his point of view was that only one brat was to be dropped this lap and if he delayed too long Christopher might beat him to it and rob him of his revenge. In that case he would also loose his position, assured at that moment, of the best rider in the heat and therefore among those out of whose numbers the four riders in the finals fell to be selected. Perhaps he calculated that as Christopher had taken his time up to now disposing of the brats that fell to him would continue to do so. If so that was a miscalculation.

Christopher aware that he was behind Goran in the competition to qualify to ride in the finals knew he had to achieve a really spectacular kill to reverse that position. He slammed his heels into his pony's flanks and set off in full gallop down the course. He thundered past Goran in pursuit of the fittest and least injured of the remaining brats. The slut hearing the beat of hooves behind him raised his pace in a desperate attempt to escape. It was all over in a second. Without checking his ponies pace Christopher stood high in his stirrups and bringing his short sword whistling down cut so deep into the brat's skull that it's point stuck out from just above the tip of the brat's nose. So deeply buried was the blade in the slut's head that his lifeless carcass was dragged some way along the sands by the galloping horse before Christopher could draw the sword free.

The crowd bayed it's delight. Goran took one final disgusted slash at Jonathan's bloodied shoulders and turned his pony to ride away.

Both Karl and I knew we could not celebrate yet. Jonathan had to make it across the finishing line. If he fell before a hook would be driven into his stomach. He would be dragged off the course to die and only two, instead of three brats, would go forward from this heat to the final. No one, apart from his mignon, could help him. Otherwise he had to make it by himself. Karl and I ran forward along the edge of the course yelling encouragement and threats to urge him on. Christopher seeing a Hacienda boy on the point of qualifying but in trouble trotted his pony down and joined in our shouting.

Guy ran onto the course. An over officious marshall shouted at him to get back and lashed out at the boy with his whip. It's tip caught him on the side of his rump raising a livid wheal. Guy squealed but ran on. I turned to curse the marshall.

The last flurry of sword blows had hurt Jonathan badly. Slowly, unsteadily he staggered forward. Guy supported him as well as he could, straining to take as much of the bigger boys weight as he was able to bear. I could see Jonathan's fingers pressing into the wound on Guys shoulder, reopening it and sending fresh blood trickling down his flanks. Guy did not flinch but struggled on. The strange skeletal figure that seemed to hover round every brat at the point of death appeared and began to caper his weird dance around the two brats.

I could see the TV cameras focusing on the scene and broadcasting the drama all round the world.

Don Carlos was on the finishing line. Even he was shouting.

Jonathan leaning heavily on poor little Guy staggered forward and was safe. Karl caught him as he fell.

"Here," Don Carlos said handing me the keys to his precious vintage Range Rover, "get him back to the villa in this and get his cuts dressed. You can lie him on the back seat but for god's sake put something on the upholstery to keep the blood off it. Take Guy as well."

Chapter 2c

Maurice describes Jonathan's treatment and what happened afterwards

A young man holding a microphone pushed in front of me.

"John Travers of Brat News," he said thrusting the microphone at me, "what are you're feelings, Sir, about the success of your slut?"

"He's done well." I said, "but he's Don Carlos trained and his brats always give all that they have got…"

"What chances do you give him in the finals, Sir… He's been badly cut up… will that effect his performance then."

"We'll have to wait and see… We're getting him back now to patch him up and after we've done that we'll have a better idea of the extent of his injuries. Whatever his condition he'll run as hard in a weeks time as he can and you must remember the other contestants will probably not get off scot-free either…"

We had arrived at the Range Rover. Someone spread a bit of old sacking on the back seat and Karl laid Jonathan face down on this. I was just going to open the tail gate to put Guy in the back when the brat slipped past me and squatted on the vehicles floor beside Jonathan. I reached forward to get a grip of his ear in order to pull him out and then changed my mind. He wasn't doing any harm where he was. Blood was still seeping from the cut on his shoulder. I gave him my handkerchief to stem the flow. It would not do to get the vehicle messed up.

I got into the driver's seat.

"Back in a minute," Karl said and disappeared into the crowd.

I sat in the vehicle fuming as the crowd surged around me. I caught a glimpse of Ritchie standing somewhat apart. He looked bad tempered and sulky.

"Sorry about that," Karl muttered climbing into the passenger seat. "Had to see a man about something."

I put the 4x4 into gear and began to ease it slowly through the mob. Once clear of the course I put my foot down. I wanted to get Jonathan back to the villa as quickly as possible. I was worried about his condition. His back had been badly cut about by Goran's sword and I wondered how severely that would effect his performance in the finals. What ever his condition he would have to run but I wanted him to put up a good performance. Karl was good at patching up brats in a rough and ready sort of way and could cope well enough with the normal day to day injuries of Hacienda life, but I was not at all certain how well he would be able to manage something as extensive and serious as Jonathan had suffered.

There was a small black car following close behind us. Before the great oil crisis I would not have noticed it but now with so few vehicles on the road its presence stood out. It was still there when I drew up outside our villa on the out skirts of San Diego de Campos.

As I jumped out of the Range Rover. A small very clean looking man with a bald head wearing a sportingly cut check suit got out of the car. He reached into the back of it and pulled out a large black case. I recognised Doctor Hernandes from Muros.

"Get the young man inside and I'll have a look at him," he said. "Put him somewhere where it doesn't matter if there's a mess. There'll be quite a lot of blood. The kitchen is probably best if there's a good strong table."

The cook protested loudly, asserting, with some justice had circumstances been normal, that the preparation of dinner took precedence over a damaged brat. We took no notice of him and soon we had Jonathan stretched out on the kitchen table.

Brats, unlike free boys, are not expected to be brave and Jonathan was sobbing loudly. Doctor Hernandes reached inside his case and produced a hypodermic syringe. He jabbed it in the back of the brat's thigh and the sobbing stopped.

"I'm very grateful for your help, Doctor," I protested, "but it is surely most irregular. For a Doctor to waste his expertise on Tribute Stock is against the code and even more so is the use of anaesthetics on a brat. Resources are scarce and they shouldn't…"

"Maurice," Karl said quietly, "shut up. This is an emergency. Do you know how much of my money and the Doctor's money depends on that slut's performance in the finals?"

"Yes," the Doctor said, "there's too much money at stake on this one to stick to the letter of the law."

For the next hour he worked quietly on Jonathan's back. He reopened each gash with his scalpel, cleaned out the sand that had been slapped on the torn flesh during the coursing to stem the bleeding and then sewed the lips of the wound together using neat tight little stitches quite unlike Karl's rough efforts. When the suturing had been completed he began to stick strips of transparent protective plaster over the wounds.

"How good will he be for the finals, Doctor?" I asked.

"Oh he's a healthy young animal," he replied sticking the final piece of plaster in place and straightening. "Let him have tomorrow off training. Take him to watch one of the qualifying heats to keep his mind concentrated and then a bit of mild training the next day. He'll be back in peak condition in a weeks time."

"You'll be surprised how well it'll heal up. In a fortnights time if he's still alive you'll hardly notice. There'll be some ridges in the flesh but nothing to talk about."

"Now he'll come round in about an hour give him one of these tablets then and another about six hours later. They'll kill the pain and make sure he gets a good nights sleep and no nonsense about the law. There's too much of my money involved for that."

"Now take him away somewhere. Since I'm here I may as well deal with that cut in the younger brat's shoulder."

"Why that's very good of you, Doctor," I said as Karl carried Jonathan from the kitchen.

"Get up on the table Guy and let the Doctor look at that shoulder of yours. Quickly now slut, he's a very busy and important man." I reinforced my order with a sharp slap on the brat's bare bottom.

Doctor Hernandes pushed his finger tips against the wound in Guy's shoulder and the brat screamed.

"We'll have to wait till Karl comes back. I'll need both you and him to hold the boy still. I'm not going to waste anaesthetics on this one."

"Ah Karl, there you are. Take hold of the brat's ankles and stop him thrashing about and you Maurice. I may call you Maurice, mayn't I? Get a grip of his arms just below the shoulders and hold them tight down on the table. Good hold on hard."

He pulled the lips of the wound apart with his fingers. Then, taking his scalpel, he reopened the gash. Guy screamed shrilly and it took all my strength to hold him down on the table. I could hear Karl grunting and cursing as he fought to control the brat's legs as he thrashed about in pain.

The Doctor swabbed the wound out and the bending forward over the boy began painstakingly to remove the last few grains of sand with a pair of forceps. All the time the brat screamed and fought.

"That's about it," the Doctor eventually remarked.

He took a wad of cotton wool and tipped antiseptic on it.

"Now hold him tight. He'll jump when he feels this."

The brats screams increased in volume as the Doctor washed the open wound out with antiseptic.

"Almost over now," he said beginning to stitch up the wound. "Right that's it. Just hold him a moment until he's calmed down. Good that's all right you can let go of him now."

"Get up. Get up quick now," I ordered clouting the boy on the side of the head. The brat had been through a hard time but you must never be soft with Tribute Stock. It only leads to their taking advantage.

I must admit that the brat looked very appealing, standing there eyes wet with tears, mucous dribbling from his nose, chest heaving, dried blood staining his sun burnt skin, his legs still liberally caked with dried sand. There is something about a slut in distress that excites me.

"Come on brat," I said hitting him again on the ear, "say thank you to the Doctor. Do you think an important gentleman like him commonly wastes time on a useless bit of filth like you. Show some gratitude boy."

"Please Master. Thank you Master. I'm sorry Master," Guy gasped through his sobs.

"So you should be sorry," I snapped. Guy said nothing but hung his head wiping his nose on the back of his hand and then knuckling his eyes. He knew he had transgressed and what followed was inevitable.

As is common in any room in a private house since the introduction of the Tribute System a cane was hanging from the wall just inside the kitchen door. I walked over and took it in my hand.

"Bend over and take hold of your ankles," I ordered as Doctor Hernandes and Karl watched.

Sniffing loudly Guy assumed the required position, legs slightly spread, bottom pushed upwards, ready for the cane. I moved behind him. I saw the muscles in his bum tense as he waited for me to deliver the first cut. I rested the palm of my left hand for a moment on the curve of his rump feeling his flesh cool to my touch. There were goose pimples on the backs of his thighs. The skin of his bottom was smooth and unbruised. It must have been some days since he had last had the cane. Further correction was no doubt over due. A brat should not be allowed to forget the pain of a flogging. The consequences of misbehaviour should be kept fresh in it's mind.

I laid the cane gently across the boy's rump carefully measuring my distance. He whimpered as he felt it's touch. I lifted it back over my shoulder and paused looking down at the slut's slim defenceless body. The brat was very small even for a Tribute Boy in his fifth year of service, certainly a good deal smaller than any twelve year free boy. I felt sorry for the child as he cowered their waiting for the first stroke to fall. I knew though that it would be a false kindness to let the matter pass. It would only encourage him to take further liberties and in the end to require a heavier flogging to get him back in line. Slackness in enforcing discipline was unfair on the brat himself. It was fortunate on the whole that I enjoyed thrashing boys.

Having allowed the slut sufficient time to appreciate the terrors of his position. I brought the cane hissing down as hard as I could across the tightly stretched skin of his rump catching him across the top of it's curve. It landed with a satisfying crack causing the child to gasp and to jerk convulsively as if subjected to an electric shock. He kept hold of his ankles though… that was just as well for him. The cane etched a white line across the smooth tanned skin of his bottom which quickly began to darken to a deep red. The boy's howl of pain came a second or two after the cane had landed.

I waited till the boy was still and then satisfied that he had felt the first stroke to the full I laid the second parallel to the first but about two inches lower.

After a further pause, you learn with experience not to hurry these things, I placed the third stroke a similar distance lower down the brat's rump.

I waited again. Should I lay the final stroke, for I was only going to give the boy four cuts, I am not a cruel man, across the first three, probably drawing blood, or should I rather cut into the crease of his bottom where he would feel it whenever he moved for the next day or so. I decided on the latter option.

By the end of the beating he was howling shrilly and the edges of the weals had begun to darken to deep reddish purple. By the next day I knew his skin in places would assume a yellowish green tinge as the deeper bruising came out.

"You can stand up now boy," I said.

"I at least, Doctor, will tell you how grateful I am for the care you have taken of both the brats. I don't know whether I can offer you anything for your professional services. I am sure my employer Don Carlos would be glad…"

"No I wouldn't think of it Maurice," the man said quickly. "It is in my own interest to get Jonathan as fit as possible for the finals. But…" His eyes strayed to where Guy was standing head bowed thin shoulders shaking.

"Why of course, Doctor," I said quickly, "if you're sure that's all you want help yourself."

