Richard Perkins

Tunes

Chapters 19-23

Chapter 19

Would Mr Lewellyn decide the job had not been adequately done or had he, George, unwittingly failed to obey one of the rules and further strokes be required to expiate that fault?

There was another fear added to that terror. George had never before been hurt as much. Could some one who had done that to him still care for him and bother about him?

George was already ashamed of himself and guilty about the way he had behaved. Mr Llewellyn had been so good and kind to him. Shown him attention, talked to him, spent time with him when no one else bothered, taken him walking in the mountains, taught him to handle the motor cruiser and to fish and what had he done in return? Played up to Mr Lewellyn, deliberately leading him on. Yes he had, it was all his own fault, George knew it was. He had lain in bed after that trip to the Troodhos thinking about Mr Lewellyn, wishing that he could be the father he had never been allowed to have, imagining being fussed and looked after and petted by him. He had tried to make the man like him. Mr Lewellyn said he was a slut and he was right. That was just what he was. He had smiled his slut smile, wiggled his slut bottom at the man and then, when Mr Llewellyn could stand it no longer, he, George, had rejected him.

No wonder Mr Llewellyn was angry with him. No wonder he had beaten him. And Mr Llewellyn must have been very angry to beat him so hard.

Suppose the man was so angry and disgusted with him that he wanted to have no more to do with him.

Mr Llewellyn was very important to George. What other adult did he have to turn to? Granny and Granddad were all right but they were old and not much fun. Mum thought he was a nuisance. The masters at school were all right. They were kind but no more to him than to any of the other boys.

Mr Llewellyn had been good to him. And Mr Llewellyn had been a real friend. Mr Llewellyn had not been shocked when he had got hard and made a mess. Everybody else would if they found out how often and how quickly he did that. Granny and Granddad, Mum, the masters and boys at school, all of them, he was sure of that. Hadn't Mr Llewellyn himself said so? And then … and this was another source of guilt and deep shame… he had liked … he had liked very much indeed having Mr Llewellyn fondle and kiss him. The first time it had been a bit frightening, especially when the man had pushed his tongue into his mouth, but it was exciting too especially when Mr Llewellyn played with his prick and oddly when the man thrust his finger tip into his hole as well. Even thinking of it, bent over as he wa,s with his bottom on fire and Mr Llewellyn standing looming over him, made his prick harden.

And most shameful of the lot he had found sucking Mr Llewellyn's cock very exciting. It had seemed really gross when Mr Llewellyn had first tried to get him to take his prick into his mouth, that swollen rod of white flesh ribbed with knotted veins. The thing that Mr Lewellyn peed out of.

He didn't know men were so big or so hairy so totally unlike his own little prick and smooth body. It took something to make himself do it. He almost threw up when he put his face into Mr Lewellyn's crutch and he caught the stale smell of the man, a mixture of sweat, urine and shit. But he knew he had to do it if he was to keep Mr Llewellyn's friendship so he forced himself to lick it and then to take it right into his mouth. That wasn't very pleasant either at first. He had to open his mouth quite wide to take it and then when Mr Llewellyn pushed it right down into his throat he thought he was going to choke. It tasted a bit funny too, salty with a tart under taste, and it felt odd inside his mouth, sort of hard and throbbing. But once he'd got the hang of it and once Mr Llewellyn's cock was really pumping his mouth then all that was forgotten. He had almost thrown up again when the man had cum in his throat but somehow he managed to swallow most of it and it hadn't tasted too bad, warm and sort of metallic, and he was glad he had managed to please Mr Llewellyn.

These fears and half understood longings churning inchoately in George's mind combined with the pain of his lacerated rump and the trauma of his flogging reduced the boy to a state of near hysteria. He waited trembling as Anthony ran a finger gently along one of the many angry welts that the cane had raised across smooth lightly tanned skin of his bottom. Would the man decide that he would beat him some more, even worse, would Anthony decide he had no further time for him.

Then, when at last he was allowed to look up into Mr Llewellyn's face and saw not rejection but concern and even fondness, beyond words he showed his relief and gratitude in the only way he was able, by throwing his arms round Mr Llewellyn's neck and sobbing his gratitude as he pressing his smooth young body tight against the naked man.

Now he stood his hands clasped behind his head, the sun warm against his body. His mind was calmer now and he was thinking over what Mr Llewellyn had said to him. Not that there was much for George to think about. All that he wanted was that a grown up, Mr Llewellyn preferably because he knew him and he had been kind to him, should care about him. He more than accepted Mr Llewellyn's authority, he was happy to be subjected to it and as for accepting his slut nature, if that meant being petted by Mr Llewellyn and sucking his cock and anything else that might please the man he was happy to do that. They were all means of making Mr Llewellyn care for him.

Anthony as he moved quietly about clearing up the picnic things was amused to notice that George's prick was once again erect. Making the boy stand still and be quiet after beating him was not only, and perhaps even not really, part of the punishment. Anthony knew from his own time as a boy in Mr Grade's care the turmoil a severe, especially the first severe flogging, created in a child's mind. It was best for the boy that he should have time to calm down, to think things through and to allow the initial agony of the beating to abate. He had been through this particular valley himself and had come out on the other side. George now was entering that same valley. It remained to be seen if he would make it across to the other side. The boy appeared at least to have learnt the need for obedience as he stood silent, except for he occasional loud sniff, performing his solitary penance.

"Your half hours up now George," Anthony eventually said crossing to where the boy stood, "but stay still for moment while I look at you."

He moved to stand behind he boy and bent to examine his bottom. It was not so far as he could see too badly damaged. The bruising was coming out and spreading but the bleeding had stopped. He touched the lad's tortured flesh with his finger tip and George winced sharply.

"Still sore is it George?" He asked cheerfully.

"Yes Sir, quite sore Sir."

"It's meant to be and you'll feel it burning for a few days yet but it'll get milder as time passes."

"Now we'll go fishing." Anthony continued. "You can carry the bag and net and I'll look after the rod. We'll try off the rocks at the entry to the bay. That looks a likely place to me."

He set off along the shore with George, the fishing bag slung over one shoulder, bumping against his bare hip trotting after him.

"We're still friends aren't we Sir?" George asked nervously.

"Of course," Anthony replied reassuringly. "If I didn't care about you I wouldn't have bothered to thrash you."

Reassured by the irrefutable logic of this reply George slipped his free hand into Anthony's.

The sun was beginning to sink to the West by the time they had clambered over the rocks to the point. An off shore breeze had sprung up ruffling the sea some twenty yards out from the rocks.

"Right," Anthony said stripping line off the reel and preparing to cast, "stand close to my left and watch the rod tip. See," he continued as he made as series of false casts feeding line out though the rings of the rod, "I don't move the rod straight backwards and forwards but in a narrow ellipse or oval. That's because otherwise the line would crack back on itself like a whip."

He made a final cast allowing the loose line he had been holding in his left hand to shoot forward. The line snaked out and fell with hardly a ripple on the water the team of flies landing on the edge of the rippled water. He began to draw them back slowly looping the line as he recovered it in a series of figures of eight in his left hand.

"You notice George," he said, "before each forward cast I pause. That is to allow the line to straighten behind you and then when you do make your forward cast you get the whole force of it throwing the line forward. You must pause long enough for the line to straighten but not so long as to allow it to drop or you'll get the flies caught behind you. I'm going to cast again now watch the way I keep my elbow close in by my side."

Anthony cast four more times as George watched him intently. Then he passed the rod to George having first removed the cast of flies. Boys always want to fly fish but casting requires a degree of co-ordination and timing which they find difficult to achieve until generally well into their middle teens. Anthony was aware of this and did not wish to spend the night digging flies out of George or himself. Anyway he had other plans for the boy.

"Try it without the flies first George," he said, "and once you get the hang of it I'll put one on for you."

George's efforts were no worse than most. That is to say he cracked the line, got it tangled round the rod, snagged it on the rocks behind him, hit himself on the side of the face with it, brought it tumbling down into the sea with a great splash. Sometimes he did one, sometimes he did two and occasionally he did three of these. However he kept on trying and just a couple of times he pulled off a near perfect cast although not achieving anything like the length required.

"All right George," Anthony said when he saw the boy was beginning to tire. "You're doing well. Now you take a rest and I'll have a go and afterwards we'll try you with a fly up."

Anthony took the rod and quickly tied the team of three flies to the line.

He began to cast and then spotted off to the right a flash of silver as a fish turned between where two rocks just broke the surface at the edge of the rippled water. Quickly he turned and cast, dropping the flies right between the rocks. Before he had time even to begin recovering the line the tail of the fish broke the water and a second later the tip of the rod jerked downwards as it took the fly and began to run.

George jumped in the air squealing with excitement.

"You know what to do George," Anthony said passing the rod to the boy, "land it for me would you please."

Ten minutes later Anthony was removing the hook from a good sized sea bass.

"Two pounds [900 g] if it's an ounce George," he said looking up from where he knelt at the beaming boy who was shaking with excitement.

It was then George's turn to have the rod this time with a fly attached. He had no luck but the distance and consistency of his casting improved a little. They fished on into the night. By the time Anthony decided they had to stop the full moon had risen, casting a golden bar of light towards them across the otherwise black sea. They had caught five fish, all unfortunately hooked by Anthony.

"Time we packed up I'm afraid," Anthony said.

"Oh Sir," George who was casting replied. "Let me have one last cast Sir please," and without waiting for Anthony's agreement he recovered his line and making two quick false casts shot the line from his rod to achieve the first and only perfect cast that he had made that evening.

"Look Sir… I've done it," George cried in triumph as the line landed lightly as thistle down on the water. Then the water surged at the very point his fly had landed and the reel screamed as the line was ripped from it by a running fish.

"The best one this evening," Anthony announced as he netted the fish. It wasn't really he told himself . The first fish to his mind had a quarter of a pound [100 g] on it but he wasn't going to spoil the boy's triumph.

Then they were faced with the problem of carrying their gear and the fish back. The net, a folding one with an extending handle, while useful enough for landing a single fish, was quite inadequate for carrying six for any distance. In the end Anthony found a length of cord in his fishing bag.

He attached the fish to this cord by passing it through their gills and tied it's end together. He gave it to George to carry the cord looped round his neck, his hand pulling it forward so that it did not strangle him, the fish hanging down his back.

"You can wash the fish slime and scales off in the sea when we get back to the boat," Anthony observed as slinging the fishing bag over his shoulder he picked up the net and rod. He watched George set off, the fish, showing silver in the moon light against the darkness of his body, their tales slapping against the top of his rump as walked. He felt his blood stir in anticipation of the further delights he had promised himself that night.

Back at the dinghy Anthony paused.

"George," he said, "I don't want a lot of dead fish flopping about in this and getting muddled up with our gear and everything. Nor really do I want a fishy boy either. Do you think you could swim out to the boat with the fish."

"They're quite heavy Sir," George said doubtfully.

"They won't be once you're in the water. Do you think you could manage if you didn't have them?"

"Oh yes Sir easily."

"Then you can manage with them as well," Anthony announced briskly.

"Swim behind the dinghy and you can grab hold of it if you get tired and I'll tow you across."

Anthony launched the dinghy while George waded out into the sea.

Anthony heard the boy gasp.

"What's the matter George. The water's not that's cold."

"No Sir it's not at all," George replied rather breathlessly, "but it stings really badly."

"That's the sea water on your stripes," Anthony said cheerfully, "it does burn when the welts are fresh. Nothing to worry about. In fact it's good The sting shows it's acting as anti-sceptic."

Anthony drove the dinghy's oars into the water. The boat glided past where the boy, thigh deep in the water, stood hesitating. He back watered sharply.

"Come on George. The longer you hesitate the worse it will be. Get on with it now."

The George shifted his burden so that the fish were hanging down his front.

He took a deep breath and dived forwards. He surfaced just a couple of feet from the stern of the dinghy. Anthony bent again to the oars. It was clear that Anthony had not underestimated the boy's ability as a swimmer.

Throughout his row back to the motor boat George maintained his position just behind the dinghy, his head regularly breaking the surface of the water as he struck out with a strong breast stroke.

The dinghy bumped gently against the side of the motor boat and Anthony scrambled aboard. George, he saw, had swum round the boat and was hanging on to one of it's stern fenders.

"You OK George?" he asked.

"Yes Sir fine thanks Sir."

"Good boy. Not cold or anything?"

"No Sir the water's fine."

"Well hang on there till I take the fish off you. I don't want fish, or a wet boy for that matter, dripping water everywhere on board till I've sorted things out."

Anthony lit the camping gas lamps hanging from the cockpit canopy ridge poles before unloading the dinghy. He made no effort to bring that on board. It could remain in the sea until the next morning when they would need it to go ashore. Then he fetched two buckets and a towel on deck.

"All right George. Pass up the fish now."

The boy's head momentarily disappeared below the water as he let go of the fender in order to slip the cord from which the fish were strung over his head. He resurfaced and, holding onto the fender with his left hand, lifted the loop of cord up to Anthony.

"OK your turn now George. Grab hold of my hands."

Anthony reached down with both hands. A few seconds later he was hauling a wet naked boy over the cockpit gunwale. George stood dripping on the deck, the water flowing down his bare chest and flanks glistening in the soft slightly yellow light thrown by the camping gas lamps. Taking the towel Anthony set about vigorously drying the boy off. He towelled the lad's chest before turning him round to dry his back

"Go easy on my bum Sir," George pleaded, "it's still very sore."

Anthony laughed and bending kissed George on the side of his neck just above his shoulder. The boy wriggled ecstatically pressing his naked body back against Anthony.

"We'll sleep up on deck," Anthony said a moment or so later gently pushing the boy away from him. "Help me to bring the mattresses from the bunks up here."

"Bring the two sleeping bags up here too George," Anthony ordered as he arranged the two mattresses side by side on the cockpit deck

"Have you done this at school with a boy you particularly liked?" Anthony asked taking the sleeping bags from George and then using their zips to join them together creating one double sized bag.

"Done what Sir?" George asked whether in real or feigned innocence Anthony could not determine.

"Sleep together like we're going to."

"Do you particularly like me Sir?" George asked without replying to Anthony's question.