"Guy," I snapped, "you're a lucky little tart. A good deal luckier than you deserve, the Doctor is going to fuck you so come over here and give him a good time or you'll be getting another dose of the cane."

"Oh Master thank you Master," Guy said eagerly smiling through his tears. Like every Tribute Brat he was permanently on heat. "Shall I run and get some grease Master. I know where some is. I won't be a second Master."

"No boy," the doctor said unzipping his trousers and allowing them to drop to the floor about his ankles. "I have some Vaseline in the bag and you can use that. Come over here now and get on with it."

He stepped out of his trousers and walked over to his bag to collect the Vaseline. As he did so his cock popped out between his shirt tales and stood erect, wobbling as he moved. Guy trotted over to the man and taking the jar, knelt in front of him, his face serious and intent, only a few inches away from the thick rod of man's flesh on which he was working.

After a few minutes his task clearly completed he looked up into the Doctor's face. Without a word the man caught hold of the boy by his shoulders and threw him down across the table. The brat had hardly time to get his bottom up in the air before the Doctor was on him. He entered him with such force that he lifted the slut's feet off the floor tipping him upwards so that only his chest was touching the table. He drove the boy forward so that child had to grab desperately at the table edge to avoid being tipped over it onto the floor. The man thrust hard into the boy his heavily muscled buttocks, illustrating the truth of the saying that a large nail needs a massive hammer, pounding his prick deep into the whimpering slut. It did not take the Doctor long to satisfy his lust. Half a dozen heavy thrusts and then he was still apart from the pulsing of his buttocks as he emptied his seed deep inside the brat whose whimpers had turned to gasps of pleasure and pleas for "more Master more."

Satisfied the doctor pulled away from the boy his penis emerging from the brat with an audible plop.

"Hurry up boy," he ordered as Guy knelt between his legs cleaning his shit and semen soiled cock with his tongue, "I've got my evening rounds to do."

"Not bad at all," he remarked to Karl and me as we stood watching, "not bad at all."

I exchanged glances with Karl. I was frankly aroused and I could see that he was in a similar condition.

"There you are boy," Doctor Hernandes said pushing Guy away from him and thrusting a five obol coin into his hand.

"Oh Master thank you Master," the brat cried excitedly after the man's retreating back.

"Which end do you want," I asked Karl.

"Let the boy toss and you call," Karl suggested sportingly.

Guy's little boy's cock snapped to attention as he realised what was about to be done to him. All sluts seem to have a practically insatiable appetite for sex.

"Then toss brat," I commanded.

Guy spun his recently acquired five obol piece in the air. I called 'tails' on the ground that that was the end of the boy I wished to enjoy. Typically the brat failed to catch it and he went scampering in pursuit of it as it rolled on the floor his erect little prick wobbling madly as he ran.

"It's heads Master," he said, bending over to look, with a giggle. The artful little whore managing to combine both regret and excitement in his voice.

Karl lost no time in possessing himself of the so invitingly displayed target. With two strides he was on the boy and gripping him firmly by the hips pulled his uplifted bum into his own crutch. No doubt he was relying on the remains of the Vaseline left by Hernandes' cock to ease his own penis's entry into the boy.

I was just as quick burying my right hand in the boy's hair. I wrenched his head back and touched his half open lips with the tip of my prick. He opened his mouth and I pushed forward.

I wondered for a moment whether this was the first time that the child had been fucked simultaneously in the mouth and bum. With a jerk I brought myself back to earth. The brat was in his fifth year of service. For heavens sake by the time a brat at the Hacienda de los Niños Tributos del Ezzaro was twelve years old he would have experienced that and many other things. True under Don Carlos enlightened regime he would probably not have had his bum fucked before his fourth year of service unless a client had been prepared to pay a special price for it's use. This was not sheer altruism on my employers part since he believed that to enter a boy's bottom before that ran the risk of making it too slack for real enjoyment before he finished his service. His mouth and tongue would have been well trained long before then and long before now he would have learnt all the skills of a Hacienda boy whore.

Karl drove forward hard into the boy pushing him up against me so that his face was pressed hard into my crutch. The brat was well used to swallowing cock but rammed up tight against me by the thrusting of Karl's strong body he was unable to pull back in order to draw breath. I felt his throat working convulsively about my prick as he struggled for air. The sensation this induced was an exciting one and I allowed him no respite until I felt his strength beginning to ebb. Then I moved back very slightly allowing the child to drag air into his oxygen starved lungs before once more shoving my swollen penis down into his throat. Again and again I repeated the process while Karl hammered at the sluts other end. At last I came pumping my seed deep in the slut's gullet. I stepped back and looked down into Guy's young face glazed with lust, seeing the semen trickling from his mouth and flowing down his chin. At that moment Karl gave a shout and his body tensed as he too came.

"I have been meaning to ask you Maurice for sometime," Karl said as Guy squatted between his legs cleaning the shit and cum from his prick with his tongue, "if you would care to join me in the Marine's Sergeant's Mess. I would be very glad of your company if you could make it tonight."

I could think of nothing I wanted to do less than spend a no doubt very drunken night with a lot of loud mouthed opinionated N.C.O.'s, but I recognised the offer as being a compliment and only one answer was possible.

"That's very kind of you, Karl," I replied, "I would be delighted."

"Right we'd better be getting ready now. There's a mess dinner and we don't want to be late for the drinks. General Quixote is the main speaker he has a great fund of anecdotes about the Last Great Patriotic War."

"I look forward to that," I said with I hope a convincing appearance of enthusiasm.

"Good and you brat," he said cuffing Guy away from him, "you'd better get yourself cleaned up as well."

"Yes Master straight away Master," Guy said beginning to grovel on the floor in search of his five obol piece.

"Oh for god's sake," Karl explained pulling his breaches up and taking a coin from his hip pocket, "here." He chucked the coin at the brat who quickly caught it.

"Guy," I said and threw the slut a five obol piece.

"Master thank you Master. I'll go and get myself cleaned up straight away Master," the child promised returning to scrabbling on the floor in search of his missing coin.

When we left the kitchen he was half under the table his rump stuck up in the sky his hole oozing cum.

I caught Karl's eye and we both laughed indulgently.

Chapter 2d

Maurice describes the Auto de Fé

My impression of myself as a celebratory was further confirmed when I arrived at the coursing grounds the next morning. I travelled there sitting beside Don Carlos in his Range Rover with Jonathan still weak from his, for a Tribute Brat, illegal medication, lying prone on the back seat. As soon as we arrived the vehicle was surrounded by sightseers and the TV reporters with their cameras.

Much of this passed Jonathan by as he spent the morning sitting on the ground at my feet sleepily watching the second of the coursing qualifying heats. Touchingly he did his best to maintain the position prescribed for a seated Tribute Brat though every now and again he would drowsily allow his head to fall sideways against my thigh.

Guy though was in his element, basking in Jonathan's reflected glory and also I noticed boasting to the other brats in an excited whisper about his own experiences.

I could see him talking animatedly to three or four other naked sluts. They were standing round him listening intently and admiring the fresh weals that my cane had raised across his rump. Brats always seem to be excited by the sight of a freshly thrashed bottom and these, judging by their stiff little pricks, were no exception to this rule.

I caught scraps of what he was saying. "Fifteen obols," putting his hand behind him to produce, from the only storage place available to him, concrete evidence of their existence. "Three of them… and the Doctor… As big as this," holding his hands wide apart in a gesture reminiscent of a fisherman describing the size of his prize catch. "A real bum splitter…" At this point Christopher walked over to congratulate me on Jonathan's performance and I lost track of the rest of the child's boasting.

"The slut did really well," he said seating himself beside me and running his hand over Jonathan's bowed head. "He did you credit."

Jonathan wriggled his appreciation of this compliment and I smiled quietly.

"You did well too Christopher being selected to ride in the finals. You've got a good chance of winning the sword of honour now. Only three other free boy's to beat."

"Yes," he said it seemed to me somewhat doubtfully, "and one of the most skilled is riding today. A Japanese boy. He's already distinguished himself at the festivals at Knossos and Rocamadour. He's got some really difficult name but everybody calls him Sushi, I don't know why. Look he's riding out now."

I looked down the sands to where at the far end of the track a lone rider had trotted out. He was some way away but I could see he was a well built youth with a round face and dark black hair cut short. He was wearing the uniform of a free rider in the coursing event of a loin cloth, broad leather belt from which hung a short sword hanging over his left hip and a scarlet bandanna wrapped round his head. In addition though he carried, slung across his back, a curved broad bladed scimitar with an ornately carved ivory handle. He bore himself with the self confidence and pride that is common to the better type of free boy and handled his pony with practised skill.

As I watched him he trotted his pony across to where the brats had been drawn up in preparation for the start of the heat. He rode slowly along the back of the line of fourteen year old sluts. I could see the brats turning to watch him and shifting uneasily under his coldly deliberate inspection.

"See Sushi's doing his usual act," Karl said cheerfully lowering himself into the seat next to mine. It amazes me that the man who is a good fifteen years older than me could seem so unaffected by a hard nights drinking.

"What's he up to?" I enquired puzzled.

"You'll see." Karl replied raising his field glasses and focusing them on the line of Tribute Boys.

"There was an article on the back page of the Sporting Times today about that young man which described the whole thing in detail," he continued in that strangely distant tone used by a person concentrating on focusing his glasses on a distant object. "Adaptation of an old Japanese custom or something. Hello one at least of the brats must have had it explained to him. He's just peed himself."

"One of the most promising of the free lads riding in the coursing events in the great Tribute Boy festivals circuit according to the paper." He said turning his attention to Christopher. "You're going to have your time cut out winning the sword of honour against that one. Though you're a good little jockey yourself."

At this point the trumpet sounded it's warning that the coursing was about to start then, after a few seconds of mounting tension, the starting pistol cracked. The brats hurled themselves down the track towards the first gate while Sushi and his companion thundered down the track after them swords drawn eager to start the bloodletting. The brats screamed and fought each other as the track narrowed and the riders set to work with their swords slashing mercilessly at their victims' naked bodies.

I have to say that lacking a direct involvement in the event I found it a less absorbing spectacle than on the previous day. I felt Jonathan though tense and begin to tremble no doubt remembering the excitement and terror of his own time on the course. I squeezed his neck gently murmuring "Easy, easy boy," to calm him, just as one would any other young animal at a moment of stress.

The first of the brats had got clear of the gate and Sushi broke through the crowd of sluts still struggling there in pursuit of them. Or rather in pursuit of one of them, for digging his heels into his ponies flanks he raced after the lead slut, ignoring all others. That boy had been among the first at the gate and had avoided all injury there and now he was running fast his slim brown legs working hard his fair hair streaming in the wind, a pretty lad he must have been his Masters' favourite whore until the moment came for his Release.

Sushi though was gaining on him fast. Just short of the line and momentary safety Sushi caught up with the flying child. The boy darted away to the right in a desperate attempt to evade his pursuer. Sushi yanking hard on his pony's reigns brought it almost to a dead stop in a flurry of dried sand and flailing hooves. The horse reared but Sushi, retaining control with great skill, lent far to one side and delivered a slashing cut across the back of the brat's legs with his sword. It was a consummate feat of horsemanship. The blade sliced into the boy's taught brown thighs just above the knees. He stumbled forward, fell to his knees tried to regain his feet and went down again. Blood streamed from the deep wounds in his legs.

Sushi now had the opportunity to kill the brat at a stroke. He was immobile, crippled, an easy target for a downward cut across the crown of the head. He chose not to do so. Instead he rained a series of cuts down on the boy's trunk, slowly under the weight of the blows the brat toppled forward. For a moment he was still on his knees but doubled forward, his face pressed to the ground and then he tumbled sideways.

A small brat ran out from the side of the track carrying a butcher's hook attached to a length of rope. He tipped the fallen boy onto his back and then, with one foot on his chest to hold him still drove the point of the hook into his guts. Two larger brats hauling on the rope dragged the boy from the track. He was still alive thrashing his arm and legs about in his agony.

Sushi followed the small carcass as it was pulled away. Dismounting from the pony he drew the oriental scimitar from the scabbard strapped across his shoulders. With one foot he pushed his victim onto his face. The blade of scimitar must have been razor sharp for it cut through the boy's rump as easily as a hot knife cuts butter. He remounted his pony holding the slice of blood boy's flesh. As he trotted forward to the start line he placed it in his mouth and began to chew. Karl handed me his glasses and I could see the fresh blood running down his chin.

"That, said Karl, "is why he is called Sushi."

I had been feeling better but then the previous nights drinking must have effected me again and I had to fight back my nausea. Don Carlos commented with rather heavy humour I felt at lunch time on my lack of appetite.