"I'm going to show you now just how much I like you George," Anthony replied from where he knelt on the deck. "Go down into the cabin while I'm doing this and look in the locker at the head of the starboard bunk. You'll see a light blue tube with white writing on it saying 'KY Jelly'. Bring it up here to me."

Anthony seated himself on one of the cockpit benches. In a few minutes George returned holding the tube of jelly.

"Thank you," Anthony said taking it from him, "now get face down across my knees."

"What's it for Sir," asked George his voice coming from somewhere near the deck. "Is it to make my bottom less sore?"

"Not exactly," Anthony said squeezing a large quantity of jelly from the tube onto his tight index finger. "Now push your bottom right up in the air and spread your legs slightly."

George wriggled on his lap getting into the required position, generating delicious sensations in Anthony's crutch, whose intensity were increased by the sight of boy's bottom raised and now open to his touch. It seemed to Anthony that the raised welts and deep bruising that the flogging had caused enhanced the beauty of the boy's deeply dimpled little bottom.

Anthony ran his index finger along the lips of George's anus. The boy gasped and pushed his bottom up even higher seeming to invite further intrusion.

"Like it George?" Anthony asked squeezing more jelly from the tube.

The boy moaned softly in reply.

This time Anthony pushed the tip of his finger into the hole. The boy's body tensed in a reflex reaction to this invasion.

"Now George," Anthony murmured reassuringly, "relax. The more you relax the easier it will be. Push like you're shitting… That's a good boy…"

Anthony steadily increased the pressure until George's sphincter gave way before his attack. He worked his finger ever deeper into the boy, while George writhed whimpering, part in pleasure part in pain, across his knees. Slowly his finger sank ever further into George until it could go no further, the knuckles of his hand pressing against the boy's bum. He for a time he pumped the boy's hole with his finger. Then withdrawing it with an audible plop he wiped it clean on the towel which he had previously used to dry George. This time having squeezed jelly over his fore and index fingers he forced both of them into the boy.

"Hush George," he said silencing the boy's muffled gasp of protest, "it'll be easier for you in the end if I stretch you bit more."

Once he had thoroughly greased the boy's hole and stretched it as much as the lad would bear he slapped him hard across the curve of the rump which had been spared the cane. George squeaked and jumped to his feet. Anthony could see from the state of boy's prick, erect and trembling, a drop of precum glistening in the light of the camping gas lamp on it's tip, that the boy was on the point of orgasming. Quickly he lent forward and pressing the tips of his fingers firmly into George's perineum immediately the child's hairless balls, held them there until the thin twig like cock deprived of blood lost it's rigidity and hung drooping downwards.

"You can grease my cock now George," Anthony said once he was satisfied that the danger of the boy ejaculating prematurely had passed. "I know how fond you are of it and the more thoroughly you do the job the easier it will go into you."

"You're going to put that in me Sir?" George asked, the alarm apparent in his voice, as he stared at Anthony's rampant penis.

"Yes… Don't worry George. It won't hurt that amount and I'll be very careful. Anyway," Anthony added seeing the boy still looked worried and telling the old old lie that has been said so many time to so many boys, "if it hurts too much you only have to say so and I'll stop."

George taking the man's assurance at face value knelt down on the deck.

Squeezing jelly onto the palms of his hands he began to spread it liberally over Anthony's rod.

George had not yet learnt that promises made by the strong to the weak are valueless. The strong will always in the end take what they want, the weak must always give way to their will. Anthony found the boy's innocence strangely appealing. He had no intention of keeping his promise. Indeed he doubted if he would be physically capable of doing so.

Once he was lodged inside the boy he would be powerless to resist his own lusts driving him on and the boy would certainly be too weak and too vulnerable to hope to deny them. Anthony's promise to stop if the boy asked him was simply a tactic designed to persuade the boy to go willingly to his fate just as the butcher keeps the knife hidden from the bullock until the moment comes to slit it's throat.

While he was teaching George to fish Anthony had begun to feel a growing affection for the boy. He found the boy's simplicity and enthusiasm very appealing and it was hard not to like a child that so obviously admired you. Now however, looking down at George as he crouched between his knees, he felt only contempt. He had described the boy as a slut and that was exactly what he was. He was clearly enjoying his work, the absorbed half mesmerised expression on his face, his slightly parted lips, the way delicate way he was using his hands, his own erect prick, all showed that.

Hadn't the slut played up to him from the first, setting out deliberately to provoke his lust, smiling at him, showing off his body, dirty minded little whore. The boy had only himself to blame for what was going to happen to him.

In brief Anthony was following the usual practice of the powerful of blaming the sufferings of the weak on the failings of the weak. Thus the Romans justified the enslavement of the barbarians, the orthodox the burning of the heretics, the Whites the Negro slave trade, the Nazis the persecution of the Jews and ourselves the … (let the readers conscience provide this detail).

In a way of course Anthony (and ourselves with him) are right – if the weak were not weak they would not be exploited or persecuted – it is therefore their fault for being weak.

The boy, Anthony told himself, was a bitch, a bitch that was on permanent heat and he would take him like a bitch.

"All right George," he said, "that's enough now."

He took hold of the boy by the ear and twisting it viciously, walked over to where the mattresses were lying on the cock pit deck. George shuffled painfully after him on his knees.

"Right we'll do this doggy fashion. Get your face down on the mattress."

Still holding the boy by his ear he forced his head down to the mattress.

"Get your bum up as high as you can and spread your legs a bit," Anthony ordered kicking at the boys knees to force them apart.

He stood behind the boy looking down at him. George kneeling, his cheek pressed to the mattress, his two hand placed flat on either side of his head steadying himself, his bottom raised and open, the lamp light glistening where on the grease smeared about the entrance to his hole, provided a degraded and highly erotic spectacle.

Anthony knelt behind the boy. With his finger tips he touched the lips of the child's anus. It seemed to him that George's bum quivered in anticipation.

He placed the tip of his penis against the entrance to the boy's hole and then, using his two thumbs to pull it's lips apart, pressed forward.

"Push back," he ordered, "remember just as your shitting. Come on bitch. Push Back!"

There was a moment of resistance and then very slowly his cock began to force it's way down into the boy.

"Sir… Oh Sir… Please…" George gasped.

"What is it George?" Anthony asked reaching round the boy with one hand to find and toy with the child's stiff little prick.

"It hurts Sir… Please can we stop Sir?"

"Don't be silly George… The beginning is always the worst… It'll soon get easier…" Anthony wheedled and lied.

He waited a moment until he felt the boy calm down and thrust sharply forward once more. The boy screamed as the man's swollen cock was driven deeper into him.

"Sir…," he sobbed, "please stop… It really hurts Sir… You promised…"

"You are a cry baby George." Anthony lent forward and grasped the boy by his wrists effectively pinning him in position. He had got his cock into the boy and now there was an end to the need for pretence. "What a fuss you are making. You don't want to disappoint me again do you George? I thought you were braver than this."

The boy whimpered but did not repeat his pleading. Perhaps he now realised that it was pointless to do so. Anthony drove forward again, It's lucky, the noise George is making, he thought as his prick sank a fraction of an inch deeper into the boy, that he did not try to fuck the brat in the apartment. Anthony grunting with effort hammered away George's bottom driving his cock steadilly deeper into the child. The boy's screams diminished in volume and it seemed to Anthony that he could feel George's guts pressing and moving against his penis. Now the full length of his prick was sheathed in the boy and added to his own panting and child's the soft moaning was the sound of his hips slapping against the tautly drawn flesh of the lad's rump. He released his grip on George's wrists pulling the boy back so that he was kneeling almost upright. He felt the boy's bottom tighten it's grip on his penis. One hand found the boy's cock again, his fingers massaged the thin quivering column of throbbing flesh.

He felt the boy moving around him and his penis pumped cum as he climaxed deep inside the child.

Anthony fell forward on top of George and for a moment they lay silently together panting for breath. After a time Anthony heaved himself gingerly off the boy.

"You all right George?" He asked.

"Yes Sir… I think so Sir… It hurt Sir but it was sort of exciting as well Sir."

"It'll be easier next time George… Now go to sleep."

Anthony arranged the sleeping bag so that it covered them. George moved close to him and soon they were both asleep.

(Editors note: I have chosen to follow the convention that appears to rule in this sort of story (pornographic) of portraying the anal penetration of George as being for him both physically and mentally traumatic. I have no personal knowledge of the effects of this on a boy of his age so I have gone along with the general consensus on this point. I do know however that the effect on a boy three or four years older than George can, if the process is performed with care and the application of considerable quantities of lubricant, result in no more than passing discomfort which is far out weighed by the pleasurable aspects of the experience. I have to accept that there is a great deal of growth between say twelve and sixteen. I do not know if any reader of this story has any personal experience of the matter.)

Chapter 20

"You taste salty Sir," George said softly lifting his head for a moment.

"Not surprising the amount I've sweated." Anthony replied lightly.

His fingers explored the cleft of the boy's bottom feeling the area round the hole damp and warm to the touch.

He lifted his left hand to look at his watch.

"All good things come to an end George," he exclaimed. "We must get moving or they'll be sending search parties out after us. We'll have a combined breakfast/lunch, it's 11 o'clock already, and then get you back to your grand parents."

"One more time Sir. Please just once," the boy pleaded nibbling at Anthony's ear lobe.

"Good God George," Anthony said fondly squeezing the boy's bottom, "you are a hot little bitch. The way you've been carrying on, especially the first couple of times, I thought it hurt."

"It hurt less than it did the first time Sir. And even though it still does it's a great feeling when you're right inside me. It's like, I dunno what… Like I'm sort of lifting off inside there… It's the best feeling ever…" The boy was not at all upset at being called a hot little bitch. In fact he took it as praise rather than anything else.

"OK George," Anthony said getting to his feet and laughing, "I'll see if I can launch you into space again… Get your bum in the air."

"No not like that this time." It occurred to Anthony that he had to make a report to Mr Grade and the man would expect some pictures to support the text. "On your back, get your bum up in the air and grab hold of your ankles. Good boy."

Anthony knelt down on the mattress. He grasped George's legs behind the knees and forced them back towards the deck. Around his hole George's bottom was smeared with a mixture of dried cum, shit and a small amount of blood which had leaked from him following earlier invasions of his body. The anus itself was damp and rather inflamed.

George caught his breath as Anthony rested the tip of his cock against the entry to his hole.

"Sore?" Anthony asked sympathetically

"A little Sir but go on… please…" the boy gasped.

The man thrust down. The child whimpered and his face twisted in pain.

"Deeper Sir… Please…" George's voice was a pain filled whisper that Anthony had to strain to hear.

Anthony worked his cock steadily further into the boy. George's mouth fell open, his eyes glazed over, his breath began to come in short excited pants, his whimpers were replaced by moans which increased in volume and frequency as the man drove ever deeper into him… While George's bottom was still satisfactorily tight about Anthony's rod it took a great deal less force to penetrate the boy than on the first occasion and his penis was soon fully sheathed in the child. Anthony felt the boy's body tighten around him. George jerked convulsively. Anthony drove forward with all his strength and cried out as he pumped cum deep into the boy's guts.

Anthony knelt there for a few seconds as orgasm after orgasm racked his body. Then he pulled away from the boy his cock emerging from the child's anus with a damp plop.

"Stay there," Anthony commanded turning to take the digital camera from where it lay on one of the cockpit benches.

"Get your bum right up in the air," he ordered levelling the camera

He glanced through the view finder focusing the camera on the boy's reddened anus leaking his freshly shed semen. Anthony hunkered back on his heels widening the angle of his shot so as to include the livid welts and deep bruising left by the cane across the boy's lower bottom and inner thighs. Then he rose to his feet and took a pace back, bringing into focus the boy's face, a suggestive smile on his lips, gazing up at the camera between his spread knees as well as his tortured and abused rump. "Right," Anthony said, "get up now George. I've got all the pictures of you I want for the moment."

"Can I see Sir?" George asked scrambling quickly to his feet.

The boy pressed up close to Anthony as he looked at the cameras LCD unit.

"We'd better not let your Mum or your Granny and Granddad see any of these," Anthony remarked as he fingered the boy's prick that was yet again showing signs of hardening He laughed as he spoke, treating his words as a joke, but at the same time taking the opportunity to remind George of the disgrace that would overtake the boy and the suffering he would inflict on those nearest him if people learnt about what they had been up to together.

"Or Mr Grade Sir," George said giggling and rubbing himself up against the man.

"Oh I'll be showing these to Mr Grade," Anthony replied carelessly. "And when he sees them I am sure he'll invite you to his school camp."

George moved sharply away from him.

"Will he want me to… do things with him Sir?" the boy asked uncertainly.

"Well, he or one of his friends if they take a fancy to you that is," Anthony said laughing at the boy's expression. "Don't look so shocked George half the fun of the school camps was the sex as I remember it… And you're a pretty little thing… the men'll be all over you and all the boys'll be jealous of you."

"But Sir… but… I only want to do it with you Sir," George blurted out.

"Now George don't be silly," Anthony said firmly. "First, I can't be around all the time. Second, even if I were you're such a hot little tart that I couldn't satisfy by myself. Look at you now. You're prick's already back at attention and I'm just too tired to do anything about it. Third, what's it to you whose cock's up your backside or in your mouth you silly little slut. One man's cock feels and tastes much the same as another. You want to stay my friend don't you?"

"Oh yes Sir please Sir."

"Then don't let me hear anymore of this nonsense George. I'm sure Mr Grade will invite you to his school camp and you'll have a great time there."

"Yes Sir. I suppose so Sir." There was still doubt in George's voice and in his mind as well, although the thought of having men looking him over and finding him attractive was, he found, an exciting one. He could almost feel the men's eyes roaming over his body and hear their remarks as they discussed his appearance among themselves. He assumed that this was yet another proof that Mr Llewellyn's description of him as a slut was well based.

"Good, so get down into the cabin and put a saucepan of water on the stove. We'll clean each other up and have a swim before eating."

Anthony settled himself back on the cushions on one of the cockpit benches. He felt pleasantly tired and relaxed. Down in the cabin he could hear George bustling busily about. The boy was a strange mixture, he thought drowsily, on the one hand a highly sexed little animal with an almost insatiable appetite for cock, on the other an eager open hearted boy with simple enthusiasms. It was difficult to accept that the slut who so eagerly offered his bum to be fucked inhabited the same skin as the child who had been so eager to learn to fish and so pleased when at last he had hooked and landed a good sea bass himself. He wondered if all boys were like that to a greater or lesser extent. Certainly he in his time had been.

George in his innocent boyish person was a likeable lad. Anthony felt a guilty that his actions had been deliberately aimed at releasing the child's sexual urges. But perhaps it was the case that if he had not done it someone else would. Anyway, was it a bad thing that he had done so?

He had introduced the boy to a whole area of pleasure and excitement of the most delectable kind which might otherwise have eluded him and George had embraced them with an enthusiasm that left no doubt as to the strength of his sexuality. Whatever George had been once, he was now an eager little tart and a very good one too. If the boy enjoyed it and there was no doubt that he did for he was always looking for more, where was the harm in it?

George reappeared on deck holding a basin of gently steaming water with a fresh towel slung over one arm. Anthony spread his legs and the boy knelt between them. For a moment Anthony toyed with the thought of ordering George to clean his cock with his tongue but then relented. It was a task that he had hated for the whole of his time as one of Mr Grade's boys. Perhaps he was unduly soft hearted but he would spare George it for as long as he could. Even as he made that decision George bent his head and kissed Anthony's filth encrusted rod.

"It's no good George," Anthony said laughing. "There's nothing you can do for the moment to get it stiff. Just get on and wash it so we can have our meal and get home."

Really, he thought as he settled back on the bench, that shows what a natural whore the boy is.

Indeed George persevered for sometime in trying to arouse Anthony but nothing the boy could do, either while cleaning the man's cock or bent over Anthony's knee to have his own hole sponged clean or later when they were swimming together, managed to kindle even the slightest spark of interest. After their swim Anthony rowed the dinghy ashore and began to prepare a meal. George wandered off in order, Anthony assumed, to give himself the relief that due to his own incapacity they were for the moment unable to achieve together.

He had just got the charcoal in the barbecue pit glowing nicely when George reappeared at the run looking, Anthony could see, very excited and rather dusty and grubby, with one knee scraped and oozing blood.

"Sir," he panted, "Sir, there's something behind that old chapel. I think you'd better have a look at it Sir… Please…"

Anthony got slowly to his feet. He wondered what could have excited the boy so much. There was nothing that he knew of anywhere in the bay of great interest. Probably just a large lizard or a dead bird or something similar.

"What is it George?" he said wearily. "Do calm down and tell me what has happened."

"I was… I went behind the chapel Sir. There's a clear space back there between it and the cliff an and it was sunny and warm and I was just sort of sitting down very quietly…"

"All right George you needn't go into details or go all shy with me," Anthony said smiling, looking knowingly at the boy's prick which had mysteriously shrivelled and become limp during the time he was out of his sight.

"Yes Sir," George said blushing, grinning bashfully, "and well I was sitting there quietly and something that looked like a fox crossed the grass in front of me. Are there foxes in Cypress Sir?"

"Yes there are foxes here George. You haven't run all the way here and got all excited about a fox have you?"

"No Sir… Not just about a fox anyway Sir… It went across the clearing and up near the cliff and disappeared. So I went to look at where it had gone and there was a pile of rock and at the top of the pile there was a bit of a gap and I sort of wriggled in a bit and it got bigger and it was quite dark but there was some light and I could see lots and lots of cases stacked up in there, one on top of the other Sir. Do you think it can be treasure Sir?"

"I don't know what it can be George, other than perhaps your imagination, which is clearly pretty lively. I'll come and look but if it's dark and there are wooden cases it'd be sensible to get a torch and a hammer and screw driver or something from the boat first. There's no sense in making two journeys and those wooden boxes if they exist outside your own mind won't be going anywhere. You wait here."

"They are there Sir. I haven't imagined them," George protested as Anthony hurried down the beach towards the dinghy.

Anthony was soon back carrying, as well as the torch and tools, a pair of long trousers and a shirt, for, if he had to spend his time clambering through narrow holes in the ground, he didn't want to finish up with grazes on his body like George. He had visited the clearing behind the chapel before and had seen the bank of loose scree at the base of the cliff. He had not then noticed any gap at the top of the scree but then he had not been particularly looking for one. At first, on this occasion, he didn't spot it but when under George's direction he had scrambled half way up the mound of loose stones it was there, a few feet above him, just at the point the solid rock of the cliff began. Perhaps the hole had been there all the time, or perhaps there had been a land slip that had exposed it, or the constant to and froing of the fox had enlarged it. Anyway there it undoubtedly was.

Standing outside he could see the hole went into the cliff for quite a way.

"If you get down onto you hands and knees and crawl into it you'll see the wooden boxes Sir." George assured him.

Anthony pulled on his shirt and trousers then taking the torch in one hand he crawled into the hole, a strong stale smell of fox assaulted his nostrils.

Shining the torch in front of him he could see that, once past the narrow opening, there was a large roughly rectangular cave that looked as though it had been hewn out of the solid rock. Neatly stacked along one wall of the cave was large number of stout wooden boxes. He directed the beam of the torch around the cave and gasped in surprise. The walls and ceiling were covered with frescoes saints with gilded haloes and deep blue robes mingled with winged harp carrying angels. There was no sign of the fox.

Either there was some cranny into the rocks into which it could crawl or it had taken alarm at George's earlier intrusion and fled.

"Well that explains the place," Anthony remarked, "it was an anchorites cell. I've seen other caves like this at one of the monasteries round here. The monks cut them in the cliffs to live in and to escape from the world. But it doesn't tell us what's in those cases. To find out that I'll have to open one or two."

He pulled himself forwards until he was clear of the narrow entry tunnel.

He noticed that while the roof and side of the tunnel were solid rock, the floor was loose stone. It looked as though he though the entry had been deliberately blocked up.

"Stay outside George," he called over his shoulder once he was able to stand upright only to have the boy bump into him from behind. "Oh well now you're here you can hold the torch while I open one of the cases."

He hammered the screw driver blade under one of the wooden planks forming part of the top of one of a number of long rectangular cases and levered upwards. A moment later he and George were looking down at a row of half a dozen old fashioned bolt action rifles.

"That's the old British army 303," Anthony said. "We had a couple still in our Cadet armoury at school. But I'd be surprised if these were intended to be used by British soldiers. Lets see what else is here."

Ten minutes or so later they had opened four other cases of various shapes and sizes.

"Revolvers, ammunition for the rifles and the revolvers, or at least I assume the revolvers. I don't know anything about them and hand grenades. We had them in cadets as well."

"How did they get here Sir and what are they for."

"Well they were for killing people, all arms are, either, I'd guess, British soldiers or Turks, probably the former. I'd say we're looking at part of the island's rather turbulent history. You know Cyprus was a British Colony, George, during the first half of the last century and it was only granted independence after a lot of fighting and then the Greeks and the Turks fought each other with lots of killings on either side."

"Yes Granddad mentioned it the other day about the terrorists and things but Granny shut him up."

"Jut as well probably George, one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist, and your Granddad is old enough to have been in the British army when all this was going on. There was national service then and everyone had to do two years in forces."

"Anyway way back then the Greek Cypriots did land some shipments of arms out here on the peninsula. Some were captured by us, some got through, and some no doubt simply got lost. I should think this little lot we've found were landed from a ship and hidden here to be picked up later but maybe the people who hid them were killed by us or in a gunfight or captured and hanged."

"Hanged," George was shocked. "Did we hang people Sir?"

"Yes we did and they killed our people; murdered them we would say."

"You mean that Stavros who showed me the moutons could have killed one of our soldiers."

"Well he's a bit young for that but his Dad might have… I wouldn't worry about it too much George "T'was a long time ago and in another country and besides the whore is dead." That's a quote George but time does change things. There were faults on both sides, no doubt, and brave men too and cowards and cruel ones as well. We've settled our differences more or less with the islanders. It's just a pity that the Greeks and the Turks can't settle theirs"

"What'll you do about all these guns and things Sir?"

"Well George I think the best thing to do is to quietly stack the rocks up round the hole into this place and forget about them. If we mention it to anyone there'll be an awful fuss and lots of questions and everyone will know about the bay and the chapel and everything and we don't want any of that do we?"

"I suppose not Sir… Could we just try one of the guns Sir… You said you knew how they worked… Just once and then we could put it back again and no-one would know."

"Some one would know soon enough that one of these guns had been fired if they were ever discovered and examined and then we would be in trouble…"

But no-one will Sir… And you fired one of these when you were a boy at school you said so. Why can't I? I wish I could be a soldier like Granddad was."

"I was a good deal older than you when I did use them and it was all very legal and properly controlled and we don't know your Granddad was a soldier. That's just guess work and I bet being a soldier isn't much fun really, long periods of boredom with occasional moments of intense discomfort and terror."

"Oh all right then," Anthony said relenting and remembering back to when he was a boy and fascinated by guns. "It'll have to be one of the rifles though. That's the only thing I've ever used and you must promise to do exactly what I say and I'm going to have to check the thing over first to see if it looks safe to fire."

A few minutes later Anthony was out in the sunlight standing beside the picnic table examining one of the 303s. It had been a long time since he had been in the school cadets and it took him some time of fumbling and a couple of pinched fingers before he had the rifle stripped down. Once he was satisfied that the inside of the barrel was unblemished by any pitting and that the bolt action was working sweetly he reassembled the weapon.

Then still holding it , for he was not going to leave a rifle, even unloaded, in the hands of a young boy, and picking up a half filled plastic bottle of drinking water, he walked down the bay to a place where the wind had heaped the sand into a low mound on the land ward side of the beach.

Placing the bottle at the base of the small dune he walked back along the beach.

"Come here George," he ordered, "and stand behind me."

When the boy was safely in place he pushed five rounds into the magazine.

"This rifle will kill at a much greater distance but after two hundred yards [180 m] it begins to loose accuracy. Now watch me."

He lay down on the ground spread his legs and cushioned the rifle butt and worked the bolt.

"Now the rifle is ready to fire. Put the rifle up to your shoulder hold it firmly, unless you want a bruised shoulder or a black eye or both. Site the rifle on the target Gently increase the pressure on the trigger, you'll feel first pressure, second pressure, and then fire."

Anthony released the pressure on the trigger. He wasn't going to compromise his standing in the eyes of the boy taking a shot at the bottle and missing by a mile.

You mustn't yank at the trigger," Anthony continued his lecture, "and you've got to control your breathing; gently in as you take first and second pressure and when you fire it should be just as your breathing out. It may sound silly but a lot depends on getting your breathing right, or, at least, that's what the instructor told us when we were in the cadets."

"Now you try it," he said getting to his feet.

"You'd best wear my shirt though. It'll do something to cushion the recoil of the rifle and, remember, hold the butt firm into your shoulder. I don't want you bruised and I don't want you with a broken collar bone or anything silly like that."

Anthony's shirt hung loosely on the boy reaching down to his knees.

"I don't know Sir why you're so worried on the rifle not bruising my shoulder," George remarked with a cheeky grin as he stretched himself out on his tummy on the sand, "considering what you did to my bottom with the cane."

"That's different," Anthony replied with mock grimness, "boys' bottoms are there to be caned."

"And for other things too Sir." George giggled, spreading his legs and causing the shirt to ride half way up his thighs.

"George concentrate on the matter in hand," Anthony said severely, "get yourself comfortable and line up the sites on that bottle. Now be sure to get the butt tight into your shoulder. OK?"

"OK Sir."

Anthony looked down at the boy lying prone on the ground. Suddenly his heart seemed to swell within him and rise up into his throat threatening to choke him, the lad looked so vulnerable and attractive. Then Anthony remembered Vassilly, his love for that boy and the bargain he had made with Mr Grade. He forced himself to harden his heart. He had to have Vassilly and to obtain him George would have to be sacrificed to the pleasures of Mr Grade and his friends. That was the bargain he had made with the man and it was a bargain he intended to keep.

"All right George," and even to Anthony his voice sounded strained and uncertain, "Remember what I said about breathing, first pressure, second pressure fire."

The rifle shot cracked out and echoed round the bay. A puff of sand appeared about two yards [1.8 m] to the right of the plastic bottle.

"Not at all bad for first shot," Anthony said encouragingly. "Do you want to try again."

"Yes please Sir."

"Right George remember your breathing. Now again…"

The next shot was about a yard [90 cm] to the left of the bottle, the one after raised a spurt of sand above the bottle, the fourth shot was right on target.

"Well done, you hit it George," Anthony said reaching out and taking the rifle from the boy. George jumped to his feet and ran up the beach to check, the shirt flapping about his bare knees, as Anthony removed the remaining live round from the rifle's magazine and began to strip it down again for cleaning.

Then it was time to pack up. Anthony announced there was not room in the dinghy to carry all their gear back to the motor boat in one go. He ferried George out to the boat with the first load and leaving the boy there to start washing up the plates and so on, went back for a second load.

Once ashore he took one of the cool bags and quickly scramble back into the cave. He slipped two hand grenades and a revolver together with a handful of ammunition into the bag. He was not quite sure why he did this.

He didn't even know precisely how to use the revolver, although he thought it would probably be quite easy to work out how to fire the thing. Guns, he told himself, did have a funny effect on people and anyway he had a feeling he was getting into ever deeper water and perhaps there would come a time when they would be useful.

Chapter 21

"No thank you George," Anthony replied I've got work to catch up on before Monday. Could you explain that to them please."

"OK Sir… and… when can we do it again Sir?"

"Well George perhaps you'd like to learn how to tie flies."

"Yes… Yes please Sir."

"I'll telephone you tomorrow or the day after to arrange when you can come to my flat for a lesson."

"I'm sure I've got lots to learn Sir," George said with a cheeky smile. At the door of the house he turned to wave goodbye.

Back at his apartment Anthony composed his report to Mr Grade and sent it with supporting photographs to his hotmail post box.

In the event George never had his fly tying lesson. The telephone rang almost immediately Anthony had returned to his apartment on Monday evening.