The following days were spent largely so far as I was concerned working to see that Jonathan was by the time of the finals of the coursing back in peak condition. The Doctor proved right in saying that a healthy young animal like him had great powers of recovery and after a few days he was running as hard and as fast as ever. His back too had healed cleanly although slight indentations and thin pale lines were a reminder of how badly he had been cut about. Even though these were becoming less noticeable as the sun tanned the newly healed flesh.

The brat had seemed to achieve some form of catharsis in the drama of the coursing grounds and I had to work hard to bring him back to the same level of sexual tension and frustration that I had screwed him to before. I persevered though and before too long I was again rejecting his desperate pleas for release with the old refrain of "when you win the finals Jonathan," and falling asleep to the sound of his frustrated sobbing.

Meanwhile the totals shown by the electronic counters remorselessly rose as the days passed and the cull of the Tribute Stock progressed. The Hacienda entries met with mixed success, Timothy failed to make it through his heats in the sail boarding but Don Carlos's whale boat team did well and Ritchie became the second of his boys to qualify for the finals in the coursing.

On Saturday Jonathan and Guy tried hard to persuade me to take them to see the 'martyrdom's' of St Sebastian and St Antonius, typical sluts they love a show, but I was firm and made them spend the early evening resting in the villa garden. They had spent the morning and the afternoon, once the heat of the day was past, in hard training. They were ordered, as were all Tribute Brats not directly engaged in serving their masters, to the Cathedral Square for the Auto de Fé later in the night. There was only one full day to go before the finals were run and I was not going to have Jonathan starting that day in a state of exhaustion.

In the event my decision was a fortunate one for the antics of the whale boat crew, as they took full advantage of Don Carlos's leave to enjoy each other in the totally uninhibited and shameless way of Tribute Sluts, worked Jonathan up to fresh levels of sexual need and frustration.

At last the hour set for the brats to assemble to see the Auto de Fé was almost upon us. I called an end to the frolics of the whale boat crew and their mignons for Don Carlos had asked me to take them with my two brats to witness the event. Apparently some pressing business engagement prevented him from attending himself. It is odd how often such engagements of his clash with religious events.

When I arrived at the square dusk was falling and the whole area was illuminated by flood lights. The podium on which the visiting dignitaries and Presidents had sat during the opening ceremony had been replaced by a much steeper and higher stepped stand topped with a single immense and highly ornate wooden chair. It looked familiar to me and after some minutes inspection I recognised it as the Bishop's Chair from the Cathedral. To the left of this stand and at right angles to it had been constructed a low platform. So low that the people sitting even in the lowest tier of seats in the stand would be looking down onto it. At equal spaces along the length of this platform were set six upright metal posts. About half way up each post a short iron bracket was fastened. I realised that this was to serve the equivalent function to the sedeles on a Roman cross. Unlike in the old prints of burnings wood had not been heaped around the base of each post instead a square steel grid was set in the platform floor immediately in front of each of them. It looked as though the church had called modern technology to it's aid when reasserting it's ancient disciplines and rights.

The sides of the square were again lined with soldiers from the Royal Spanish Marine Corps while the brats were being organised by marshalls as ever masked and carrying their familiar heavy whips. The competitors, I noticed that there were considerably less of them than there had been a week earlier, in the festival were being placed in ranks at the front of the massed ranks of brats. I handed my charges over to one of the marshalls and went to find a quiet cantina where I could kill the hour or so before the ceremony was due to start in comfort. The sluts naturally were required to be in place well before the event but there was no reason why I should be inconvenienced. As I passed the open great Western door of the Cathedral I could hear within it's cavernous depths the sound of men chanting and very occasionally trembling and rather weak but still rising above the deeper tones of the men the sweet and strangely innocent sound of two boys' voices singing the Kyrie eleison. The two little 'saints' then still lived and suffered.

I turned to walk down the Northern wall of the Cathedral. I saw two marshalls standing by a side door obviously waiting. As I approached the door it opened.

"Get out you filthy whores. Dirt like you have no place hear," a man's voice shouted and there was the sound of blows and the shrill cries of brats being beaten.

A second or two later a crowd of sluts stumbled out of the building. They were so exhausted that they could hardly stand, their shoulders torn and bloody. Clearly these were the bearers of the floats of St Antonius and St Sebastian their task completed being dismissed by the clergy in whose service they had toiled all day. So tired were the brats that the marshalls could only keep them moving with frequent and liberal applications of their whips. As they staggered past me I could see in the light of a street lamp that the duties of certain of the boys had not been confined to carrying the floats for in a number had blood and cum trickling down the backs and insides of their thighs. The Cathedral clergy had taken their pick of the brats before releasing them into the care of the marshalls.

Walking back to the Square along the alley way I almost stumbled over the body of brat. He was lying on his back a cross bow quarrel buried in his guts. One of the sluts I had seen ejected from the Cathedral who had been unable to stay on his feet. He was moaning softly and his hands scrabbled weakly on the cobbles.

I placed one foot on his neck and pressed down. I waited pressing until his eyes rolled back in his head. You have to be careful with sluts. Ours on the Hacienda are regularly dipped and wormed and are anyway required to keep themselves clean in case a client wants to use them. You can't be sure if this is so with others and you can, if your are not careful, pick up various sorts of parasites. However, thanks to the enlightened policy of stringent culling instituted immediately after the introduction of the New Order, the sexual diseases that were such a scourge in the past have been eradicated.

I rolled and kicked the brats carcass to one side of the alleyway with my foot. Presumably it would be removed with the other rubbish in the morning. Still it was very irresponsible to leave it lying where anybody could trip over it. I would complain to the Chief marshall in the morning.

As I got back to the square the marshalls were shouting at the brats to get their faces down and kiss the paving stones. They were striding up and down the close packed ranks laying about them with the butts of their whips striking any slut who was slow to obey.

From the Cathedral came the sound of chanting which slowly increased in volume. The great West doors were thrown open and a procession lead by two young marshalls began to slowly descend the wide flight of steps to the square. Behind the marshalls were two altar boys swinging censers from which fragrant smoke rose slowly into the still night air, then row upon row of black gowned, black robed monks, walking in threes their dark cowls shrouding their bowed heads, chanting as they slowly moved forward leaning on their heavy wooden staves. The long black line was still wending it's way out of the cathedral when the marshalls leading the procession reached the base of the steps. Between them and the platform was massed the crouching Tribute Boys. The marshalls lashed out with their whips sending the boys immediately before them scuttling to one side. Apparently oblivious to the crack of the whips, the snap of the plaited leather lashes against bare flesh and the terrified squealing of the brats the altar boys and behind them the chanting monks made their way forward across the space so violently cleared for them.

The altar boys I noticed, although they looked unaware of their surroundings, were grinning slightly and swinging their sensers with increased vigour showering the naked Tribute Boys cowering on either side of them with the fiercely glowing embers of burning incense. The monks too, without interrupting their chanting, prodded viciously with their staves at the brats as they moved forward ensuring that neither they, nor those that followed after them, should be polluted by the touch of such lowly creatures. Behind the monks came the inquisitors themselves, walking in pairs, dressed all in white, masked, with robes that swept the ground and tall conical hats. Hands folded in the broad sleeves of their gowns they moved forward silently no part of their bodies visible.

After them came the massed clergy of the cathedral, the minor canons, the vicars, the vicars choral, the canons, the dean in his gaiters all sombrely but richly dressed. Then in full pontificals, carrying his crozier, the Bishop with two beautiful free boys, eyes modestly cast to the floor, as they followed him carrying the richly embroidered train of his cope. Finally at the very rear of the procession the portly scarlet clad figure of the Cardinal Archbishop himself followed, as befitted a Prince of the Church, by four pages even more beautiful and modest than those that attended the Bishop.

The head of the procession reached the further side of the square. It's members did not mount the tiered platform there but spread out on either side of it until the Cardinal himself arrived. Slowly he mounted the steps to the bishop's throne set alone at the stands very summit with his subordinates following humbly after him. He stood for a moment staring down at the square his figure redolent of power authority and arrogance. He seated himself, the four page boys still standing behind him, the bishop in the centre of the tier below him followed suit, and then all their sombrely dressed subordinates did likewise.

One of the page boys moved a microphone on it's stand before the throne on which the Cardinal sat and bowing deeply returned, walking backwards, to his place. Another page boy stepped forward, bowed deeply in his turn, handed the Cardinal a sheath of papers before bowing once more and retiring also walking backwards.

The Cardinal rose ponderously to his feet and raised his hands in a sketchy blessing to the free citizens standing about the edge of the square.

"My children," he said, his voice amplified by the microphone and picked up by loudspeakers set about the edges of the square, booming out , sending a flock of pigeon clattering from the cathedral roof in alarm. "I address of course the free citizens assembled here not the dross that grovels in the dirt of the square where it belongs with the other beasts that the lord has created to serve us."

"The first thing I have to say to you is rejoice. Rejoice for the ancient rights and liberties of the church have been restored to it and rejoice for armed with those rights and liberties the church will protect your immortal souls from the contamination of heresy."

"The second though is tremble. Tremble for events have shown those rights and powers are sorely needed. Untruths directly contrary to the teachings of the faith are being asserted. No matter that these untruths are absurd in the extreme they are heretical and therefore they endanger you future salvation."

"Only a few months ago I had reported to me the most flagrant denials of one of the basic teachings of the church. A brat whose Master had for some good reason had him skewered to a church door was heard to cry out in his agony that god cared for him as well. The local priest very rightly hastened to tell me of this scandalous event for as you all know Tribute Stock lacking the power of choice are without souls and of as little concern to god as other beasts of burden. I had the boy removed from the door and brought to me. At first the little brute was stubbornly silent but the efforts of the devoted members of the College of Inquisitors in time broke his stubborn will and we were able to extract from him the names of others who had propagated or now held this most pernicious of tenets. Having served his purpose the boy was once more attached to the church door where I am glad to say he lingered in agony for many days a salutary example to members of the servile class, uniformly, as is their nature, sunk in filth and degeneracy who saw his sufferings and heard his screams."

"I had those named by the brat seized. They under questioning named further sluts who had either spoken or heard this most pernicious of heresies. To be a warning and example to all I have decreed that six of these brats should be burnt in the eight most important cities of the Iberian Peninsula."

"And here my children are those that are to be burnt tonight."

Out of the door of the cathedral stumbled six small figures, naked boys chained together by the necks, driven forward by large members of the Marine Corps with frequent blows from the butts of their rifles. The brats were in a miserable condition their bodies bruised and bloody.

"These," the Cardinal said his voice heavy with irony, "are among those who claimed to be loved by god."

The free citizens hooted and laughed at this sally. There must have been microphones set about the square for the sound was magnified so that it filled the square and the sluts were driven forward to their fate through a roar of contemptuous derision. The Cardinal raised his hand for silence and the crowd fell silent.

"It is a strange case do you not think that manifests itself in this way," he mocked. "The truth is my children nobody cares for filth like that. Nobody on earth or in heaven."

"Look up you soulless brutes huddled where you belong at your Masters' feet. Look up and see how little anybody cares for you. Learn that you have no protection and no rights. That you are only allowed to exist so that you can serve."

The Tribute Boys who up to then had been kneeling with their faces pressed to the ground raised their heads and watched silently. Arriving at the platform the neck chains were removed from the brats. They were taken in turn and secured to the metal stakes so that the short horizontal brackets stuck out between their legs.

"But you may ask why if these are mere animals bother to burn them," the Cardinal continued when this was done. "If they have misbehaved are there not whips with which to chastise, them steel spikes with which to skewer them."

"But my children I fear that this heresy, subversive of both the church and state, is not held solely by beasts such as these. There have in the past been questions raised among even the free citizens about the rightness of the New Order as if it is given to mere mortals to query the decrees of the almighty. These brutes are burnt not only as a warning to their fellows but also to any free citizen who is tempted to query the doctrines of the church."

"The only difference between the fate of a free citizen who sins in that way and these six will be that the free citizen will, after he has died burn, in everlasting hells fires in expiation of his wickedness. These escape more easily, without souls they simply pass into oblivion."

"Therefore," and here the Cardinal voice became shriller and took on an almost hysterical note, "as they will not experience the torments of hell in the future life we must do our best to replicate them here on earth before they escape us." "

The bible advices us 'if your eyes offend you pluck them out'. They have looked with envious eyes on their betters. Let them look no more. Pluck them out."

A large black clad, black masked, figure stepped forward onto the low stage and advanced on the first brat. The boy was screaming even before the man reached him. I saw the man thrust his thumb into one eye socket after the other. The crowd howled it's approval of this cruelty. I looked back to where the Cardinal stood his arms thrown wide and saw one of his pretty little page boys lift the front of his scarlet robe and slip beneath it. A large bulge appeared at the Cardinals crutch and the robe there was violently agitated as the page set to work with his lips and tongue.