"Renshaw here," George's Grandfather sounded harassed and uneasy, "sorry to trouble you Anthony but I would be glad of your advice. Mr Grade from St Joseph's School has just been on the telephone suggesting George joins his school camp. I think I remember you went to St Thomas's yourself and you know George pretty well too. What sort of thing goes on and do you think the boy would be happy there."

"It was a long time ago when I was at St Joseph's and the school was based in England then so things may have changed a lot but I remember it as being good fun. Games and hiking and swimming and building things in the woods, tree huts and so on. Very relaxed atmosphere, not too much obvious discipline but well organised. I would think George would enjoy it. Right up his street in fact. What does he think about it?"

"Oh he's very keen to go and I've spoken to his mother and she was enthusiastic as well. That quite frankly rather surprised me. Perhaps I shouldn't say so Anthony as she's my own daughter but she doesn't usually show much interest in what George is up to. This time though she was quite insistent that he should go."

"Well for what it's worth I think George would thoroughly enjoy it. He's an active sort of boy and he'll have plenty of company of his own age. When is he due to start there, if he goes at all that is?"

"That was left until we made up our minds as to whether to let George go or not. I've got to ring Grade back and give him our decision. He did say that he was considering asking you up to the camp to visit over the next few days and perhaps you could combine your visit with running George up there."

"He hasn't been on to me yet but I'll be glad to help if I can." Anthony struggled to keep his voice calm. It was clear that Mr Grade must have got his e-mailed report on the final seduction of George and now he was going to get his reward.

"I'm sure he'll be in contact with you soon Anthony and perhaps we can arrange everything then."

"Of course, I'll be happy to."

After a few more pleasantries Mr Renshaw rang off. Hardly had Anthony replaced the receiver than the telephone rang again.

"Llewellyn," Mr Grade's voice was as Anthony remembered it all those many years ago as when a frightened little boy he waited fearfully for Sir's judgement; soft, faintly amused and infinitely superior; the similarity was made all the greater by the man using his bare surname to address him, "I didn't ring sooner for I was sure you would be putting a full days work in at the office. Whatever your personal interests and wishes the call of duty takes precedence, that is a lesson I am certain you will remember from your days at St thomas's. You seem to have done a good job with young Renshaw, although I think you were as it were working with the garin with that one, a lively little lad if ever I have seen one. He should prove to be useful addition to my little stable."

"Thank you Sir," Anthony heard himself say and then almost kicked himself with self disgust. He was not a schoolboy now. There was no need for him to crawl to the man any longer.

"Just giving credit where credit is due." Grade chuckled condescendingly.

"I've spoken to the boy's Grandfather, who appears to be in loco parentis to the child, inviting the lad to the school camp. I left matters in his hands but I have no doubt that he will accept the invitation on his grandson's behalf. I have taken the liberty of volunteering your services in getting the boy to the camp here if he accepts."

"Of course but," Anthony stopped himself quickly. He had just been about to say that his car would find it difficult to cope with the unsurfaced track in the Troodhos foothills and then remembered that he was not meant to know the situation of the camp. "But where is it?"

Mr Grade gave detailed instructions on how to reach the place finishing up advising Anthony to leave his car at the top of the valley and to walk the last couple of miles because anything other than a four wheel drive vehicle would find it difficult to cope with the last stretch of track.

"Perhaps you'll repeat that to me Llewellyn I want to make quite sure you've got it clear."

Feeling ever more like a rather dim school boy Anthony obliged.

"Good," Mr Grade said apparently satisfied, "I intend to suggest to his Grandfather that George comes the day after tomorrow all being well. You will deliver the boy here not later than midday. You can then stay to lunch and enjoy your reward for all your efforts."

"How is Vassilly Sir?"

"In rude good health and eager to show his gratitude to you. I explained to him exactly what I was going to do to him if you were not successful in discharging your side of the bargain. Thereafter I think I may say he took a very keen interest in the progress of your endeavours. I have also forbidden him any sexual release over the last week. A terrible ordeal for a boy of that age." Mr Grade chuckled richly. "The poor child is practically weeping from frustration and is in a state of constant arousement. I am afraid his sufferings in that respect has been the subject of a certain amount of good natured banter here."

Anthony, who had in his time experienced the miseries of being put on what he and his contemporaries had rudely called 'wank watch', could imagine both the banter and the frustration that Vassilly was currently experiencing. Exempt now from the restrictions of the cock ring and the bed board there was nothing to prevent him from anticipating the pleasures that lay before him and he spent a very restless night.

He found it hard to get any work done the next day. It was all but impossible to concentrate as he waited, with increasing anxiety as the day progressed, for the call that would tell him that he was to take George to Mr Grade. The hours dragged on and no call came. At the end of the day he returned to his apartment. He went on line thinking that perhaps Mr Grade would have chosen to notify him by e-mail but there was no message for him. Or at least no message relating to George although there were others offering him variously viagra, penis expansion, unlimited credit and the opportunity to make $50,000 dollars a week from home with little or no effort. He had almost given up when the telephone at last rang.

"I expect you were waiting for this call Llewellyn," Mr Grade remarked in a voice that made no effort to hide his amusement at the thought of the Anthony's long anxious wait, "George's Grandfather telephoned me, just after I spoke to you last night actually and accepted my invitation for the boy. I suppose I could have called you then but I didn't want to disturb you again and today I have been a little busy. You're to pick him up nine thirty tomorrow morning and deliver him to me here as I have told you already by midday. Is that clear?"

"Yes quite clear," Anthony said choking back his resentment both at the mental torture that he was sure the man had deliberately inflicted on him and at the way the man spoke to him.

"Good, don't be late, goodnight," and Mr Grade was gone before Anthony had a chance to say anything to recover his dignity. Not that Anthony thought ruefully, as he replaced the receiver, that he would have been likely to have though of anything even if he had been given time. Mr Grade seemed to have much the same effect on him now as he had had when he was in short trousers, reducing him to a state of incoherent nervousness.

However Anthony's irritation with Mr Grade soon faded as his mind turned to consider the delights that the next day would bring. At last Vassilly would be his to enjoy. He pictured the boy as he came to him naked, eager but fearful. He imagined reaching out, taking the child in his arms, whispering words of comfort and encouragement as his hands caressed Vassilly's smooth young body. The boy, gaining in confidence lifting his face to his, lips parted ready to be kissed, his tongue darting into the Vassilly's mouth, his hand sliding down the lad's back, resting for a moment on the curve of his rump. The gentle probing, the soft murmurs and then the rising frenzy as he penetrated the child, feeling the heat of the boy's body around his thrusting cock.

It would be pleasant to be able to record that Anthony felt some unease about his treatment of George. He had won the boy's trust and had seduced him. Now he was going to betray that trust and hand the boy over to Mr Grade, a man whom he knew from his own experiences as a boy, to be cruel and uncaring, to exploit for his own and his friends amusement. Anthony however had long ago persuaded himself that George was getting no more than he deserved and wanted. It was obvious, he told himself, from the enthusiasm with which George had responded to his advances, had endured his beatings and then come back for more, that he was a natural little whore and liked rough treatment. That was what George would get from Mr Grade and he was doing the boy a favour by handing him over to the man. Having already silenced his conscience with these arguments thoughts of George hardly entered Anthony's mind that night and when they did so the boy appeared merely as an auxiliary to Vassilly in his erotic imaginings.

Nor did the sight of the boy the next morning when he arrived at the Renshaw's house to collect him trouble his conscience. His only thought when George appeared at the front door, white T-shirt hanging loose down to his crutch masking his shorts, was to wonder at how so hot a slut could look so cool and innocent.

Mr and Mrs Renshaw walked down to the car with their grandson.

"Mr Grade said he would only need the basics," Mrs Renshaw remarked in explanation to Anthony as she handed him a remarkably light rucksack, "and we've taken him at his word, pyjama's, wash things and a change of clothes with a pull over if the evenings get chilly. Do you think that will be enough?"

"Oh Granny it'll be fine," George exclaimed.

"I'm asking Mr Llewellyn dear. He's been on one of these camps when he was a boy and will know."

"I am sure it will be enough," Anthony said reassuringly. "George will be well looked after don't you worry."

"I'm sure he will be really," Mrs Renshaw replied hugging a reluctant George to her, "I just worry so. Have a good time George."

"And behave yourself," Mr Renshaw added hugging the boy in his turn.

Anthony opened the passenger door for George. Knowing the car would shield the gesture from the Renshaws he squeezed the boy's bottom as he passed him. Getting into the car himself he lent across to fasten George's seat belt allowing the back of his hand to brush against the child's bare thigh as he did so.

"I forgot to ask," he said turning to face the Renshaws thought the cars open side window. "How long is George staying at the camp?"

"A week at least, he's got to give it a chance, longer if he settles in all right," Mr Renshaw replied.

"He'll settle in fine," Anthony said as he put the car into gear.

George twisted round in his seat and waved good bye to his grandparents until the car turned onto the main road. Looking in the mirror Anthony could see the two old people standing side by side waiving back.

Once clear of the town and it's traffic Anthony reached across and rested his left hand on George's knee. The boy moved his legs apart in an unspoken invitation. Anthony slid his hand up the inside of the lad's thigh feeling his skin cool and velvet smooth to his touch. Reaching George's crutch he gently squeezed, feeling the boy's small cock, hard beneath the thin material of his shorts. He moved his hand to the waist band of the boy' shorts and found it to be secured by a single button. He fumbled with it with impatient clumsiness. His hand was gently pushed to one side as George came to his help releasing the button.

"No underpants George?" Anthony said slipping his hand down the front of the boy's shorts.

"No Sir. You said not to wear any Sir."

"Good boy." Anthony began to toy with George's small hairless balls.

"I hope you're clean down there George," he said giving his voice a hint of menace.

"Oh yes Sir. I took special care this morning."

"And how is your bottom?" All the time Anthony was talking he continued to fondle the boy's balls and prick.

"Well it's still a little sore but the bruises are beginning to fade. Do you want to have a look Sir?" George giggled and then said urgently. "Please could we stop somewhere… and… do it Sir."

"No we can't. Sorry George there just isn't time." Anthony was not averse to 'doing it' with George but he knew his capacity was limited and he wanted to be sure to be in peak form when he eventually came to enjoy Vassilly.

"Oh Sir… I think I'm going to go Sir," panic sounded in the boy's voice.

"What shall I do Sir…"

"Use your handkerchief George. I suppose you've got one?" Anthony hastily withdrew his hand from the front of the boy's shorts.

There was a period of desperate wriggling and rustling punctuated with various small murmurs of distress as George searched his pockets for his handkerchief. Then the boy cried out and jerked forward on his seat. A series of soft moans punctuated by panting was followed by a period of dead silence.

Anthony concentrated on his driving.

"What should I do with the handkerchief Sir?" A small voice eventuality asked. "It's all damp."

"Just bundle it up and put it in the door pocket. It'll dry fine there."

There was a further lengthy period of silence.

"I'm sorry Sir," George eventually hazarded.

"Don't be silly George," Anthony said firmly, "I've told you before it's quite natural for a boy your age. Don't go getting all shy or you will have a difficult time at the camp."

"Do they really not mind there Sir?"

"Not a bit," Anthony assured the boy. "In fact it is expected. The camp is a place where people behave naturally, grown ups and boys."

"Can we do it when we get there Sir? There'll be time then Sir. You won't have to go back straight away."

"Yes of course George," Anthony lied. He had caught the note of desperation in the boy's voice. The important thing he told himself was to get the boy to the camp safely. The last thing he wanted was George creating a scene on the way there. Once there the boy could make any amount of fuss. It would do him no good and Mr Grade would quickly beat any nonsense out of him.

"And you'll come and see me sometimes while I'm there? You don't have to work all the time."

"Of course I will George," Anthony said putting as much conviction into his voice as he possibly could. "I'll come up and see you when ever I can."

"I am glad I've got you for a friend Sir," George exclaimed wriggling as close up to Anthony as he could in the car.

"And I'm glad too George. Very glad. I'll miss you a lot while you're away." Anthony bent quickly to one side and kissed the boy on the forehead. Then and then only for the briefest of moments a sense of guilt troubled him. Memories of a story of another kiss and another betrayal welled to the surface of his mind. Anthony quickly thrust them away.

They were just memories, mere myths. They were irrelevant to the satisfaction of his appetites and what did a tart like George matter anyway.

"I'm going to miss you too Sir… but we'll have really good times together when you do visit me."

"Yes we will George, very good times."

As the car wound deeper into the foothills of the Troodhos and the surfaced road gave way to a rough track George chattered on laying plans for Anthony's visits to the school camp. Plans that Anthony accepted with apparent enthusiasm although he had no real intention at all of wasting his time on the boy.

The sun was almost directly overhead when Anthony at last pulled the car to the side of the rough track along which they had been cautiously jolting for the last three quarters of an hour. Down below them at the bottom of the valley they could see the stream and beyond it the renovated farmhouse and the two neat rows of small tents. This time all the activity seemed to be concentrated about the pool that had been formed by damning the stream. A crowd of boys swarmed about and in it, sun glinting on bare wet limbs, their voices shrill with excitement.

Occasionally water would splash up into the air and form a silver spray as the light caught it. Up near the farmhouse, where in the shade of the trees three long tables had been set in a rough horse shoe, other small figures moved busily about.

Anthony sat watching the scene waiting for the cloud of dust thrown up by the car to subside. He knew he was looking at the boys on the duty roster setting the tables for the midday meal while the rest enjoyed a before lunch bathe. He knew also that the dust thrown up by the car would have been noticed and reported to Mr Grade. Sure enough a man appeared at the door of the farmhouse and began to stroll in a leisurely way along the track towards them. He paused by the pool and the smaller slighter figure of a young boy detached itself from the crowd and trotted over to where the man stood. It was too far away to recognise them but Anthony was sure that what he was seeing was Mr Grade and Vassilly setting out to meet him. Who the two figures were, intermediate in size between Grade and Vassilly, that walked a few paces behind them he did not know but no doubt in time, he thought, he would find out.

"OK George journey's end," Anthony said heaving himself out of the car and opening the boot to take out the boy's rucksack.

"Why don't you take your shirt off?" He asked glancing back towards where George stood straining to fasten the button of his shorts waist band.

"I want everybody to see what a pretty boy I've brought with me."

"Shall I take my shorts off too Sir?" George asked as he pulled his T-shirt off over his head.

"No not yet anyway George. It is always as well to leave something to the imagination." Not he thought that in the present case much was left to imagine. George must have chosen the smallest and tightest pair of shorts in his wardrobe to wear that day. There might have been ample room in them for him when he was say nine but now it looked as though the boy was in danger of bursting out of them.

Carrying the rucksack in his right hand Anthony set off down the track with George trotting on his left. Scrub closed once more about them masking the bottom of the valley from their view. However Anthony new that each pace he took brought him nearer to the boy he truly loved. He felt a small hot hand slip into his own.

"Nervous?" He asked gently

"A bit Sir… I hope I'll get on all right with the other boys."

"Of course you will George. You'll be fine."

"Can we do it as soon as we get there?"

"Well not straight away," Anthony replied squeezing his hand and chuckling, "I expect we'll have to have lunch first. We'll do it as soon as we can though I promise. I want to just as much as you George."

Anthony quickened his pace. Soon, he thought, I will be free of this cloying little tart who hangs onto me so and will be able to take Vassilly into my arms. George hurried along at his side prattling cheerfully of how much he wanted it and speculating as to how exactly, on this occasion, they would do it.

The track turned to the left and ahead of them stretched the valley floor.

There waiting, just at the point where the scrub fell away on either side, was Vassilly, the sun shining on his flaxen hair, Mr Grade's hand resting on one bare shoulder. Both were naked but Anthony had only eyes for the boy as he stood there, light glistening on his golden brown body, his erect penis, clear evidence of the care with which he had been prepared for Anthony's enjoyment, given more prominence by the tight metal ring that encircled the root of his cock and ball sack forcing them forward from his crutch.*

George checked his pace. He was most startled by the sight of Mr Grade.

He had become almost used to seeing Anthony naked but Grade was older fatter and hairier. George's eyes widened as they fastened on the man's his cock, a formidable object even when, as now, hanging limply like a large off-white sausage from it's base in the wiry dark forest of his pubic hair. The man's balls too seemed so much bigger and heavier than Anthony's and he could not be sure, but surely there were three of them?**

He wrenched his fascinated gaze away from Mr Grade's crutch and saw standing behind the man two youths, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, one slightly taller than the other but otherwise remarkably alike.

Both were tall and slim with fine blonde hair slicked straight back and plastered down close onto narrow skulls. Both had long faces with high cheekbones, cold pale blue eyes, small mouths with thin almost bloodless lips. The smooth tanned skin was stretched taughtly over their rib cages.

Their hips were so narrow that it seemed that they were almost without waists. They both wore very small dark red bathing trunks and had long thin hairless legs. George could see the two youths were looking at him, both examining him with the cold dispassionate gazes which had nothing of kindness or welcome in them.

Anthony saw Mr Grade bend forward and whispered something in Vassilly's ear. The boy grinned and slipping from the man's grasp began to run towards them. Anthony pushed George away from him, glad at last to be rid of the slut's cloying attentions. In an instant his arms were full of eager panting boy. He slid his hand down Vassilly's smooth back squeezing his tight little rump and hugging the panting boy close to him.

"He's not yours. He's mine," George screamed jumping onto Vassilly's back, hooking an ram round his neck and tearing him away from Anthony.

Vassilly twisted in his grip and fought back. The two boys tumbled to the ground and rolled there in a tangle of wildly flailing naked limbs as they fought each other. Anthony jumped back to avoid a flailing bare foot, one of Vassilly's he thought, George was wearing trainers. Mr Grade with a life time's experience of dealing with boys acted decisively. He grabbed each boy by an ear and yanked them apart. The boys continued to struggle to get at each other for a few brief moments and then acknowledging the intervention of a superior power quietened.

"Take hold of his one," he said to Anthony thrusting Vassilly at him.

Twisting George's ear viciously with one and he caught hold of the waste band of the boy's shorts and with a sharp jerk tore it away from him baring the child's bottom.

"The martinet please," he said evenly addressing his words to the two youths who had hurried up behind him.

Smiling the bigger of the two handed him an implement consisting of a small wooden handle, of a size that would comfortably fit into a man's hand, from which hung twelve stout leather thongs each one about a foot [30 cm] long.

"A gift from a French supporter," he remarked pleasantly to Anthony, lifting the thing over his head and bringing it down as hard as he could across George's squirming behind.

"A traditional disciplinary tool in Northern Brittany I believe," he continued, rasing his voice to be heard over the boy's howl of pain.

The thongs rose and fell again. Anthony could see their tips curl round the boy's rump and raise a dozen small purple and red weals on his flanks.

"Very useful if you want to chastise a boy without cutting him up too much."

The thing Anthony noticed had a sound of it's own. There was none the fierce sibilant hiss followed by the sharp crack of wood striking taughtly stretched boy's flesh that you got with a cane. More of the sough of the winters wind in the bare branches of a tree as the thongs descended followed by a softish sort of thump as they licked the child's bum.

"I myself think the cane is the more artistic instrument."

Mr Grade struck short this time allowing the tips of the thongs to explore the George's crack ringing further howls from the boy and urging him into ever wilder lunges.

George's caperings under the scourge were becoming more pronounced, offering ever more opportunities to for the tips of the thongs to nip at the tenderest recesses of his bum and requiring more strength to control. Mr Grade fell silent as he concentrated on the job in hand, grunting and panting as he plied he many tongued martinet. At last a more than usually violent leap by George gave him the opportunity to administer the coup de grace. He struck upwards between the George's legs, the thongs curling round under the boys crutch. The boy screamed shrilly and, Mr Grade at last releasing his hold of the child's ear, George collapsed onto the ground. Clasping his hands to his tortured genitals he curled himself into a ball and lay there sobbing loudly.

Mr Grade prodded the weeping boy none too gently in the bum with the toe of his shoe.

"Well Anthony," he remarked panting slightly, for the effort of beating George had left him out of breath, "in my view there is no better way of working up an appetite than administering a good flogging to a pretty boy and I am now ready for Lunch. However before we can eat I suppose I must finish the job. Ivan, Stefan help young George up and prepare him for the second part of his lesson."

*I acknowledge my debt to Pueros who initially drew my attention to this incidental but pleasant consequence of fitting a cock ring to a boy.

**This is not unknown. The Elector of Hesse in the sixteenth century similarly endowed and this was said to account for his voracious sexual appetite.

Chapter 22

The two youths grabbed George by the ankles and roughly tore his shoes and socks from his feet.

"I have found that boys are liable to try to run during their first few days in camp. Without shoes they don't get far. Their feet are torn to pieces very quickly by thorns and rocks on these hills. Anyway we take action to tenderise their feet a little as well. A simple precaution, amusing to witness though painful to the brat, taken, as always, in the best interests of the child," Mr Grade explained with an evil smile.

"Now get him up on his feet. Ivan… it's your chance to use that new toy of yours."

The bigger of the two youths stepped forward grinning broadly. He unhooked a short rubber handled metal rod that was hanging from the belt about his narrow waist. Bending over George, as he lay curled into a naked and whimpering ball of misery, he pushed the tip of the rod into the boy's bottom. His grin widened as his thumb found the red button on the rod's handle and pressed it. George's whimperings rose into a howl of agony. His body jerked convulsively. Hands and naked feet scrabbled frantically on the ground as the child struggled to get away from the rod that was pumping electricity into his pain racked body. Stefan, clearly not wishing to be excluded from the fun landed a kick in George's ribcage that bodily lifted the boy from the ground.

"That's enough," Mr Grade said laughing, "Give the brat a chance to get to his feet."

"I don't want the boy fitting now ," Mr Grade explained apologetically to Anthony. "It can be quite amusing seeing a brat emptying itself and thrashing about on the floor, frothing at the mouth and so on, not to say the interest of seeing how much tormenting it will take before starting it off.

But I always feel there's an element of escape in it for the boy, and I haven't finished with George just yet. I even suspect some brats on occasion of going into self induced fits to escape correction but George wouldn't be up to that yet."

Placing a hand on Anthony's arm he turned him, steering him back along the track towards the farm house. Anthony walked one hand resting on Vassilly's bare shoulder who trotted, apparently happily, at his side.

Behind him he heard a soft thud followed by a further shrill howl from George. Glancing back he saw the smaller youth, presumably Stefan, holding one of George's trainers and using it's heel to club the boy on the side of his head.

"Very good lads; Stefan and Ivan I mean," Mr Grade remarked. "The best type of young men, so enthusiastic. They are a great help to me. They deal with a lot of the tedious day to day routine of running of my little flock. Young boys are delightful creatures but they do need firm handling and those two young men certainly provide that."

There was a sound of further blows and agonised squealings from behind them. Anthony felt Vassilly shiver in sympathy under his hand. He supposed the child had had at least his fair share of 'firm handling' in his time.

"Who are they?" He asked.

"Stefan and Ivan? Sons of Mr Bolonsky, the gentleman who gave me Vassilly. He is a share holder, a considerable shareholder, in St Joseph's. He sent the two boys here for a couple of years so they could get used to boarding and so on and I must say they fitted in very well. Now they are away at one of the great English Public schools but they enjoyed their time at St Joseph's so much that they come back and help with our summer camp during their holidays."

"And who is Mr Bolkonsky?"

"I suppose you could call him a businessman. The shares he holds in St Joseph's are only a tiny portion of his interests. More a hobby, I suppose, than anything else, although the holding does, to an extent, compliment certain of his other interests."

"There are a number of Russians of his sort on Cyprus now. Some of our compatriots regard them unfavourably. They refer to them as criminals or kleptocrats and such like. I prefer to think of Bolkonsky, at least, as more like a merchant adventurer in Elizabethan England; seizing the opportunities with which fortune presents him without perhaps paying too much attention to the strict letter of the law. Come to think of it certain of the merchandise in which he trades is very similar to that of the Elizabethan adventurers though different in provenance and therefore colour."

"I am sure you will have an opportunity of meeting him before very long Anthony but now we have the more pressing matter off young George's induction to deal with. I take it from your reports that the bitch is almost constantly on heat."

"He's certainly very eager," Anthony agreed and cursed himself for sounding so prim.

They had almost reached the farmhouse and Mr Grade turned to face Anthony.

"Ah, I thought so, well as a preliminary we'll ring him" Mr Grade continued.

"The process will restrain and deepen his orgasms and at the same time improving his appearance as it does Vassilly's."

He casually reached forward and, cupping the latter boy's genitals in his hand, drew Anthony's attention to the way the cock ring lifted the child's balls away from his body. Anthony reflected that charming though the effect was it was clear there was no need for a ring to achieve it so far as the boy's prick was concerned. That had been standing rigidly, and indeed painfully, to attention from the first moment he had seen the child that morning.

"Vassilly," Mr Grades voice lost it's easy slightly amused tone as soon as he spoke to the boy, "run to my room and get the box of cock rings from my desk and bring it here. The box is in the left hand top drawer and is clearly labelled. Even a semiliterate slut with it's brain addled from wanking as yours is should be able to find it. So run boy, don't keep me waiting or you'll be getting my cane across that pretty little bottom of yours."

Vassilly set off as at a run.

"Knowing how to talk to boys is a knack really," Mr Grade remarked to as Stefan and Ivan came up dragging between them a bruised and sobbing George.

"Ah boys good you've got here. George didn't give you any trouble did he?"

"Not that we couldn't deal with anyway Sir," Stefan replied cheerfully.

Ivan who seemed to be a lad of few words merely smashed the heel of George's trainer once again down on the top of the smaller boy's head.

"Excellent, well before you string him up for his flogging," George, who had been standing quiescent between the two youths, whimpered noisily at these words earning himself yet another clout across the head with the rubber soled trainer from Ivan and a cold glare from Mr Grade, " I want to ring the brat. Stefan you hold his wrists for me."

Stefan turned to face George. He grabbed both the boy's wrists and pulled them upwards and apart so that they were held more or less level with his eyes. George made some effort at resistance but Stefan's superior strength quickly quelled him and the only consequence was a further clubbing across the top of the head from Ivan. Blood began to trickle from a cut in Vassilly's scalp down the side of his face.

"The trick is to find the smallest ring through which the boy's genitals can be forced without causing serious long term damage," Mr Grade remarked, beginning to sort through the contents of the box with which that Vassilly had just reappeared. "It is actually amazingly small. A boy's testicles, though apparently quite firm, can be compressed to a surprising extent and his scrotum can be pulled and stretched to a much greater extent than one would have thought possible from first appearances."

"This I think should do," he held up for Anthony's inspection a broad metal band only slightly greater in diameter than a man's signet ring. Anthony felt that Mr Grade's description of it as 'amazingly small', if anything, understated the reality.

Stefan moved slightly backwards still keeping a tight grip of George's raised wrists. Mr Grade dropped to his knees and inserted himself between the two boys, for so they were, although one was no more than a child and the other was almost a full grown man. Anthony watched fascinated as the man with quick deft movements fitted the cock ring.

Holding the ring in his left hand he used his right to manipulate the boy's genitals. The boy's small twig like cock, that Anthony had seen so often in the past sticking upright in excitement, now shrivelled and lifeless, reflecting George's fear and misery, presented no problem to Mr Grade.

He pulled it quickly through the ring and anchored it there with a finger of his left hand. The boy's testicles however had all but disappeared into the boy as if they were seeking refuge from the cruelties about to be perpetuated upon them.

There was to be no escape for them from Mr Grade. Digging his finger and thumb brutally deep into George's crutch. he pulled them out. George sobbed and fought to break his wrists free from Stefan's grip but his slight small body was no match for the teenager. The man, apparently oblivious to the uneven struggle going on above him and of the boy's increasingly more desperate cries of distress, continued with his work. He bent down till his mouth was almost touching the boy's testicles and spat a great globule of saliva onto them. For a moment he worked spreading the moisture over them then, stretching the boy's scrotum till it seemed the skin must tear, he forced one small hairless ball against the ring. Tiny though the ball was the ring was smaller. Mr Grade was pitiless. Using his right thumb as a ram, he pushed hard against the child's testicle.