I looked back at the platform. The black robed figure had for the moment completed his task. The six boys hung from their posts blood streaming from their eye sockets.

"'If your tongue has offended you pluck it out'" screamed the Cardinal, "they have spoken against the doctrine of the holy church. Pluck them out."

Once more the man advanced on the helpless brats. He held a knife and a set of short handled tongs with sharp toothed grips. An assistant forced open the sluts mouths as the man did his bloody work.

"'If your ears have offended you' cut them off.' They have listened to words they should not have listened to cut them off."

This time the man needed no assistance.

"And now let them be burnt… but slowly," the Cardinal's voice had deteriorated into an animal shriek.

It was slowly. First a faint bluish glow appeared below the steel grids at the base of each pole. It grew in size until flames were licking the soles of the brats bare feet. Then as they grew charred the flames crept higher till they were licking about their ankles and then higher still and higher.

There must have been microphones over the stakes for the brats screams now echoed shrilly round the square. I could stand no more. I crept back up the alleyway from where I had returned to the square and out of sight but not unfortunately out of hearing of the sluts' sufferings I was sick. I stayed there until the show was over.

Chapter 2e

The brats were very subdued on their way back through the dark streets to the villa. I told myself that this, which showed that the spectacle had been effective in achieving it's purpose, and the sufferings of the brats was a small price to pay for the maintenance of a system on which our very civilisation depended. I was never the less glad to retire to my room and there to try to use my two brats' bodies to banish the terrible scenes in the square form my mind. Even then with my cock buried deep in little Guy's pulsing bum I still seemed to smell the sweet sickly stench of burning human flesh.

I could hear the sound of running water from the bath room next door. Turning my head I saw neatly folded over the bedroom chair my light linen suit freshly laundered and pressed, my only silk shirt and the Hermes tie that my mother had given me last Christmas. Raising my head I could see Guy squatting his knees spread wide as the rules required of Tribute Stock working silently on my black shoes. His right index finger moving in tiny circles as he polished not the leather but the polish itself; a practice brought to the Hacienda by Karl and learnt by him from his father who in his turn had learnt it during his military service. It was clear the sluts were intent on making sure that I cut a fashionable figure that day.

Guy noticed my movement and called out softly. Jonathan appeared at the bathroom door smiling anxiously.

"Your bath is ready Master," he said crossing to stand by my bed. Both boys had clearly taken great care of their appearance, their hair brushed till it shone, their faces scrubbed clean and their brown limbs burnished with oil. As I bent forward to remove Jonathan's cock ring, for I had allowed him no respite from his sexual fast, I caught a strong whiff of eau des gars, the cheap scent, the only one permitted the brats, in which sluts doused themselves on the rare occasions on which they had sufficient obols to pay for it.

"You smell nice, Jonathan," I said wanting to please him.

His face lit up with a smile of pleasure.

"It was Guy's present to me Master," he said proudly. "He spent his fifteen obols on it. Guy, Master likes the smell."

Both brats beamed with pride and pleasure.

Breakfast was relaxed affair with Don Carlos and the rest of us having our coffee and croissants on the terrace while the surviving entries from the hacienda and their mignons had as a special treat hot chocolate and churros sitting at a single long wooden table in the body of the garden below us.

It was only when I set out to walk to the cathedral that I realised fully how much importance Jonathan attached to the day and how much he regarded it as being especially his. He and Guy were waiting for me just inside the door of the villa. As soon he saw me his face lit up and he walked forward smiling shyly. He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead against the back of my left hand with the traditional "health and long life Master." Then standing, he waited for me to take his arm for this was the day, the second Sunday of the great festival, that by tradition the surviving contestants were walked through the streets by their sponsors for a special high mass in the Cathedral. For the vast majority of the contestants it would be the last Sunday of their short lives for at sometime in the coming week they were fated to compete and die for the amusement of the crowd.

His whole day almost collapsed in ruins at the outset when it became apparent that the child was so small that in order to take his arm I would have to walk to the Cathedral leaning far over to one side. I saw the lost look on his face and heard Ritchie's who was waiting for his patron Umur Patel make a sneering comment about 'little boys' and I resolved that Jonathan should have his day come what may. Smiling I took him by the hand and led him out onto the street with Guy padding quietly beside us. It occurred to me that we were a ghastly parody of a father taking his two sons to church of a Sunday morning.

The similarity was made more striking by the child's efforts at conversation. He seemed to feel that he had a duty to entertain me as we walked together. Even the brats on the Hacienda, who Don Carlos in his enlightened manner insists should be able to read and write, have only limited vocabularies and mental horizons. The boy remarked on the weather. It was he said a fine day elaborating further to mention that it was sunny. Then on a passing cat that he observed was very fat and the flowers in a garden near by were 'pretty.' I am afraid was very little help to him in his efforts for the more he chattered the more I found myself upset by the thought of this pretty sweet natured little animal being hacked to pieces for the entertainment of a blood crazed mob.

Fortunately as we drew nearer the Cathedral the streets began to fill up with people, some sponsors like my self their naked little champions on their arms, others just ordinary members of the public come to gaze at the spectacle and to wonder at the beauty of the doomed boys. Jonathan was too busy peering about him remarking on the crowd, trying to spot boys against whom he would be running the next day, wondering aloud if we looked all right and telling little Guy to remember he was a Hacienda slut and wiggle his bum as he'd been taught.

The ice cream stall with the crowd of free children jostling round it at the entry to the cathedral square drew only a lingering wistful stare as we passed. I saw that the platform on which the brats had been burnt the night before was still standing and the blackened remains, the lower halves of the bodies almost totally consumed by the flames, still hung from the posts. I supposed they had been left there deliberately as a warning to any, servile or free, who might question the new order.

"Guy, bad sluts thought they had a god like their Masters," Jonathan said earnestly pointing at the charred carcasses obviously feeling a duty to instruct the younger boy. He paused his face puckered in thought as he searched for words to express himself, a difficult task for most fourteen year olds and doubly so for one with the limited vocabulary of a Tribute Brat. "We don't have a god we have our Masters."

A marshall greeted me at the door of the Cathedral and escorted me to one of the seats reserved for the sponsors of competitors in the festival. Jonathan settled himself on the floor to my right, Guy to my left. At last I thought the child would stop fussing.

"Guy, Guy," an urgent whisper sounded from by my right foot, "get your knees further apart. Our Masters want to see our balls."

Jonathan's arm brushed against the front of my shins as he reached across me to correct the younger boy's stance. There was a moments stillness then I felt something touch my right shoe. I glanced down. Jonathan was engaged in flicking dust from my toe caps with his finger tips.

"That's very good, Jonathan," I whispered in an attempt to still him. He began to painstakingly adjust the bows in the knots of my laces so that they were all exactly the same length. I settled back in my seat and let him get on with it. I didn't seem to have any choice.

The service began and at last Jonathan was still. I do not remember very much of the proceedings. I was still disturbed by memories of the cruelties of the previous night and by a feeling of almost guilt, although I told myself that this was quite unjustified, about what was going to be done to Jonathan.

The Bishop preached the sermon and I remember his touching on exactly the point that was concerning me.

"Do not think of the Tribute Boys kneeling at your feet," he said in his deep melodious voice, "as being killed to provide a spectacle but rather as giving their lives so that the Global Economy might grow and the civilisation that encompasses us all can continue to flourish. God has placed us in our world to fulfil our appointed tasks. The free to command and decide the unfree to serve. We should not feel pity for the plight of the Tribute Stock for they have the easier task. They have only to fulfil god's purpose to obey…"

I thought of poor little Jonathan now utterly still, knees spread wide, head bowed, worrying that he should get everything right and felt a twinge of doubt.

My gaze roamed over the dark interior of the great church. The building was packed. Far over to my right I could see Don Carlos. He too appeared to be not paying complete attention to the service. His eyes seemed to be fixed on the high altar flanked on either side by the apparently lifeless bodies of the St Antonius with his shattered limbs on his cross and St Sebastian tied to his stake and wounded by many arrows. It was difficult to be sure if the two brats were really dead yet. It seemed to me that there might be still some slight movement in their chests which suggested that they still breathed however faintly. As I watched the St Sebastian's hand distinctly twitched. Don Carlos must have seen that too for he started slightly. I wondered why a slight smile crossed his face.

The service at last was over. The square was full of people pressing up close as we passed eager to catch a glimpse and if possible to touch of one of the brats who had made it through to the finals. Holding Jonathan by the hand I lead him quickly through the crowd. I could hear their comments as he passed. "Pretty little whore," "Looks better for fucking than running," "won't last long tomorrow," "Will be one of the first to fall," "Well did you see him in the qualifying," "He wasn't pretty when he bit that other sluts balls off," and the like.

We passed the ice cream stand again. There was still a crowd of free children round it. Again Jonathan said nothing but looked wistfully at it.

I stopped. I could hardly spoil the brat now when he had less than a day to live.

"Have you ever had an ice cream?" I asked him.

"No Master," his voice showed how surprised he was by the question and I reminded myself that it was hardly likely that he should have.

"Wait," I ordered and walked over to the stall.

One advantage of the Tribute System older people tell me is the improvement it's introduction has made in the behaviour of young free children. Before it came into force children were often noisy and discourteous, showing a lack of respect and consideration for their elders. Now though when a single complaint about the behaviour of a child by a free citizen can lead to it's being sentenced to penal Tribute, especially if it is the child of a poor family, this has all changed.

Certainly when I reached the press of free children round the ice cream vendor they stood politely back to let me through.

"A vanilla cone, please," I said.

"Large or small Sir?"

I hesitated and then shrugged.

"Large and you better put two chocolate flakes in it as well."

I walked back to where Jonathan and Guy stood pressed back against the street wall trying to make themselves look inconspicuous and eyeing the free children nervously. There eyes widened when they saw what I was carrying. I held the ice cream out to Jonathan.

"For me Master?" He asked in a whisper. I realised that until that moment they had both thought that I was buying the thing for myself.

"Yes," I replied impatiently. "Come on take it before the ice cream melts."

He took it but still did not eat it but just stood there looking at it as the white cream dribbled down his hand.

"Master… Please… Master," he began nervously and the continued in a rush, "can I give it to Guy Master. I want to give him a present. He gave me one… the brats scent you liked… But I didn't have any obols to buy him one… Please don't be angry Master…"

I turned away from him quickly.

"Yes give it to Guy," I called back over my shoulder as I returned to the kiosk to buy another ice cream.

After the two sluts had finished their treats and I had wiped the ice cream and chocolate from around their mouths with my handkerchief we returned to the villa.

We ate lunch as we had breakfast seated on the terrace with the brats eating at the same long trestle table as before. Don Carlos again had laid on a better meal than usual for the boys. The first coarse was boiled ham and rice. I could tell though that he had arranged something very special for the pudding. For when the mignons had cleared the meat dishes away he sat back in his chair listening a half smile on his face. Suddenly there was a shrill squeak of excitement from the direction of the kitchens and the mignons came running back squealing in excitement each boy holding a bowl full of what I recognised with slight alarm as a generous portion of ice cream. I was relieved to see that both my boys' faces conveyed nothing else but extreme surprise and happiness and that they cleared their plates as eagerly and quickly as their fellows. I suppose one of the advantages of the Tribute System for the brats is that they never grow old enough to experience the agonies of indigestion.

I took the two brats to my room for the siesta. Even with the heavy shutters half closed to keep out the sun it was hot. I stripped and flopped into a chair. I pulled Jonathan down on to my knees. He wriggled his bottom tight into my lap as I played idly with his hairless balls and little boy's prick. Whatever secret doubts I had about the system it existed and it's rules applied. However much I regretted the necessity that would bring the life of the boy now wriggling provocatively on my knee to an end before a blood crazed mob the next day, that was what was going to happen. It was my task to see that Jonathan met his end in a way that brought honour to the Hacienda and profit to my employer Don Carlos. Therefore the boys sexual torment had to continue so that pent up frustration would give the brat a viciousness of temper that he otherwise quite lacked. Only by that means would he acquit himself well on the coursing grounds and bring himself that brief moment of pride otherwise denied Tribute Stock before he died.

Much later I was lying dozing in my chair when there was a knock on the bedroom door. I roused myself knowing that this had to be a sign that the end of the siesta was near and that a free citizen wished to see me. No Tribute Brat would knock at a door unless he was looking for a flogging. For such a one to do so would be to suggest that what he saw or learnt mattered.