George's struggles became wilder. At a word from Mr Grade Ivan, grinning ferociously, knelt on the ground behind the boy gripping his ankles. Mr Grade increased the pressure of his thumb.

Anthony closed his eyes to shut out the sight, expecting the testicle to burst or split open like a grape at any moment. He could not however shut out the sound of the boy's wild screaming and pleas for mercy. George's cries reached a crescendo and Anthony forced his eyes open just in time to see the child's ball give way under the remorseless thrust of Mr Grade's thumb. It almost seemed that here was an audible plop as it emerged from the ring.

Now there was just one testicle remaining to manoeuvre through the ring.

Mr Grade anointed this with another gob of spit. Then holding the ring firmly in his left hand he once again used his right hand thumb as a ram rod. Anthony could see the muscles in Stefan and Ivans' slim wiry bodies tense and swell as they fought to restrain George's desperate struggles while the boy screamed and writhed in their grip.

"What a fuss about a simple little job," Mr Grade said dismissively as he rose to his feet

The second testicle had been forced through the ring to join the first.

With a feeling of sick horror Anthony saw blood beginning to well from the child's ball sack. Mr Grade caught the expression on his face and followed his gaze.

"No," he said with a laugh, "I haven't burst them, though, from the din the brat was making you would have thought I had. I've just squashed then a bit and scraped the skin off them forcing them through the ring. That always happens to a greater or lesser extent. Once we've got him strung up we'll put some anti-sceptic powder on them and the cut on his head to staunch the flow and stop infection. It'll hurt a bit but you can't be too careful in a hot climate like this. After all we have a responsibility to the brats."

"Very well, Stefan and Ivan, get him ready for me now please. Get a move on would you. I want my lunch."

"At least," Mr Grade remarked getting up and looking around him, "we won't have to blow whistles and wait for the boys to assemble before starting. It's surprising how a screaming brat always serves as a focus of attention."

Anthony saw that some thirty boys, some wearing bathing trunks but most nothing at all, between the ages of ten and fourteen had appeared and were standing at a respectful distance quietly and somewhat apprehensively watching and waiting. Standing slightly apart from the boys were three men chatting together. He recognised his old school friend Tim but not the other two. All three of the men were naked. From the evidence available to him it seemed that Tim had grown considerably over the years but retained much of his original youthful vigour for he, along with the other two men, were sporting considerable erections.

"Sir please Sir don't let them hurt me any more Sir," George's desperate plea for assistance caused Anthony to turn and glance in his direction.

The two youths holding George between them by his arms half marched, half dragged, him across to what, at first site, looked like an extra set of goal posts placed inexplicably close to the farm house. The boy continued to screamed hysterically, begging Anthony to safe him from further abuse, as the two youths roughly bound his wrists together with one end of a length of rope hanging from a pulley attached to the cross bar. This done they hauled on the rope until George's slim young body was hanging taught, his toes just touching the ground. Blood trickled down his face from the cut in his scalp and down the inside of his highs from his torn ball sack.

"I see Anthony has paid his subscription," Tim remarked.

Anthony turned back to face Mr Grade and the three men who had walked over to join them.

"He has paid it in full measure and has now come to reap his reward in the form of the delectable Vassilly. But I forget my manners Anthony. I must introduce you. Sir John Stafford, Mr William Forbes this is Anthony Llewellyn an old pupil of mine. Sir John and William are members of the governing body of St Joseph's and strong supporters of my work there.

You and Tim are of course already very well acquainted. They were in their younger days both pupils of mine gentlemen and most promising and enthusiastic ones as well."

"And the subscription to which our young friend refers is a living not a financial one?" Sir John drawled his query in an accent honed at Eton and Oxford.

"Yes indeed and a most pleasing offering I think," Mr Grade replied with well controlled enthusiasm. "Perhaps you would care to take loser look at it."

Led by Mr Grade the five adults strolled over to where George hung suspended from the cross bar of the gallows, his arms stretched high above his head, his toes just touching the ground, every bone in his ribcage showing beneath the taughtly drawn skin. The boy seeing them approach peed himself a stream of amber liquid jetting from his tiny prick to form a damp steaming patch on the ground in front of him.

"What do you think Gentlemen?" Mr Grade remarked running his hand over the boy's naked body, raising his voice to be heard over George's wild sobbing. He cupped the child's rump with his hand and gently squeezed it ringing a fresh squeal of pain from the boy as the man's fingers pressed into his bruised flesh.

"A good looking lad," Mr Forbes remarked standing with his head tilted slightly on one side regarding George's young taughlty drawn body with the air of a connoisseur.

"I think so." Mr Grade agreed with a somewhat self satisfied expression.

"I think so. Of course he will show better once he is cleaned up and had a certain amount of initial schooling. I think he'll be ready for you to enjoy in four or five days. Now I had better make a start."

As the men were talking Stefan and Ivan had carried a small trestle table out from the farmhouse. Now Stefan reappeared and began to arrange on the table top a number of items that he took out of a box he was carrying.

Anthony noticed a plastic cylinder with a perforated top with a label describing it's contents as antiseptic powder and stating it was for external use only and designed for use on horses ponies and other livestock, a roll of cotton wool and a gently steaming bowl of hot water from which came a strong smell of disinfectant and finally the vicious the martinet that had already savagely scourged boy's bum.

George catching sight of the latter began to sob wildly.

"Sir Mr Llewllyn Sir… Please don't let him use that on me again… Please…"

Anthony shouldered Mr Grade to one side and slammed his fist into the boy's stomach bringing his desperate pleas to an abrupt halt.

"Shut up you miserable little turd," he shouted furiously, "you speak when you are spoken to and otherwise not at all." He hit the boy again and stood back panting. How dare the brat show him up by demanding his protection as if he had some sort of right to it.

"Sorry," he apologised to the watching men, "it's just that the slut disgusts me with his constant whimpering."

Mr Grade said nothing but gripping George's face with one hand he tipped back his head and began to sponge the blood from his torn scalp with a swab of cotton wool soaked in warm water. George yelped as the disinfectant stung and he yelped again much louder when a second or two later Mr Grade having cleaned the wound staunched the flow of blood with a liberal application of sceptic powder.

"That's good really powerful stuff," Mr Grade remarked as he bent to turn his attention to George's torn ball sack, "it's intended for cuts on horses and ponies but it does just as well for boys makes them squeal a bit though."

The accuracy of this last remark was confirmed a few seconds later when Mr Grade spread the powder over the boy's grazed and bleeding scrotum.

"We will leave our young friend to recover his composure for the moment," remarked Mr Grade straightening himself and stepping away from George who was thrashing about in his bonds his body jerking convulsively, the antiseptic powder burning as it touched the open cuts in the broken skin of his ball sack stung.

"I always believe in allowing our young charges time to fully experience each sensation and emotion. One must I feel take ones time whether you are flogging or fucking a boy. To take the present case there is little point in thrashing George while he feels as though a flame is being held against his balls."

"Ah he seems to be calming down a bit."

"Boys," Mr Grade continued raising his voice, "get in position to watch the punishment of one of your fellows and be warned by his example of the inevitable and painful consequences of displeasing your elders and betters.

Gentlemen if you would care to be seated."

Anthony saw that while his attention had been concentrated on George's suffering four canvas chairs had been placed directly behind He took one.

Vassilly sat on the ground at his feet resting his cheek against the side of his thigh. The other boys ranged themselves on either side of the men forming a rough-circle. Anthony glancing along the line of kneeling boys saw that they were all looking very apprehensive the majority of them were also displaying visible signs of sexual excitement. Stretching out his legs luxuriously he ruffled Vassilly's flaxen hair and settled back to enjoy the spectacle.

Chapter 23

I could kill the boy he thought, just squeeze a little harder, and no one would try and stop me or care if I did. He increased he pressure until Vassilly murmured and stirred uneasily in his grip. All this he thought and George's flogging to watch – how sweet life is.

He felt no remorse for George's betrayal. That he had deliberately set out to win the boy's trust, made promises to him which he had not meant and had no intention of keeping, caressed and petted the child only to surrender him to Mr. Grade and his friend's cruel lusts did not trouble his conscience at all. If anything these things increased his excitement as he reflected how friendless and vulnerable George must now feel and how he, by his actions, had contributed to his sufferings. He did not even now bother to try to justify his actions to himself on the grounds that they would in the end benefit the boy, teaching him to know himself, liberating him to receive and to give pleasure. This they may have done but in the company of Mr. Grade and his friends he could see that no justification of that sort was needed. George's welfare was irrelevant. What mattered and what determined everything was that he and his friends were strong while George was weak. No further justification was needed. Did the lion feel pangs of conscience when it killed its prey? Perhaps more appositely did the domestic cat do so when it tortured a mouse for it's own amusement?

Sir John sitting on his right lent forward in his chair and pointed at one of the kneeling boys. The lad, a dark haired round-bottomed boy of about twelve came trotting over to him, grinning cheerfully, white teeth gleaming in his deeply tanned face. Sir John reached out and guided the child down onto his knees. The boy wriggled his bare rump tight into the man's crutch and lent his head back to be kissed. Mr. Forbes, sitting beyond Sir John, seemed to be too intent on observing every second of George's whipping to have time for any such frivolities. He was sitting with his head pushed forward, staring unblinkingly at the boy as he stood, arms drawn high above his head, bare feet just touching the ground, his body taught and stretched waiting for the flogging to begin. Anthony saw that Mr. Forbes's mouth was slightly open and that a droplet of saliva was trickling from its corner down his chin.

Tim dropped into the chair on the other side of Anthony.

"The old man does so enjoy thrashing a boy," he confided leaning across to speak to his old school friend. "A good flogging puts him in an excellent mood for the rest of the day."

Anthony did not reply but smiled back an acknowledgement of this confidence. He reflected to himself that he and Tim must in the past have been the proximate cause of a good deal of good humour so far as their old head master was concerned.

There was a slight stir among the crowd of watching boys, a collective drawing in of breath, as Mr. Grade strolled forward. George, standing with his back to them with his wrists drawn tight above his head could not turn his head but he must have sensed the man's approach. He began to sob quietly and his body, tightly drawn though it was shook with fear.

"Well George," Mr. Grade spoke quietly with a hint of humour even affection in his voice, "you haven't made a very good beginning to your stay with us. Have you George?"

George mumbled inaudibly, his words half choked by tears.

"Speak up George," Mr. Grade encouraged him with a sharp back handed clout across the his already badly bruised rump, ringing a squeal of pain from the boy, "I want everybody to be able to hear what you're saying and you'll find I'm a bad man to disappoint."

"You haven't made a very good beginning to your stay with us have you George?"

"No Sir… I'm sorry Sir… Please don't hit me again Sir…"

A titter ran round the crowd of watching boys apparently amused at anyone imagining that Sir could be influenced by such pleas for mercy.

"You're right George," Mr. Grade continued evenly, "it has been a very bad beginning… a very bad beginning indeed… Starting a fight, George, as soon as you arrive here… I'm not angry George just very, very disappointed…"

The boy started to say something but Mr. Grade rode over him.

"And to fight about such a matter George… that was very bad too. Do you think you have a right to Mr. Llewellyn's attention?"

Mr. Grade paused to give George a chance to reply but the boy remained silent.

"Well answer me boy. Do you think you have some sort of claim on Mr. Llewellyn's attention?"

"I thought he cared for me Sir," George eventually managed to and began to sob wildly.

Another louder titter rose from the crowd of boys. Mr. Grade turned and looked at them. The laughter stopped instantly.

"I will," he said, "have silence. I will cane any boy who laughs."

"You are a silly little whore," he said, almost fondly, turning back to speak to George. "A silly conceited little whore, to think that Mr. Llewellyn or any grown up should be bothered with you except as something to fuck and, as for you, what does it matter to you whose cock you're servicing?"

George said nothing but sniffed loudly.

"But George," Mr. Grade's voice seemed to be dripping with honey. The boys now were utterly still and silent. They knew the signs. Sir was getting ready to flog a boy.

"But George," he repeated so softly that it was almost a caress and he began to run his hand slowly up and down the boy's bare back, "conceit is a very serious fault in a boy. A very serious fault indeed, much, much worse than fighting. No body likes a conceited boy. You must be cured of this fault. You must become a humble, obedient boy who thinks only of pleasing your elders and betters. It will be hard for a selfish conceited child like you George but you are a very lucky boy because we are here to help. Isn't that fortunate? Aren't you a lucky boy George?"

There was a silence broken only by the sound of George's hopeless sobbing, the muted clatter of the cicadas and the tinkle of running water from the stream at the bottom of the meadow.

"George," Mr. Grade's voice was still soft but it had now a plaintive tone to it, "I asked you a question and you haven't answered me."

He rested his hand on the child's well-basted bottom and squeezed hard, digging his fingernails into the raw flesh. George squealed shrilly.

"Aren't you a lucky boy George? Mr. Grade asked, again relaxing his grip but letting his hand remain resting on the curve of the boy's rump.

"Please Sir yes Sir," George gasped through his sobs.

"Now George we will start your lesson. First I want to be quite sure that you understand what a silly whore you were to think that Mr. Llewellyn would be bothered with you. So say loudly, so that everyone can hear you, 'Please Sir I know I was a very silly boy to think Mr. Llewellyn would care about me'."

George muttered inaudibly and then howled as Mr. Grade dug his fingers once again into the boy's raw bum.

"I said so everybody could hear George. Now try again."

The next time the boy shouted out the words in a voice half strangled with sobs.

"Good, good George much better," Mr. Grade said encouragingly. "The first step is to recognise that you have behaved badly. The next is to repent. You must now beg Mr. Llewellyn's forgiveness for being so conceited as to imagine that he should care about a silly little tart like you. Now nice and loud now."

Anthony shifted in his chair trying to make himself comfortable. His cock, which had grown rock hard as he watched George's suffering, was painfully restrained by his trousers. He envied Mr. Grade and the other men whose nakedness allowed them to experience their very obvious sexual arousement unhindered by any clothing.