I called out an invitation to enter and Karl and Doctor Hernandes came into the room.

"Ah Maurice," Karl said with a smile, "just looked in to see how young Jonathan is doing. I thought the brat looked pretty good at lunch time. Trained to a peak. You've done a good job on him."

"Yes," the doctor said eagerly, "so good that I and my good friend Karl have been able to lay our bets off so well that even if he is killed tomorrow we will make money on it and if he wins we'll be drinking champagne."

"Speak for yourself," Karl growled, "champagne is all right for women. For men, like my father always said and he fought in the Great Patriotic War, the drink is whisky."

"I think he's doing pretty well myself," I said hastily for the last thing I wanted was a monologue from Karl on his father and the rest of it. "Stand up Jonathan and come over here. Quickly boy, the Gentlemen want to have a look at you."

Jonathan scrambled hastily to his feet from where he was lying prone on the floor as Guy kneaded oil into his slim naked body. He trotted over grinning shyly his limbs glistening in the half light, his prick standing erect.

"Open the shutters Guy," I ordered. "How can the gentlemen see the slut clearly in this light."

"He does look good," Karl remarked running his hand up the back of the boy's firm well rounded thigh. "Full of energy too," and he flicked the tip of Jonathan's hard little cock with his thumb nail.

"How do you feel boy? Going to out run the young Masters tomorrow eh?"

"I don't know Sir," Jonathan replied gazing at the floor and shifting uneasily.

"Well it's either that or the meat hooks for you. You know that boy. So you'd better try hard."

"Even if he does," the Doctor remarked drily, "he'll probably have to kill himself." And then added hastily as he realised what he had said was probably not very encouraging, "more likely though he'll win his pardon and then he'll be slicing Guy's balls off rather than his own."

I saw the stricken expression on Jonathan's face and quickly intervened.

"Well you've seen the boy and now I want to take the pair of them for a last," I cursed myself silently, I was being as inept as the Doctor, "training session."

"You should be careful not to over train," Karl remarked sagely as I manoeuvred the pair of them to the door.

"Yes indeed, that is very true," the Doctor said, "and it is most importance he starts tomorrow well rested. Here is a pill that should help him to sleep tonight and here," he continued dropping his voice although the three of us were alone in the room, the brats of course did not count, "is one that will give him extra speed and endurance tomorrow.

I took the two pills from him and stood looking at them doubtfully.

"You use them," Karl said firmly, "you'll only be putting him on a level with the other brats. They'll all be dosed up tomorrow. There's no drug tests or anything so why not?"

Once I got the two men out of the room I turned to the brats.

"Come on sluts," I said with false cheerfulness, "I'll take you down to the beach. No training this afternoon just a bit of an outing and a swim." Karl knew about training animals and I took seriously his warning against over preparation. "Get me a towel and come along."

I had seen the look of horror on Jonathan's face when the Doctor had mentioned his slicing Guy and I didn't want to give him time to think about it further. He must have known that this was the only way he would survive the next day but I suppose he had not faced the prospect before. It was better that he should not do so now. Time enough for that if he did win and was pardoned, both events sufficiently unlikely in themselves, then carried along on a tide of excitement, with the crowd screaming it's encouragement what seemed to him now an impossible task would be easy enough. An outing to the beach away from the villa and the other brats seemed the best way of taking his mind off things. Tire the slut out, slip him the sleeping pills when I got him back and then when tomorrow came he would be too busy to think.

As a special treat I allowed the two brats to sit in the back seat of the car so that they could pretend for a few minutes that they were free boys. When we reached the beach at Noya I walked them far along it till we were clear of the noisy families of free citizens enjoying their Sunday afternoon outings. It was a calm day and the sea in the long sheltered inlet moved lazily under the hot sun.

I stripped off and chased the two boys, squealing with excitement and laughter, into the water. After we had swum a bit I threw sticks into the sea for them to retrieve. The two brats shouting and pushing to try to get to the stick first. Then I announced I could find no more sticks so I would throw the boys in and there was more splashing and laughter. The brats appeared to be willing to go on for ever but I was tired and out of breath.

The tide was rising and remembering my own childhood I set them to building a wall to hold back the sea. A fourteen year old free boy would be a bit too old to be amused by such a task but brats are younger for their ages both physically and mentally than their betters and Jonathan was quickly totally immersed in the project working hard himself and encouraging Guy to do so as well. For a time I sat watching them and then caught up in their enthusiasm I found myself kneeling on the damp sand digging away with a piece drift wood.

The boys constructed a seat for me to sit on within the horse shoe shaped wall. I sat there with my legs spread and one boy on each knee watching the waters advance upon us. The boys were quieter now just wriggling a bit and occasionally whispering together as I held them to me, one hand on each slim chest, feeling the beat of their small hearts. I gazed out at the slowly rising sea. I thought that just as the water was inexorably rising and would soon destroy the puny little wall we had constructed so too the tide of time was advancing and would soon still for ever Jonathan's heart that I could feel fluttering under the palm of my right hand.

I must have lost track of time for I was jerked back to reality by Jonathan suddenly starting from my knee.

"The water's coming over the wall there," he cried, "I'll stop it." Dropping to his knees he set to work shovelling sand desperately into the breach the sea had made in the wall his bare bottom wriggling provocatively.

As he left one of my knees Guy slipped quickly from his perch on the other pushing his rump firmly into my crutch. Already aroused by the sight of Jonathan's invitingly displayed rump my cock subjected to this further incitement sprang to attention.

It hardened still further when Guy wriggled himself so that it lay along the cleft of his bottom. Lust banished all other thoughts from my mind. I gripped Guy by the nape of his neck and pushed him forward so that he was kneeling, face pressed to the ground, bum raised. I spat on the palm of my free hand and moistened my prick. I aligned it with the slut's hole and pushed forward. The child whimpered. I could feel him pushing back trying to force his hole to open for me. A few seconds later I was inside him. His body closed about me seeming to draw me further into him.

At that moment the sea burst through the damn and the water warmed by it's passage over the hot sand flowed round my knees. The brat his face under water struggled to rise but I held him down enjoying the feel of his struggling body. When I felt his body slacken I relented and allowed him to lift his head above the surface of the water but only for a moment. Then I pushed it down again. The slut's desperation seemed to give the muscles of his bum extra strength as they worked about my rod. Four or five times I brought him to the verge of unconsciousness and then a great darkness closed about me as I pumped my sperm into him. I lent back on my knees panting my cock flaccid but still deep in the boy. Guy remained bent forward his head just above the level of the sea as he panted for breath

"Is he a good little whore Master?" Jonathan asked anxiously.

I pulled away from Guy pulling my prick form his bum with a faint plop. I saw my cum dribbling from his hole.

"Yes Jonathan," I said patting Guy on the flank, "he's a very good fuck."

A smile split Jonathan's face.

"Master says you're a very good fuck Guy," he said delightedly and then more seriously.

"Master please would you do something for me Master."

"It all depends what it is Jonathan," I replied.

"Keep an eye on Guy after tomorrow Master. He's a good little slut Master but he's very young and after tomorrow I won't be able to."

I pushed Guy away from me and gestured impatiently to Jonathan to begin cleaning the filth from my cock. Obediently he buried his face in my crutch. I ruffled the back of his dark head to show that I was not angry with him.

"I'll do my best," Jonathan I said when I was certain I could speak clearly again. When dealing with Tribute Stock you must never betray any sympathy or regret.

By the time the brats had cleaned me and each other up and we had had another swim it was, as I had intended, long after supper time at the villa. There was a burger bar at the car park and I bought us three one and a half pounders with, as a special treat, ketchup and fried onions. We sat together on the car park wall munching our way through these, tomato sauce and grease trickling down the sluts chins. After I brushed the dried sand off them with my towel I let them sit once again in the back of the car as I drove back to San Diego de Campos.

"We're lucky whores aren't we, ice cream and burgers all in one day," I heard Jonathan whisper to Guy.

When we got back to the Villa the two brats were sitting close together Jonathan's arm around the smaller boys' shoulders. Both their little pricks as hard as iron.

"Come on out of there you two," I said with feigned fierceness. "You know the rule very well. If you go on like that you'll both loose your balls before tomorrow even begins."

Guy was wobbling on his feet from exhaustion. As soon as we reached my bedroom I sent him to lie down in the corner where the boys slept huddled up together on the blanket that I had never got round to recovering from Jonathan after his being treated for his injuries in the qualifying heats. He curled himself into a ball and seemed to fall immediately asleep.

Jonathan brought me his cock ring as he passed the sleeping boy he looked down at him and smiled softly.

"Master," he said as I clamped it in place, "thank you for the best day of my service." He paused and then continued diffidently. "You haven't bet any money on me Master?"

"No Jonathan," I replied, "I haven't."

"Good Master," he said and then glancing across at where Guy lay and lowering his voice, "I couldn't slice him Master. I really couldn't."

There was a moments silence and Guy stirred slightly.

"Take this Jonathan and go to sleep," I said handing him the sleeping pill the Doctor had given me. I swore to myself I would never let myself be manoeuvred into sponsoring a boy again. For the first time for many weeks I did not torment the child sexually that night. I could not, knowing what I did, have used the formula "only if you win Jonathan" and I did not want him to start the next day in the state of incoherent hysteria that he experienced before the qualifying heats were run. For one thing Don Carlos had informed me that he had arranged for the slut to be interviewed by Brat TV before the final was run and I wanted him to give a good performance for the sake of the Hacienda. The tightly clamped cock ring though prevented him from achieving an orgasm and maintain his frustration.

Jonathan was unnaturally calm the next morning. He ate quietly smiling at the other brats who crowded about him wishing him luck. When the time came for me to take him to the coursing grounds he showed no sign of fear. He walked beside me through the mob apparently unmoved by the noise and the jostling to which he was subjected.

I guided him to his place at the start line nodding to Mr Umur Patel who was already there with Ritchie whom he was sponsoring. The Brat TV reporter hurried over to us. A noisy young man, with a spiky hair cut and a permanent grin, he thrust his microphone into my face.

"You're Jonathan's sponsor aren't you?" he demanded as the poor brat stood quietly beside me, "do you feel sad now that the brat is almost certainly going to be killed."

"I hope for the best… ," I replied coldly.

"I've heard that the bitches get really hot on their last night. Did you find that?"

"He's a pretty good whore most times."

"It must be sad for you to know that you'll never fuck that particular slut again."

"As I said I hope for the best."

"Well sure you do. But we all know the chances are overwhelmingly against it."

"Well Jonathan, look up now brat so that the viewers can see you, how do you think you are going to do?"

"I hope Master I am not going to dishonour my sponsor nor my Master Don Carlos whom I both love nor the Hacienda."

"Are you frightened, Jonathan? Look into the camera boy the public want to see your face."

"No Master I'm glad to be able to show my Master that I love him."

"Aren't you frightened of the steel swords slicing your flesh, the pain, think of the pain Jonathan and death, think of that and look into the camera slut, like I told you."

"I've been sliced before Master and my death is just my last service to my Master."

"Speak for yourself Jonathan," Ritchie suddenly shouted apparently infuriated by attention being lavished on a brat he despised. "You're such a goody goody. 'Last service to the Master you love.' Balls. Shit. Does he love you? No he bloody doesn't. He just makes money out of us and when we're no good for that he sends us out to be hacked to pieces. I'm not going to run and if any of the rest of you have any sense you won't run either. They can kill us but they'll do that anyway. Why should we make it fun for them… I hate Don Carl…"

"You filthy ungrateful tart," screamed Jonathan his calmness shattered, "Don Carlos has cared for us and looked after us and all you can do…" Words apparently failing him he hurled himself at the other brat his fingers reaching for his eyes.

Two marshalls quick to react to any sign of trouble among the brats at this moment of great tension ran forward. Before they could reach the struggling brats I had grabbed Jonathan by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away from Ritchie.

"Whatever is the matter Jonathan?" Christopher magnificent on his highly bred pony sat looking down in amused tolerance at the boy as he struggled in my grip.

"Master," there were tears of rage in his voice, "that whore says he doesn't love our Master who out of the goodness of his heart let us serve him and now the moment we can show our love and gratitude for his kindnesses he says he won't run and we shouldn't run either. He should be skewered. You're a nasty, wicked, sinful brat Ritchie. Not loving our Master, saying things that might lead the young ones astray, bringing dishonour on the Hacienda…"

The other sluts began shouting their agreement with these sentiments. A chant of "skewer the wicked whore" began to develop.

"All right Jonathan, all right," Christopher said winking at me over the boy's head.