With one fluid movement Vassilly was kneeling between Anthony's knees, his fingers fumbling with the zip of the man's flies. Like the well-trained little tart that he was the boy had sensed his master's predicament and was taking action to counter it. Even as George was blurting out his tearful apology for being so full of self-conceit as to imagine that he should be of any importance to Mr. Lewellyn, Vassilly's fingers were closing about his patron's distended prick drawing it clear of his trousers. Anthony looked down on the top of the boy's flaxen head buried in his crutch. He felt the tip of boy's tongue explore his slit before the child's soft lips closed around his cock head.

Anthony heard a muffled moan to his right. Mr. Forbes had doubled over in his chair and seemed to be holding himself. A small boy, hardly, so far as Anthony could judge eight years old, darted from out of the semicircle of kneeling boys. He drooped to his knees before the man. The child's tight little rump bore the marks of a recent beating. If the boy had got that for lack of enthusiasm in servicing his patron's cock, he was now certainly doing his best to give satisfaction, Anthony reflected, as he watched the small dark head bobbing vigorously between the man's knees.

"That's good George," said Mr. Grade. "You seem to have learnt your lesson. Now we have only to ensure you do not forget it. Fortunately we have the means to do achieve that."

He held out his hand and grinning broadly Stefan placed the martinet in it.

An audible intake of breath came from the semicircle of watching boys.

Mr. Grade slowly drew the tips of the scourge's thongs up the boy's naked back. Anthony noticed how George stretched taught as he was still somehow managed to flinch away from the lightest touch of the lash. Mr. Grade took a step back and paused, deliberately measuring his distance.

Then he swung the martinet back over his right shoulder. George screamed and fought against his bonds as he heard the soft hiss of the cat as it began it's descent. The boy's body jerked convulsively as the dozen thongs slashed down across his slim shoulders. The sound of the leather hitting boy's flesh was followed by a split second of total silence as pain drove the air from George's lungs. Then the boy screamed again. Anthony saw the smooth brown skin of George's back whiten under the impact of the multiple lashes and then take on a livid flush as the blood flowed back.

Timing his blows with care Mr. Grade set about flogging the boy. The cat rose and fell as the man struck alternative fore and back hand cuts that ensured the tips of thongs curled about both sides of the child's body nipping the tightly drawn skin on the side of his ribcage and the tender flesh under his shoulders. The boy knocked off his feet by the force of the blows swung, twisting and screaming, under the impact of the lash.

Anthony grabbed Vassilly by his ears and pulled his head forward, driving his cock down into the boy's gullet. The shrill howls of the tortured boy, the sight of the lad's naked body performing its grotesque but erotic gyrations worked Anthony up to fresh peaks of excitement. He relaxed his grip on Vassilly's head for a brief instant to allow the boy to draw breath and then dragged him forward again, feeling his throat contract about his cock's head.

Mr. Grade apparently somewhat out of breath paused in his exertions. He gestured to Stefan who, catching hold of George by his hips, twisted the boy round. Ivan darted forward and kneeling down grasped George by the knees, steadying the boy so that he was now hanging facing his tormentor. Anthony could clearly see the child's ribs under the thin taughtly drawn skin of his chest.

Mr. Grade raised the martinet once more above his right shoulder.

"Oh Sir please…"

Mr. Grade smiled coldly. George's plea for mercy ended in a shrill scream as the scourge came hissing down across his chest. Anthony saw a small red bead of blood begin to form where the tip of one thong had split the boy's left nipple.

The rising roar of blood in his own head blocked out George's screams and a dark haze obscured the world as he pumped his seed deep into the back of Vassilly's throat.

Anthony returned to consciousness to find Vassilly hunkered between his knees wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand. He knocked the boy's hand away from his mouth and pulling him up, kissed him hard on the lips. His tongue probed the boy's mouth catching the slightly metallic flavour of his own semen.

"I think," he heard Mr. Grade say, "that we may as well have lunch now. I know I at least have a healthy appetite."

Giving Vassilly's bare bottom an appreciative pat Anthony pushed the boy away from him and looked around. Ivan had released his hold on George's knees and the boy's body had swung back to its original position. Mr. Grade was standing beside the boy regarding him with the satisfied air of a skilled workman taking a pride in the exercise of his craft. All be it a craftsman who practised his trade naked and in a state of high sexual excitement. Anthony could see that the scourge had reduced the lad's shoulders to a raw mess of bruised and torn skin.

"Lunch," Mr. Grade said again.

He gestured imperiously at the group of boys who were still kneeling staring, as though mesmerised, at George's savagely beaten body. The spell broken the boys scattered in a flurry of lithe brown bodies and firm well-rounded limbs. Anthony caught glimpses of small cocks wobbling stiffly as the children ran and reflected on the strange quality of cruelty that could excite both the victims and the perpetrators.

He walked with Mr Grade and the other men to where the tables were set for lunch. They formed a rough horse shoe, two long trestle tables with benches running the length of them with a shorter table set sideways to them and a little apart with chairs placed round it. The boys had already ranged themselves standing behind the four benches. They made their way between the two double lines of naked or near naked young bodies, tanned in every variety of shade from nut to golden brown. Their progress was slow, Mr Grade stopping every now and again to pat the bottom or ruffle the hair of some particularly favoured boy.

Two chairs had been placed at either end of the top table and standing behind these waiting for them were Ivan and Stefan, blond and cruelly handsome. Five chairs were lined up along the table facing the four lines of standing boys. Mr Grade went to stand behind the centre chair. He gestured to Anthony to take the seat to his right. Sir John, Mr Forbes and Tim sorted themselves out between the remaining chairs.

"We thank thee Lord who in your infinite wisdom and goodness has given us food and drink for our sustenance and boys for our enjoyment," Mr Grade said loudly and all the men intoned "amen."

They seated themselves. Scantily clothed serving boys hurried out of the house bearing plates of baked goats cheese and green salad. Another boy, his only clothing a minuscule scrap of white cloth between the legs, poured wine so chilled that moisture condensed on the outside of the glasses.

"A Moselle," Mr Grade remarked as Anthony sipped from his glass, "a Piesporter Michelsberg to be precise. I think the lighter German wines are better than the more robust French in the middle of the day in the heat of the Mediterranean summer."

"It's very good," Anthony remarked replacing his glass on the table.

He looked down the four rows of boys seated now waiting patiently, or at least without any visible signs of impatience, for their elders to be served.

It would be some time Anthony knew before they would get their food. The boys did not get a first course and they would have to wait until Mr Grade and his guests had finished that and been served with the main course before they would be able to eat. He found being watched by so many pairs of hungry young eyes did not diminish his appetite at all. Meanwhile the boys whispered quietly among themselves. Sometimes a laugh would ring out or a voice would be raised in shrill expostulation but these would be quickly hushed accompanied with nervous glances at the top table.

There was a clinking of glass as the boys helped themselves from the jugs of iced water that stood on the tables beside bowls heaped with oranges, apricots, and the myriad other varieties of fruit that grow so plentifully on the island.

At the foot of the two tables George hung suspended by his wrists from the cross bar of the scaffold, his naked body blotched with livid bruises. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, his head hung forward on his chest, the only sign of life the rise and fall of his rib cage as he sobbed silently to himself.

"Something amuses you?" Mr Grade enquired.

"Well, just how completely your flogging has destroyed that little whores appetite," Anthony replied with a chuckle. "His two great passions are normally food and sex. Normally he can't get enough of either. I always half expected him to demand a beef burger while I was fucking him."

"By the time I have finished with him he will only have one thought if you to use him and that will be to please you. He does look a bit the worse for wear though. If you could spare Vassilly for the moment… I think you will probably need a little time to recover your energy before you'll need him again… he can feed the boy some warm sweetened milk. That is what I usually give a boy after a hard thrashing. I don't want the brat flaking out on me before I've done with him."

"What I don't understand," remarked Sir John, "is why the boys don't just run away. You're so hard on them and if they told the truth about what goes on here they'd never be sent back and we'd all be put in prison."

"For the first few days of the first camp a boy attends we make quite sure he can't run. After that they don't want to."

"I can see they don't want to run. There they are now waiting for us to finish this very tasty starter so that they can be fed. But why?"

"Basically because they don't want to." Mr Grade replied easily. "Boys need discipline, they react well to it, they fear the cane but they respect and love the man who wields it. But above all once they have experienced it they cannot do without the excitement and the sex they enjoy in my charge. They become hooked on it. Both Tim and Anthony are old boys of mine and they both choose to return."

"But to return to be at the top of the heap. Not to be among the brats"

"Would you," Sir John asked turning to Anthony, "look back on your time as a pupil here as a happy one?"

"I don't know," Anthony spoke slowly. "Happy?… No not happy," he continued slowly remembering the weeks and months of misery punctuated by moments of shear terror that constituted so much of his time at St Joseph's. "Just the same I never really wanted to runaway, not after the first month or so, and no one would have taken much notice of what an eight year old said then what ever they do now. Anyway there was not an awful lot to tell then that would have caused problems. You were sort of drawn into it. Later when there were things to tell you were so much a part of it that you couldn't."

"Or at least didn't want to," he added after a pause shamefacedly remembering his own betrayal of Mr Grade.

"But why didn't you want to?" Sir John persisted.

"I suppose the sex, even when it hurt there was pleasure in it and guilt as well. You felt you shouldn't enjoy doing it or having it done to you and imagine your mother and father finding out what you had been up to. And the excitement and wondering what's going to happen next. And pleasing Mr Grade was very important. We all wanted desperately to please him. We all competed for his attention and approval."

"Would you, if it were possible wish to return as a boy?" Sir John asked with a smile.

"Well that is hardly possible," Mr Grade speaking before Anthony could marshal his thoughts. "None of us can regain our lost youth however much we may wish to do so. But my boys at the start of each term and the start of each school camp choose to return and I'll show you something interesting."

"Mr Forbes can we borrow Ian for a moment?"

"Certainly of course. Run along boy quickly now Mr Grade wants you." Mr Forbes reinforced his order with a sharp slap on the eight year olds delightful little dimpled bottom.

The boy trotted across to Mr Grade quickly enough but with an expression of acute apprehension on his face. The man pushed back his chair and grabbing hold of the child by his wrist turned him to face Anthony and Tim.

Mr Grade clucked impatiently as he knocked the Ian's hands, which the boy was using to shield his crutch, apart.

"Tell me you two," he said, "does anything about this little tart look familiar."

Anthony studied the boy carefully. A pretty little dark haired lad burnt nut brown by the sun, small white teeth showing as he nervously gnawed at his lower lip, something about him seemed vaguely familiar but he could not put a finger on exactly what.

Mr Grade lent back in his chair smiling quizzically at the Anthony and Tim as he gently stroked the boy's thigh.

"You don't know," he rubbed his thumb against the side of the child's prick stiffly upright and quivering eagerly. "I just wondered if something would strike you. His Father was Alistair Fraser who was at St Joseph's with you two. He was head boy for the year you were new boys."

"As soon as the boy was born Alistair wrote to me asking if he could enter him for St Joseph's so that he could join as a boarder when he was eight.

He said that the only time in his life he had ever really lived and felt every sensation to the full was when he was under my care and he would never forgive himself if his son did not have the same experience."

"He was so keen that he should begin that he asked me to accept Ian for this school camp although he only starts in school proper next term. And he's done very well. He has been here just a week and already he's Mr Forbes' boy. Just a little bit of trouble a couple of days ago. He didn't want to suck cock. He thought it was nasty having that thing in his mouth. That's when he got the bruises on his bottom."

"You know better now Fraser don't you?"

"Yes Sir thank you Sir."

"What made it worse," Mr Grade said turning back to the men, "was that the boy knew perfectly well what was expected of him. Alistair told me that he had given the boy some preliminary instruction and even had him practice sucking his thumb but still the silly little fellow balked. Still we got over that and I think Ian's Daddy will be proud of how well his son has been doing overall."

Anthony saw a delighted grin lighten the boy's face at this praise. Mr Grade paused to ruffle the lad's hair before continuing.

"You mean to tell me that old boys of your school, having been beaten and fucked by you, bring you their sons so that you can do the same to them?" Sir John asked in tones that made clear his scepticism.*

"Yes that is precisely the position. So far as fucking is concerned fathers often say to me. 'I remember what a slut I was as a boy and I am sure my son will be the same. Some time or other he's going to get his bottom fucked. That being so it would be better if it was done by someone like you who knows what you are doing. You will take your time and be careful. That would be much better than having it done by some inexperienced stud who rips the boy's bottom in his passion. At least you will keep the damage down to the minimum.'"

"I have to say though that some of my old boys are very loyal. They send me their sons and it was their support that allowed me to start again here after that unpleasantness in England." Anthony's attention was concentrated understandably on the pretty little naked boy who was the subject of this lecture. He failed to see therefore the look of concentrated malevolence that Mr Grade cast at him as he made this statement. If Anthony had noticed it might have made him wonder if his own involuntary betrayal had been truly forgiven.

"The sons are much easier to manage. The fathers often like Alistair with Ian take an active part in preparing the boy and carry on through their sons the contest they were engaged in as boys for my attention and approval. And I don't have to worry about sending the boys home with bruise on their bodies. The parents expect it."

"The only disadvantage is that I am often under pressure to push the boys on faster than I would like. I think, with the experience I have had, I am a good judge of when a boy is ripe. However the fathers remember when they were boys here and how their initial penetration, painful though it was, was a gateway giving access to ever wilder and more intense excitements. They want me to take their boy's through that gateway as soon as possible so that they can begin to experience the sexual ecstasies beyond."

"I know young bones and sinews are very supple but there is a limit on what can be achieved without tearing. In your days Anthony I would expect most boys to be ripe by twelve or thirteen. Boys are bigger and mature sooner nowadays and I expect them to be ready a year and some even two years, earlier."

"Alistair though was suggesting that Ian would be ripe at nine and has begun to work at loosening the boy's bottom up for my use. Well we will see."

"How much would you take to let me fuck the boy now?" Mr. Forbes asked.

"I'm sorry I promised Alistair I would do that job myself and that he would be here to help his boy through the ordeal, for an ordeal it is. That's a privilege I allow old boys. I have a number of other boys though whose bottoms have not been fucked yet. You can take your pick after lunch and we can discuss terms then."