Indeed I was surprised by the vehemence of Jonathan's and the other sluts' reaction but thinking about it I suppose it was understandable. Ritchie's outburst challenged the very basis of their service at a moment when they needed to keep their faith in it to carry them through the next hour or so of terror till death brought them their Release. Either they rejected his wicked claims or their whole service and their imminent deaths lost any meaning or justification in their minds. No wonder they screamed abuse at the evil slut and demanded his skewering.

"I'll look after this Jonathan," Christopher continued showing an instinctive ability to manage Tribute Stock that would have made his father proud of him. "Dealing with something like this is the Master's job. It's too serious for a silly little slut like you. So just hold the reigns of my pony for me while I sort this out."

"And my reigns too, brat." Sushi had trotted over on his pony to see what was going on.

The two free youths swung from their saddles and turned to face Ritchie who was standing isolated and alone facing the line of brats howling for his blood. I let go of Jonathan and the boy darted forward to take the ponies' reigns. The other brats were suddenly silent.

Sushi and Christopher spoke quietly together.

"Sam… Come here," Christopher commended. Ritchie's mignon detached himself from the group of other twelve year olds on the side of the track. He moved in a strange stumbling trot as if he hadn't full control of his legs, tears were streaming down his face. His distress was understandable. Possibly he had done nothing wrong but he had been the mignon of a brat who had rebelled. The New Order was founded on the submission of the Tribute Stock. The relationship between champion and mignon was a close one, though not often as close and intense as that had developed between Jonathan and Guy. Perhaps he had been contaminated by the views of his champion. Perhaps he had not. It made no difference to his fate. The stability of the New Order could not be put at risk. He knew poor little slut, faultless or not, that he would finish the day skewered to the compound gates.

"Well Sam," Christopher spoke gently almost kindly to the miserable brat, "you know what's going to happen to you?"

"Yes Master… I didn't do anything Master… I didn't know…," the boy whimpered and his voice wavering and fearful.

"What you knew or didn't know doesn't matter brat," Christopher said quietly. "You are the mignon of a brat who has failed his Master and you will die nailed to the compound gate with a spike through your guts. It will be a long and painful death. Nothing will save you. You know that don't you?"

"Yes Master," the boy whispered.

"But my Father Don Carlos is a just Master and a kind one," Christopher continued, "I am sure that if you show your abhorrence of the wicked things said by your champion I can persuade him not to involve your mother and your father in your disgrace."

"Master thank you Master," the child dropped to his knees pressing his face to his the sand in an attempt to show his gratitude for Christopher's generosity. "I hate Ritchie Master. He's a wicked evil slut Master…"

"Very well Sam, stay there. I'll tell you what to do when we need you."

He nodded to Sushi who reaching back over his left shoulder drew his curved oriental scimitar. Christopher drew the short straight coursing sword from the scabbard at his belt. Sushi swinging his scimitar in swift glittering circles began to advance towards Ritchie.

"Can't you see what they're doing to you all." The latter screamed desperately. "They beat us and use us… They kill us when they have no further use for us. There are more of us than them… If you join me we can…"

All the time he yelled this evil rubbish the little brute had his eyes fixed on Sushi. Meanwhile Christopher stood still holding his sword, waiting.

Sushi began to move to the right and Ritchie watching him, apparently mesmerised by the whirling blade of his scimitar, turned with him. Christopher dropped to one knee. He gripped his sword with two hands holding it in front of him pointing upwards, it's hilt touching the ground. Ritchie had now been manoeuvred so that his back was turned to him. Christopher drove the sword upwards into the cleft of the brat's bottom. Blood and brown liquid flowed down the steel blade and stained the youth's hands. Ritchie impaled on the weapon screamed in agony. I could see Christopher straining to keep the sword upright as the slut struggled it's point deep in his body.

The two youths were roughly the same age but Christopher being a free boy was by far the stronger and bigger and Ritchie did not have a chance.

"He is making some very peculiar faces," he remarked conversationally. "Shall I see if I can make him look even funnier."

The scimitar flashed and Ritchie's nose was shorn from his face. The brat lifted his hands to the fresh wound and the youth delivered two cuts as quick as light and Ritchie's arms were severed at the wrist. And so it went on Sushi's sword slicing and cutting at Ritchie's bloody carcass as the watching Tribute Boys yelled their encouragement.

Ritchie's screams slowly fell in volume until all that was coming from a mouth that had been widened into a bloody gash with a sideways stroke of the scimitar was a weak whimpering.

"That's about as much as I can do for the moment," Sushi said panting slightly form his efforts.

"Very well," Christopher said. I could see he was beginning to feel the strain of keeping the brats body upright impaled on his sword. "Sam bite off the lump of dog shit's balls."

Sam darted forward and buried his face in Ritchie's crutch. I could see his head jerk and twist as he tore at the slut's body with his teeth.

"Now swallow them," Christopher ordered.

Sushi bending low sliced through Ritchie's legs at the ankles and Christopher lowered his sword allowing Ritchie at last to tumble to the sand. A Tribute Brat ran forward and drove a butcher's hook into his still living carcass and it was hauled to the side of the track.

"One of your father's sluts?" Asked Sushi as he took his pony's reigns from Jonathan running his hand up the back of the boys thigh and squeezing his naked rump.

"Yes," Christopher replied "a good faithful little brat and permanently on heat too." I saw Jonathan wriggle with pleasure at such praise from his young Master.

"Nice bum," Sushi said giving it a slap. "I think I'll have a slice of it later on when I'm feeling hungry again."

He laughed but I noticed that Christopher did not.

"Very well," the President of the event's voice rumbled out over the loud speaker. "Now that little local difficulty has been disposed of we can start the final of the coursing. But first I feel I must thank and congratulate out two riders today for so expeditiously and efficiently dealing with the matter. I am sure we can all be confident that the New Order is safe when there are such determined young men to defend it. There behaviour this morning was worthy of their forbears who fought for liberty truth and the church in the great patriotic war."

There was a burst of cheering from the free population. Which took some time to die down. When it had done so the President continued.

"Due to the disgraceful self disqualification of one of the competitors the form of this mornings contest will be slightly changed. There are now fourteen contestants. The first four heats will be run with both riders and with all the brats competing, two being eliminated in each heat. There will be then two semi finals with two brats running against one rider followed by a final in the same form. As one of the brats is the property of the father of one of the riders it will not be possible for the rider to take part in any semi final or indeed final in which that brat runs."

"Finally I would remind all spectators that not only is this contest to see which brat survives the longest. It is also and more importantly a contest between our two young riders for the sword of honour."

"If the riders are ready…"

There was the crack of the starting pistol and we sponsors ran for the side of the track as Sushi and Christopher galloped down onto the fleeing brats. The tactics of the two youths were clear from the beginning. Sushi with the greater experience and the confidence gained from earlier wins was trying to minimise the risks of a mistake but still trying to eliminate the brats in a reasonably spectacular way. He targeted one of the slower brats in each heat and after slowing him up with a cut across the back of the knees killed him by splitting his skull open with a single downward stroke. Christopher on the other hand took a more high risk approach going straight for the kill without first disabling his victim. Both lads were doing well and neither had made a mistake by the time the third heat had been run and Sushi was therefore by then was far behind Christopher on points. Still the Japanese boy persevered with his more cautious tactics relying no doubt on Christopher's inexperience leading to him eventually making a serious mistake.

To my surprise Jonathan was among the final eight runners. I had expected him to have fallen long before this. Indeed I suspect he would have done so was it not that, having run in the first qualifying heat, he had more time than many of the other brats who had been as badly or indeed worse cut about in heats run later in the week to recover from the injuries he had then sustained. All the same he was running well but I was sure he would not last much longer. More than fast running was needed to survive on the coursing field. Strong nerves, determination and cunning and more were required and these I knew were lacking. I could hear Karl standing beside me muttering under his breath and I knew too he could see the writing on the wall.

Sushi started the next heat as always at an easy canter. It was difficult at first to determine which brat was his intended victim this time as he rode down on the bunch of fleeing sluts. Then with a sick feeling of inevitability I realised that it was Jonathan. Sushi, bending low in his saddle, gained remorselessly on the boy who was running fast along the right hand side of the track. A boy can never simply out run a pony. He must dodge and twist if he is to escape his pursuer but Jonathan ran straight appearing, as I knew he was, to be careless of his approaching end.

Sushi swung his sword back for the cut across the back of the boy's knees that would cause him to founder and allow the youth to deliver the final skull shattering stroke. Then suddenly Guy ran out onto the track throwing himself in the way of Sushi's swinging sword. The blade ripped across the child's stomach, splitting it side to side. He fell backwards his intestines welling form the open wound. His falling body caught Jonathan across the back of legs and brought him tumbling down. Sushi carried on by his own momentum swept past the two boys. Jonathan was back on his feet in a second. A brat was already running onto the track with a hook to lug Guy's body out of the way. The strange figure dressed as a skeleton was jigging about near by.

Sushi was fighting to turn his pony his face contorted with anger at the way he had been cheated of his prey. Now Jonathan had a chance if he was quick and ran hard for the finish line. He did not. He turned back and picked up Guy's horribly wounded body. Holding it tight against his chest he began to stagger down the track under the weight of the smaller boy.

Sushi had turned his pony. It was clear he was not going to give Jonathan an easy death. His sword flashed as he laid it across the boy's shoulders. Blood blossomed from the deep gash and coursed down the brat's bare back. Jonathan stumbled but recovered himself. Sushi lashed at the slut's right arm cutting deep into it just above the elbow. The pain must have been extreme but Jonathan still kept on moving and still did not drop Guy.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Christopher somewhat behind and to the right of Sushi. He was going at full canter and was rising in his saddle to strike down a brat. At that moment he seemed to loose control of his pony. It shot forward suddenly veering to it's left and cannoned into the side of Sushi's mount. As the two boys, both excellent horsemen struggled to regain control of their beats Christopher's pony somehow got turned so that Sushi's mount was directly behind it. Frightened by the commotion to it's rear it lashed out with it's hind hooves catching the other pony on it's right haunch. Totally panicked Sushi's pony bolted with Christopher riding full tilt after it, no doubt with the intention of offering assistance but actually increasing the terror of the other pony and driving it further and further away from the coursing grounds.

Jonathan had reached the finish line. A marshall was pulling at Guy trying to wrestle the little slut away from him. The brat with the butchers hook was hovering nearby.

"Come on," Karl said, shouldering his way to the front of the crowd, "we'll have to sort this one out."

"We can't go on the course," I protested as I followed him.

"We have to."

It must be said that Karl when he has made up his mind to do something is a difficult man to stop. He is not tall but he is very solid and very square. He is an alarming, indeed imposing sight as he almost rolls forward towards you apparently prepared to march straight over anything in his way.

A Marine standing on guard by the edge of the course recognised him and snapped a salute. A young marshall who was advancing to try to stop us hesitated.

Without a word Karl shouldered the marshall who was trying to remove Guy from Jonathan's arms away.

"Give me the slut boy," Karl said his voice almost gentle while he slapped sand onto the gashes in the brat's shoulder and arm to stem the bleeding.

"I won't let the hooks have him while he's alive," Jonathan's voice was high and forced. He was on the edge of hysteria.

"The hooks won't have him," Karl said quietly.

"You can say anything to me. I'm just a slut. You don't have to keep you word…"

"Would you trust Mister Maurice?"

Jonathan's gaze swung to me. He blinked focusing his eyes.

"Will you see they don't put the hooks in him till he's dead, Master?" He asked.

"I will Jonathan," I said and in an act of trust of which I am till very proud of the boy handed the wounded slut to me. The stench from the split in the poor little brutes stomach was nauseating. Blood and other fluid stained my shirt and trousers.

"Now stand close boy," Karl ordered "and close your eyes."

He took hold of Jonathan's arm and dragged him close to me. The he slipped it's hunting knife from it's scabbard. Guy moaned and his eyes flickered open.

"Jonathan can run to win now," he whispered, "he won't have to slit me."

Karl placed his left hand over the child's eyes and quickly cut his throat. Blood gushed from the open wound. With a flick of his knife he severed the boys tiny genitals and pocketed them.

Taking Jonathan by the elbow he turned him round and walked him back to the start line.

"You run boy. You bloody well run. That slut got himself killed so that you can win this and you will win it. You'll win it for him"

Looking out over the sands away from the track I saw that Sushi and Christopher appeared at last to have got their mounts under control. The two lads were sitting on their ponies facing each other and talking heatedly. As I watched Sushi suddenly drew his scimitar and slashed at Christopher who only just parried the cut on his sword. The crowd spotting what was going an started to hoot and catcall while the two youths went for one another hammer and tongues. Luckily they were well matched so neither was able to penetrate the others guard before marshalls wrestled them from their ponies.

The marshalls frog marched them to the Presidents stand. The President had left his microphone on and although he was speaking away from it I could hear snatches of the dressing down he was giving the two of them.

"Deplorable behaviour. Two young men with every advantage. How can you expect to control the subject population if you can't control yourselves… Cardinal rule not to fight or quarrel in front of sluts… All the time watching us looking for signs of dissension or weakness… A chance to rebel… Thoroughly ashamed of themselves… Last chance… Any repetition disqualify them both and get two runners up to take their places… They were to shake hands… Shake hands I say both of you Sushi… Christopher… That's better remember any repetition…"

The two boys, for at fourteen the two of them were no more than boys, walked out from the pavilion moving stiffly. Without looking at each other they remounted their ponies and trotted back to the start line.

Karl broke off his pep talk to Jonathan.

"Come on Maurice," he said, " we'd better be getting out of here."

"You can put the slut down now with the other carcasses," he remarked as we reached the edge of the track.

I looked down at the jumble of naked brats bodies some still showing signs of life that had been cleared from the coursing field. I felt strangely reluctant to abandon my hold of Guys small body.

"All right," Karl surprised me by patting me on the shoulder, "you don't have to."

"I'll keep hold of him at least till Jonathan goes down. It won't be long before Sushi finishes him off," I said gloomily.

"Well we'll see," Karl replied and turned his attention back to the course.

Sushi and Christopher had returned to their start line. They dug their heels into their ponies' flanks and kicked then into a canter. The eight brats began to run their legs and arms pumping. Jonathan, the smallest by far of the surviving sluts, broke clear and streaked ahead of the field. I had never seen him run as fast. Sushi set off after him but seeing the speed the boy was running changed his mind. He quickly and competently disposed of one of the slower brats as did Christopher.

"He won't be able to do that again," I remarked looking at Jonathan who was doubled up at the end of the track his hands on his knees panting and gasping for breath.

"I don't know," Karl replied he's in the last four now. They're to run in pairs. If he is selected for the second pair he'll have a bit of time to rest."

Sushi rode past him and said something. Jonathan straightened himself and full in the free boy's face raised the index finger of his right hand in an act of obscene and open defiance which anywhere else would have had him at the best whipped and more probably skewered. Sushi's hand flew to the hilt of his scimitar. Christopher who was near by half drew his sword.

"Christopher… Sushi," the President's voice thundered out over the loud speakers, "this is a final warning."

The two free youths glared defiance at each other but took their hands from their weapons. The crowd screamed it's excitement and delight at the prospect of a real grudge match however one sided and in anticipation of the bloody vengeance Sushi would no doubt wreak on Jonathan's naked body.

"For that act of insolence Don Carlos's 'Jonathan', sponsor Señor Maurice, will run in the first heat together with Mr Higgins's 'Ijal', sponsored by his owner."

The two brats took their places on the start line. Ijal was a slim dusky skinned slut clearly brought from the East to serve some connoisseur of the exotic. I saw him speak to Jonathan and a sudden brilliant smile lit my boy's face. The two boys briefly touched each other's bottoms and then they sprinted off. If anything Jonathan was slightly the faster but there was no doubt that Sushi this time meant to have his revenge. He bore down on Jonathan bending low in his saddle his sword held close to the ground aiming for the sweeping cut that would take the brats legs from under him and leave him at his mercy. I clenched my hands. Beside me I could here Karl breathing hard. Jonathan had to weave or turn, to take some evasive action or it was all over for him. But still he ran straight on. Sushi was right up to him his sword was held down and parallel to the ground ready to scythe the boy down across the legs. Jonathan threw himself backwards performing a perfectly timed back flip and the sword passed harmlessly under his body.

He was running as soon as his feet hit the ground. Sushi fought to turn his pony and almost spun it round on it's hind legs. Jonathan instead of running away from the animal ran straight at it. I could see him screaming as he ran although the roar of the crowd drowned what he was shouting. I doubt if it was very polite. The pony reared and Jonathan still came on at it. Ducking under it's flailing fore legs he jumped upwards punching it on the nose. It was too much for the beast. It reared again and bolted with Sushi clinging desperately to its neck. I was beginning to feel quite sorry for that pony.

Jonathan trotted the rest of the length of the course and joined the grinning Ijal at it's end. I am afraid Jonathan shouted something at Sushi as he rode past on the way to the start line. It was very wrong of him and Sushi tried to maintain his dignity by ignoring it.

"He won't be able to do that twice," I said to Karl. "Sushi'll go for him and have him this time for certain."

"I don't know," Karl replied, "it all depends which he wants the most the sword of honour or our boy. Jonathan beat him well this time. If he does so again young Sushi can say good by to the sword. He's ahead now because of Christopher's little 'accident' with his pony but another blank run will put him behind."

We knew the answer to that question a few minutes later when Ijal's lifeless body was dragged to the side of the course and Jonathan had made it to the finals.

"I thought he'd do that," Karl muttered to me. "I happen to know his Dad backed him heavily to win the sword and he can cut up very rough if he looses money."

Christopher again disposed of one of his two brats in a quietly efficient manner.

Jonathan and the other surviving brat, a long legged slut with mousy coloured hair, took their places on the start line. They touched each other briefly and began to run. It was clear the long legged boy was the faster and inclination and prudence both seemed to prompt Sushi to try again to get Jonathan. This time though the Japanese boy was determined to take things carefully. No sweeping cut across the legs but a series of downward strokes on head and shoulders that would hammer the brat slowly down onto the sand. Once more Jonathan seemed intent on making it easy for his pursuer. The first cut was once more across his shoulders. He staggered but ran on. Sushi raised his sword to strike again. As the blade fell Jonathan threw himself to the ground and rolled right under the hooves of the cantering pony. One hoof smashed down on his shoulder but an instant later he was out running on the left hand side of the pony his right hand clasped to his injured shoulder blood streaming down his back from the open gash across his shoulders. Sushi pulled on his reigns for an instant and then greed for the sword of honour and fear of his father got the better of him and he rode forward to chop down the long legged slut.

The crowd went wild with cheering and Jonathan had won the coursing.

"Come on Karl ordered beginning to push his way through the crowd towards the President's stand. I followed him. I realised I was still carrying Guy's body. Some how I felt it would be wrong to just abandon it.

"The odds are that the President won't pardon him," I panted as I hurried after Karl.

"He'll pardon that boy," Karl growled back to me over his shoulder, "if I have to hold my knife to his throat to make him."

When we arrived at the stand Jonathan was already standing in front of it guarded by two marshalls. Before he could learn his fate the recipient of the sword of honour had to be decided. This matter involving the interest of two free boys naturally took precedence over so small a matter as whether a tribute brat should live or die.

The President beckoned Sushi and Jonathan forward. They stood side by side with their fathers. They both studiously ignored each other. It was clear that bad blood still persisted between the two of them.

"You have both ridden well," The President began, "and, apart from one unfortunate incident, behaved in the best sporting traditions of the free citizenry. The decision is a very close one but Christopher you lost control of your mount at one crucial moment and I have therefore decided that the sword should be awarded to Sushi. I would only say Christopher that if it was not for that loss of control I might well have come to a different decision. Sushi will you step forward to receive the sword."

The crowd burst into polite applause. Sushi bowing deeply from the waist accepted the sword from the President. I noticed that Christopher did not applaud till Don Carlos spoke sharply to him and the lad began to clap but with no great enthusiasm.

As the applause died down I saw Don Carlos turn to Sushi's father and offer him his hand.

"My son and I would like to congratulate your son and you on his win. Don't we Christopher?" There was a certain snap in his voice that caused Christopher to mumble his agreement.

"You are too kind," Sushi's father said bowing stiffly.

"I would be honoured if you could both come to dinner tomorrow evening. There is, I can see, some slight resentment between our two boys and it would be a pity I feel if this was allowed to linger."

"I would be most pleased," the Japanese man said bowing again.

"Excellent, now if you will excuse me I want to have a word with the President…"

Don Carlos mounted the steps into the stand and was shortly in urgent conversation with the President. I saw both men glance over to where Jonathan was standing his left arm hanging uselessly at his side swaying slightly from exhaustion. I heard the occasional snatches of conversation.

"A rare talent… Myself and Lady Artemis will stand surety… And pay for medical attention… Art college when in due course…"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the black bulk of Hassan approaching through the crowd dwarfing the small figure of the Doctor Hernandes at his side. Karl suddenly appeared beside the President he too began talking urgently although he was away from the microphone and I could not hear what he was saying. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bloody object and poked it with the blade of his hunting knife. I saw what it was and held Guy's mutilated body closer to me.

The President nodded and the two men stepped back satisfied smiles on their faces.

"Jonathan you have run well and bravely today. You have won the coursing. At this point I normally have to decide whether it is you or your mignon who is to die. God has made the decision for me and you have proved your worthiness to be a free citizen by slicing the balls from the still living body from your mignon. I therefore declare you pardoned."

I was watching Jonathan's face as the man was spoke these words and I saw the boy's eyes roll back in his head. He swayed slightly and then began to scream as his hands moved towards his own crutch.

"I'll tear my own balls off… I didn't slice…" Then Hassan was on him one massive black hand clamped over his mouth the other grabbing both his wrists and holding them away from his body. The Doctor stepped forward a syringe in his hand. He plunged the needle in the side of the boy's thigh and Jonathan's body went slack.

"Maurice," Don Carlos said calling out to me from the stand, "I see you've kept the carcass of Jonathan's mignon for me. Thank you, it is, under the law my property but you've done such an excellent job training Jonathan that I leave it to you to decide what to do with it."

I stood aghast. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck with the poor child's body. It was silly I know but the thought of throwing it into the recycle containers – as was the use with Tribute Boys carcasses – made me feel sick. Apparently oblivious of my distress Don Carlos spoke a few quiet words to Karl who clattered down the stairway of the stand to join me. He said nothing but taking me by the elbow he lead me through the crowd which, the sport for the day over, was rapidly thinning. He took me across to one of the many barbecue pits where all morning pig carcasses had been turning on spits slices of their meat being sold to the hungry spectators. It was deserted now, the spits dismantled, it's proprietors on their way back to San Diego de Campos. Charcoal still glowed dully in the long pit.

Karl found a length of drift wood and stirred the embers to life.

"Throw him on there Maurice," he said, "it's the best we can do for him."

After a long while he squeezed my shoulder.

"All right now Maurice?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I'll see you back at the Villa then," he said.

It takes a long time for even a small brat's body to burn completely. It was well on into the evening before I felt I could leave the place.

Don Carlos must have been looking out for as soon as I walked into the Villa he appeared in the hall way.

"Thank god you've got back Maurice. As Jonathan's sponsor your due at the President's dinner his evening. You must go and get…"

Then he saw my face.

"All right then I'll make your excuses. Christopher can represent you. It'll seat him further away from that Sushi boy which will be a good thing."

"Thank you, Sir," I said, "I don't think I could stand a formal dinner. How's Jonathan."

"He's still unconscious. The Doctor's dressed his back and arm. He's a healthy boy so the wounds will heal fast and cleanly. His shoulder has been badly bruised but nothing worse. If you want to take a look at him he's in bed in the small room at the end of the corridor on the second floor."

"I've put Sam in with him with orders to let me know as soon as he's comes out from the anaesthetic. The slut's been driving us all mad with his whimpering. Saying that he didn't know that Ritchie was going to disgrace himself and pleading with me not to have him skewered. So I put him out of the way up there."

"It's not as though I could do anything to save the little brute, even if I wanted to. Not that I do. He thoroughly deserves a nail through his belly."

I nodded sympathetically. The authorities would be certain to check that all procedures had been correctly followed after so public a defiance as Ritchie's, so the matter was largely out of Don Carlos's power. Anyway Sam was Ritchie's mignon and should both have known what was in the slut's mind and reported it to his Master. He had failed in one or other of these duties and deserved what was coming to him. With the privileged population being so heavily outnumbered by the servile it was essential that the brats were not allowed to forget their duty to inform on each other and the skewering of Sam would serve as a timely reminder to the Hacienda sluts of this.

Jonathan was lying face down on the bed, a sheet drawn up to his waist, his wounds dressed, his slim back deep brown against the white bed clothes. A naked brat knelt on the floor his attention apparently focused on a TV set which flickered in the corner of the room it's sound turned down. It was showing some soap opera especially aimed at the brat audience. At the moment I entered the room a pretty little slut was fighting off a fierce dog who appeared to be intent on attacking a small free boy. The brat had been badly torn by the dog's teeth but was still gamely holding his ground. The camera cut to show the free child's parents running to intervene in the struggle. They arrived. The mother gathered her son in her arms. The dog ran off and the father took of his shirt and tore it in strips to bind the brat's wounds. It was Sam escaping from the cruel reality of a world where far from being fussed over by a grateful Master he was fated to endure an agonising death.

I walked over to the set and flicked though the channels till I found the one broadcasting the days event from the festival. It was showing a replay in slow motion of the moment when Guy had run onto the course and had his belly split open by Sushi's sword point. The camera dwelt on the scene as the blade sliced through the brat's taught flesh and his intestines released from their constraints tumbled through the gash.

"Now," the commentators voice said, "we can bring you an exclusive interview with the mother of that brat whose devotion to his duty saved the life of a boy who has proofed himself worthy of acceptance into the free community. Over to Pierre Foucard in Marseilles."

A picture of a small squalid room filled the screen. A thin haggard woman wearing shabby clothes was sitting on a grubby settee, squatting at her feet on the carpetless floor were two small boys, the biggest perhaps six years old wearing a rather grubby loincloth, the other somewhat younger naked. In front of her stood a young man dressed in smart casual trousers and an open necked shirt.

"Now Madame Cambon," the young man said thrusting a microphone into her face, "the brat we just saw have his stomach split open was one of yours, wasn't it."

"Yes, Sir," the woman replied speaking in the high sing song voice of the professional mendicant, "that was my Guy, Sir, a lovely boy. Did so well for himself, Sir. Accepted into service by Don Carlos at the Hacienda de los Niños Tributos del Ezzaro and so happy there, Sir. Lots of rich gentlemen liked him, Sir."

"And what did you feel Madame Cambon when you knew he had been killed and the boy he saved had been granted a pardon."

"I was so proud Sir. My Guy a mere slut being able to help a boy who's now a free citizen. It made it all worthwhile Sir. The expense of rearing him and everything."

"And these are your children too are they."

"Yes Sir, André my oldest and Pierre. We'll have to Tribute André next year, Sir, when he's seven Sir. We're poor and can't afford the Tribute money despite what Guy has brought us bless his little heart. André'll make a good slut if any rich gentlemen will have him, Sir."

"Stand up André, perhaps some one with lots of money will see you and take a fancy to you."

André scrambled to his feet and his mother leaning forward pulled off his loin cloth.

"Look, Sir, isn't he a pretty little thing."

"Yes indeed. Tell me André, are you proud of your big brother."

"Yes Sir. I'm very proud of him and I want to be like him and do my service with Don Carlos and show him that I'm a good faithful slut like my big brother was, Sir."

"Well I'm sure you'll have your chance André. And now, Madame Cambon, what do you think of that disgraceful scene at the beginning of the finals when that brat refused to run."

"It was terrible Sir. A disgrace. I was glad to see the brat suffer. I hate to think that my Guy had anything to do with him. Just think how a good dutiful slut like him might have been led astray by him. There's nothing too bad for filth like him and his mignon too. He ought to have seen what was coming and warned good Master Don Carlos. I'm glad he's going to be skewered the ungrateful brute and I hope he will take a long time to die."

At this Sam sobbed loudly and I finally lost my patience.

"Listen slut," I snapped, "You seem to have forgotten Don Carlos sent you up here to keep an eye on the new young master. He doesn't keep you so that you can spend your time feeling sorry for yourself. I think you need reminding of those simple points. Get in position."

I took the cane from it's hook beside the door. I turned to find Sam bent over ready for his beating, hands grasping his ankles, legs slightly apart.

It's difficult to flog a boy quietly, the hiss of the cane as it descends, the sharp crack of wood striking taught bare flesh, the squeals of the brat as the punishment progresses are unavoidable accompaniments to the process. That is no doubt why in certain residential areas of our cities the thrashing of brats between eleven p.m. and eight a.m. is forbidden. I had only brought the rod down across the sluts quivering rump for the third time when I heard Jonathan's voice from the bed.

"Master."

"Sir, Jonathan," I said turning away from my victim, "not Master any longer, you are a free boy now."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes and a little thirsty… Sir."

"Sam stop that useless snivelling. Run to the kitchen and get a bowl of warm milk with bread in it and a spoon and bring it back here. If you're quick and don't spill any may be I'll let you off the rest of your beating."

The boy scuttled away. I seated myself on Jonathan's bed and began to stroke his hair.

"Sir," he said after he had eaten, "what did you do with Guy."

"Well Jonathan," I said gently, "long ago, long before the Tribute System was in being there were a people called the Vikings and when a brave Viking died they took his body and burnt it. So when Don Carlos gave me Guy's body, because it belonged to him by law being his Master, Karl and I took it and we burnt it on one of the barbecue pits and I stayed with it until it was all gone."

"Thank you, Sir," the boy sniffed, "I know now I'm a free boy and he was only a slut but I… I loved him, Sir, and I think he loved me too, Sir," and he began to cry.

I didn't reply but sat quietly stoking his hair. After a time his sobs died away.

"Sir," he said again his voice slightly muffled by his pillow, "I won the coursing."

"Yes Jonathan, you did."

"You said… after I won the coursing I could…"

"Are you able too with your shoulder."

"It's not my shoulder you fuck, Sir," the boy replied seriously. "If you want to, Sir."

I pulled back the sheet. Jonathan spread his legs and lifted his bottom as I greased his hole. It was the end for him of weeks of sexual frustration. After the usual initial resistance his bottom closed round my prick and seemed to draw it down into him drowning me in the intensity of his lust. When he came it was in a long powerful orgasm that racked his body and milked me of every drop of cum.

Jonathan fell asleep again as Sam licked his hole clean. I lifted the sheet back up over him and slipped away to my own room.

Next morning I had to introduce Jonathan to the other free citizens in the household, the last of my duties as Jonathan's sponsor. I went to his room at half past eight and found him sitting on the side of his bed holding a pair of shorts in his hands.

"I found these in my room, Mas… Sir," he said in a slightly defensive tone of voice.

"And now you are to put them on," I smiled. I knew what was bothering him. A Tribute Brat if he was caught wearing a free boy's clothes would face certain skewering.

"Me… Sir?" He said doubtfully

"Yes Jonathan, you. You are a free boy now."

"They're not very comfortable," he grumbled pulling them on, "nasty and tight. No wonder free boys are so impatient and bad tempered with us. Do I have to wear them, Sir?"

"Yes, you do and don't talk as if your still a brat. Now come along."

"I don't know if it's all that good a thing being free if I have to do all these things," he remarked as he followed me out of the room.

When we reached the terrace I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and guided him forward. I knew this would be a difficult moment for him. Sure enough I felt him hesitate when he saw the group sitting round the breakfast table. Any free citizen is a terrifying being to a Tribute Brat, but Don Carlos and Christopher to a Hacienda slut are special objects of awe love and fear. The same is true to a lesser extent of Karl and Don Carlos's other employees, except for Hassan, who is a figure of sheer unadulterated terror. Suddenly Jonathan was faced by all of these plus Christopher's Aunt Artemis and her niece from the Welsh side of the family, a glamorous eighteen year old, Gwenllian.

Heads turned to look at us as we approached. A hush fell over the garden starting with the company on the terrace and spreading from there to the trestle table set below the terrace about which the brats were sitting. It was broken by Don Carlos clapping his hand and a ripple of applause ran round the breakfast table as I urged the wildly blushing boy forward. The brats sat silent knowing that this was a sign of welcome to a free boy from his peers, something in which they could have no part, but not one of then did not think at that moment that at some time it could be him standing there in Jonathan's place.

Jonathan reached the foot of the table and Don Carlos held up his hand for silence,

"Well done, Jonathan," he said simply, "you have brought honour to yourself, your family and the Hacienda and we are glad to have you join us. In a minute you will join us for breakfast but first let the sluts welcome you in their own way. Come with me."

He led Jonathan to the top of the flight of steps leading down to the garden. One by one the brats mounted the steps, knelt and taking Jonathan's left hand in both of theirs pressed it their foreheads and intoned the Tribute Boys salute to all free citizens "health and long life Master," before kissing the ground at his feet and returning to their places.

Now he said when this ritual was completed, "find yourself a seat somewhere and a slut will bring you breakfast."

I had carefully kept a chair for Jonathan beside mine but Gwenllian had other ideas.

"Jonathan sweetie," she said in her clear upper class tones, "come and sit beside me and I'll look after you." It was obvious to all that she, like many of her type, was intrigued by the glamour attaching to a brat who had triumphed one of the festival games.

"Gwenllian," her Aunt said firmly, "you and Jonathan may enjoy yourselves in whatever way you wish but Jonathan has a prior duty to his old Master which he must discharge within two years or he will loose the ability to please you at least."

"Aunt," the girl replied running her hand up the inside of Jonathan's thigh, "I know I must for the moment take second place to your plans but a girl can dream can't she."

"And," she continued squeezing the crutch of his shorts, "there seems to be plenty to dream about."

"That I think is enough of that for the moment Gwenllian," Don Carlos said severely. The girl giggled and when he glanced away stuck out her tongue at him.

"Jonathan," he continued, "I would not express myself in the same way as my young niece but she has touched on a matter that is of some importance. For the next four years I am your mentor and you stand to me in many ways as a son to his father. It is my responsibility to see that you learn the mental and social skills you need to play a full part in the community of free citizens. The next two years are to be devoted to that. It is also my duty to see that you are equipped in one way or another to earn your own living. You have a great natural skill as an artist and it is my intention with the aid Lady Artemis to have you trained as such. You owe me during this period your obedience and something else; two healthy male brats. If you fail to produce them your balls will be sliced off. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mas…," as the table burst into laughter Jonathan hastily corrected himself, "Sir, I mean."

"We want to make things as easy as possible for you. Artemis I believe you have brought along a couple of bitches that you consider suitable to breed from."

"Yes Carlos I have. One white and one black. Twelve year old sluts that I have kept for racing and which have won many events for me over the last couple of years. The time for their Release is due but I have obtained a licence to delay that for a period so they can be bred from. Both have been treated with fertility drugs and will be likely to drop litters of four or five whelps. I would prefer to breed black on black because of the shortage of pure bred stock of that sort after the aids eradication cull undertaken in Africa on the initiation of the New Order but the white bitch should do Jonathan well."

"Lets have the pair in now and have a look at them," suggested Don Carlos.

"Why of course, Gwenllian darling would you fetch them. They're locked in the cage by the front door. Don't stand any nonsense with them dear will you."

"I won't Aunt," promised Gwenllian with a smile picking up a short metal tipped strap from beside her coffee cup on the table.

"Gwenllian is such a help to me," Artemis confided to us while her niece was absent. "She's wonderful with the sluts. They're all frightened of her. She really enjoys using that strap."

A second or two later we heard the unmistakable sound of leather hitting bare flesh and Gwenllian reappeared driving before her two naked girl sluts whose immature bodies bore plenty of evidence of Gwenllian's expertise.

"The black whore's Blanche," said Artemis, "the white's Schwartz. They're both twelve year olds so due to be released but that's postponed until they've dropped and weaned a litter. Provided they take quickly mind you. Otherwise I'll give them their Release by running them against my lurchers."

"Have they been fucked before," Don Carlos said looking coldly at the two trembling female brats.

"No but I've had their hymens broken when I raced them first over hurdles. If you don't do that in advance they're apt to rupture them in the race and that spoils their performance. They prefer each other don't you sluts."

"If it pleases you Mistress," the two girls sobbed beside themselves with terror.

"Little pleases me about you two whores," Artemis said roughly, "but show your betters how much you like each… other come on now. Oh for god's sake Gwenllian liven them up."

Gwenllian lashed out with the strap and the two little bitches put their arms about each other, their lips met, their tongues jostled together each seeking entry into the other's mouth. Lust soon banished terror and the two girls pressed their bodies against each other in a jumble of white and black limbs.

"That's enough," Artemis said jerking them apart, "Schwartz get on your back on the floor and spread your legs for the young Master. Come on Jonathan get those shorts off and do the job so we can all get on with breakfast."

Jonathan pulled of his shorts eagerly enough and it was clear from the state of his cock that he had fully recovered his energy after the exertions of the previous night. He seemed however rather at a loss as to how exactly to proceed.

"Kneel down between the legs," Gwenllian advised now she said kneeling to one side of the boy and guiding him with one hand, "get your prick in there. That's right."

We stood round cheering him on as he rode the bitch. It didn't take long for him to do the job.

"Good boy," Artemis said as he rolled off the girl slut, She'll be at her most fertile in about a week. If you cover her a few more times before then with all the drugs I've had pumped into her that should be enough. I'll leave them both with you for now. I just hope you get a suitable black brat pardoned for Blanche. Now that's out of the way shall we all sit down and get on with our breakfast."

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