"After we've made George dance Sir," Ivan said anxiously, inserting himself into the conversation for the first time.

"After, as you say, we have made our new young friend dance," agreed Mr Grade and Ivan and Stefan grinned wolfishly.

Anthony reminded of George by the mention of his name turned to look at him. His view was partly blocked by Vassilly, who was standing close in front of the boy holding a glass of water to his lips. It seemed to him that it was taking Vassilly a long time to give George his drink of water.

However it didn't seem to bother Mr Grade so he assumed it must be all right. Indeed Mr Grade was talking again.

"Of course in many ways the sooner a boy is penetrated the better. Once he's been fucked a few times all he wants is to be fucked again and again and again. It's like breaking a colt, once it's been ridden a few times it ceases to be a problem."

Lunch was simple but good. After the baked goats cheese there came chicken salad, fruit and for Mr Grade and his guests cheese and coffee.

The conversation among the men ranged widely over literature and politics.

"Well," Mr Grade said replacing his empty coffee cup on his saucer and pushing back his chair, "duty calls. It is time to give young George his dancing lesson. I think Gentlemen that you will find the process entertaining though I doubt if he will enjoy it. Gentlemen if you would care to come with me. Stefan, Ivan bring the boy along."

Mr Grade stood up and the seated boys scrambled quickly to their feet.

They remained standing as he, accompanied by his friends, passed and then fell in behind them to follow at a respectful distance. They paused to watch Stefan and Ivan release George from his bonds. Vassilly appeared to be still ministering to the younger boy but he was roughly knocked aside by the two youths.

As soon as George's wrists were freed from the cord binding them to the cross bar he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Ivan lashed out with his foot catching him square in he middle of his rump. Stefan, not to be out done, kicked the boy hard on the side of his head. Vassilly darted forward and, somehow getting an arm around George's body, got him to his feet while the two youths continued to hammer at the boy with their feet and fists. Not a few of the blows landed on Vassilly.

"Let go of the brat," Stefan yelled clouting Vassilly on the ear. The boy staggered sideways making no attempt to defend himself. Ivan kicked him contemptuously to one side before grabbing hold of George by the arm.

Satisfied that everything was in order Mr Grade turned away and began walking across the meadow in front of the farmhouse towards the stream.

Out of the shade Anthony felt the full strength of the Mediterranean sun beating down on hi shoulders. The sound of blows and the occasional cry of pain sounded behind him. He glanced round. The two youths were driving George forward in font of them. Vassilly had managed to get back beside the boy and was helping him along and taking his fair share of the blows and kicks as he did so.

Mr Grade stopped beside a large circle made of several sheets of metal welded together and cut to shape before being embedded in the ground. It was about five meters [16 ft] across and painted with black matt paint. Beside this was a small rectangular box like structure also made of metal it's single open end looking out across the parched meadow shimmering in the heat towards the brook, it's water glittering in the sun light. A door formed of steel bars hinged at its top rested open on the roof of the cage along with a number of wooden batons made from old cricket stumps.**

"A product of our fourth year metal work class," Mr Grade explained. "It is a principle of mine to always try and engage the boys' energies in projects that are both interesting and useful."

He bent and momentarily touched the metal with his fingertips.

"Quite satisfactorily hot," he remarked straightening quickly and shaking his hand. "It works on much the same basis as I believe is used by gypsies in the Balkans to train bears to dance. They force the unfortunate beasts to stand on sheets of corrugated iron under which they light a fire.

The animal frantically hops from foot to foot in an endeavour to minimise the pain. We stand our new boys on the metal heated by the sun and they behave in a similar manner."

"Although we refer to the process, in a light hearted way, as giving the boys a dancing lesson, it's true purpose is to tenderise the soles of their feet, so as discourage any attempts to run away over their first few days here in a manner entertaining for the onlookers to observe. The metal originally was unpainted but I found that it got so hot that the whole thing was over so quickly as to rob it of any entertainment value."

"The hutch is provided so that the boy has somewhere to rest after his spell on the hob where his whimpers won't disturb our siestas. As the process depends on the heat of the sun it has to take place at about midday. The quarters are as you can see somewhat cramped and the brat no doubt gets both thirsty and hot. I don't expect the sight of the stream in the distance through the bars of his cage lessens his sufferings either."

"Now if you would like to take a cricket stump each and range yourself round the ring we would be just about ready to begin. Your part in the proceedings is to prevent our young friend from leaving the dancing floor before I give him permission to do so. A sharp rap on the front of the shins will be effective in achieving that."

"Vassilly as you seem to have constituted yourself George's guardian hurry up and bring him over to me now. You seem to have become so fond of him that perhaps you would care to dance with him? No? Well fetch him here."

George was standing partly supported by the other boy, head bowed, so steeped in his own misery to have lost all interest in the world about him.

Vassilly made a half hearted attempt to lead George towards Mr Grade.

Stefan drove his knee into Vassilly's rump with so much force that he lifted him bodily from the ground. The two boys staggered forward and Mr Grade grabbing George by one thin wrist thrust him out onto the metal plate.

The pain of the hot metal against the soles of his feet brought George back to earth. He cried out and made a desperate dash for the side of the plate.

Mr Forbes cracked his cricket stump across the front of the boy's shins.

George howled and turned towards where Anthony stood. Anthony let him get almost to the edge of the plate before driving him back towards it's centre with a low backhanded swipe of his baton that struck the boy's legs so hard that it jarred his wrist.

George realising he was not going to be allowed an easy or quick escape began to hop from foot to foot in a pathetic attempt to ease the pain of the burning hot metal cooking the soles of his bare feet. As he performed his grotesque jig he whimpered broken hopeless pleas for mercy and help to the watching men. There was something irresistibly comic in the spectacle of the boy capering naked on the burning plate, his face distorted by pain, cheeks wet with tears, sweat glistening on his bare flesh, his tiny balls and cock bouncing as he pranced.

One of the men began to laugh, then another and another. Anthony found himself laughing and then behind him he heard first an isolated giggle and then a rising tide of laughter from the crowd of watching boys. All the time, the cause of this wild roar of laughter, George performed his wild pain driven tarantella. A high incoherent kearning had replaced his pleas for mercy, his eyes were glazed and unseeing, a white froth dribbled from between his parted lips, his chest rose and fell as he laboured for breath.

"That's enough come here George," Mr Grade eventually called making an audible effort to choke back his laughter.

George though was beyond hearing. His mind was a dark void where only the agony of his scorched feet registered. He continued his demented jigging. Stefan picked up a baton and ran to the side of the ring opposite Mr Grade. He swung the baton hard catching George across the side of his thigh. There was the sickening thump of wood striking firm bare flesh and George was knocked still wildly prancing towards Mr Grade.

Able now to reach the boy without placing his own bare feet on the burning metal Mr Grade stretched out and grabbing George by the arm pulled him off the ring. He swung George round so that the boy's back was towards him. Ivan stepped quickly in front of George and slipping his arms under the boy's locked his hands together behind the lad's back. Mr Grade bent and, like a farrier examining a pony's hooves, caught hold of George by one ankle pulled his leg back. George unable to continue his jig and desperate to ease the agony of bearing his whole body weight on the sole of one scorched foot lifted it from the ground. Ivan grunted as he took the boy's weight preventing him from falling to his knees.

Anthony peered over Mr Grade's shoulder. The sole of George's small foot was a raw angry red with white blisters ballooning on the heel and ball of the foot. Mr Grade thrust his thumbnail into one blister bursting it.

George's constant whimpering rose for a moment to a squeal of pain as fluid seeped from under the flap of loose skin.

"We'll have to burst all these and dress them eventually," Mr Grade remarked releasing his hold on George's left ankle before lifting the boy's other foot for inspection. "He'll yell even louder then but there's a long term as well as a short term gain. Short term he won't run anywhere for a day or two and after that he won't want to. Long term, once the souls of his feet have healed, they'll be hard and tough almost like leather."

"All right," he continued straightening, "those feet of yours need a little further cooking. Get back onto the ring now George."

Ivan released his hold of the boy but George, instead of obeying, fell heavily to his knees.

"Oh please, please don't make me Sir please. I can't do it any more please Sir. Mr Llewellyn Sir please tell them I don't have to do it Sir…," he wailed.

The boy's broken pleas were brought to an abrupt end by Mr Grade seizing him by the chin and half lifting him from the ground.

"George," the man said his voice soft but filled with cold menace, "you are here to do what you are told not what you want to do. Nothing less than instant unquestioning obedience is acceptable to me. You will be required quite frequently to do or endure things that hurt you a lot but however much the pain of obedience it will be insignificant compared to that which you will suffer if you are disobedient. Do you understand George."

The boy stared up into the man's face desperately searching for any flickering indication of kindness or understanding but could find none.

"Yes Sir," he whispered.

"Good George I'm glad you understand. Now I gave you an order and you didn't obey it. By rights I should flog you once again but I'm a soft hearted kindly man so I will give you a choice. Either you get back on that ring before I count to three and have your feet cooked for a few minutes more or I shall tell Stefan and Ivan to put you on it face down and hold you there while your balls and cock fry. One, two…"

George scrambled painfully back onto his feet. He stepped once more onto the ring of hot metal and resumed his grotesque caperings.

It seemed to Anthony that the boy's ordeal this time was short lived, although he recognised that it seemed all too long to George. So short was it that he suspected requiring the boy to dance for a second time was more a disciplinary exercise to teach him the necessity of obedience than anything else.

George knelt huddled on the ground sobbing loudly as the men stood round staring at him.

"Well," Mr Grade said poking the boy in the bum with his foot, "I think our young friend has done enough for the moment. Stefan and Ivan put the child in the hutch for me please. He can rest there while we have our afternoon siesta."

Stefan grabbed George by an ear and began to drag him away with Ivan following behind helping the boy along with frequent hefty boots up his behind.

"There's quite a bit of room to spare in there," Stefan announced when they had forced George into the small open ended box, "at least for small one."

"Why not put Ian there?" asked Mr Grade, "I won't need the brat if you're going to sort some fresh boy's flesh out for me and I didn't like the way he covered his crutch with his hands when you were showing him off."

"Good idea," Mr Grade said, "and after I've had my nap I'll give him another three strokes of the cane. I can't stand boys who play at being modest when we all know what randy little whores they really are. Teaching him that lesson will give me something to look forward to."

Mr Forbes pushed Ian away.

"Get along boy," he said impatiently, "don't keep us all waiting or I'll make it six strokes not three. If I can't fuck your bottom I might as well have the fun of cutting it up with the cane."

The small dark haired boy cast one pitiful glance at the man whom he had regarded, only a few seconds before, as his protector. Seeing no sign of Mr. Forbes relenting he began to walk across to where Stefan and Ivan stood waiting for him. As he walked his shoulders shook with barely suppressed sobs.

Stefan kicked the boy's feet from under him. Ivan holding his head down with one hand and grasping his crutch from behind with the other tried to force him into the hutch. From the difficulties he experienced in doing this it seemed clear to Anthony that Stefan's statement that there was "plenty of room for a small one" overstated the case.

The two youths spoke together. Ivan quickly removed his hand from its place between Ian's legs while continuing to force the boy's head down and into the hutch with the other. Stefan lifted his baton over his head and brought it down with sickening force straight across the curve of he boy's rump. Ian howled and shot forward. Ivan slammed the door of the hutch shut behind him. From the inside of the small metal box came a series of bumps and juvenile squeakings. Stefan began to jab his stick viciously into the cage and the squeaks turned into shrill squeals of distress.

"That's enough Stefan," Mr Grade said firmly, "I didn't refuse Mr Forbes the use of the brat's bottom to have it sodomized by you with a cricket stump."

"Anthony," he continued, "I am not going to suggest you stay over the siesta. I think it is time you were getting Vassilly back to Paphos.

You'll need to get him settled in and no doubt after that you will want to enjoy your new acquisition. He can swim like a fish all my brats can so keep him on my motor boat, moored well out in the harbour, that will stop him getting into mischief. Now come along we'll get the boy kitted up for his stay with you."

Kitting Vassilly out merely involved finding a pair of bathing trunk for him to wear and some fifteen minutes later he was walking quietly by Anthony's side up the track to where the car was parked. He was carrying a plastic bag that contained, so far as Anthony could establish his sole personal possessions, a toothbrush and a flannel.

No one apart, from Vassilly himself, knew about of the little roll of grubby paper containing a scrap of faded white ribbon with two lines of red thread running through it hidden in the bottom of the bag. What this ribbon meant the boy himself did not know but he had a strong feeling that in some mysterious way it was very important. He had vague half formed memories of aching hunger, a dark cold room stinking of human excrement with bare boards; a women lying very still and very pale on a bundle of rags. The women whispering to him so faintly that he could not hear her words. Then later standing tripped of his filthy rags, still cold, still hungry, standing not on bare boards but hard concrete in the unpitying glare of a neon light as the woman roughly washed him down he still managed to keep the scrap of ribbon grasped tight in his hand. Somehow all through the long years in the loveless orphanage he kept that scrap of ribbon. After he ran away from the beatings and the hunger to live on the streets keeping himself more or less fed by petty thieving and begging he still hung on to it. He did so even after the police had sold him to the boy brothel and after Mr Bolkonsky hearing him singing one night had taken him to Cyprus and given him as a present to Mr Grade. This scrap of ribbon was the one thing in the world that Vassilly owned and he treasured it accordingly. It was his and in some incoherent half understood way he felt it's possession gave him an identity of his own, secret but very real and important to him.

Tim stood with Mr Grade watching the man and the boy walking away from them. Anthony's hand was resting on the boy's shoulder

"It's a bit odd," Tim remarked a touch of bitterness in his voice, "that the man who betrayed you finishes up with everything that he wants."

"Nobody," Mr Grade replied ever gets everything they want and nothing is finished yet."

"I can see a man walking off with the boy he loves," Tim remarked rebelliously, "that looks like the happy ending to me."

"And there," replied Mr Grade smiling, "lies the seeds of Anthony's tragedy and of all like him who seek happiness with a particular boy. There can be no permanency or equality in the relationship of a man to a boy. A boy is an ephemeral thing, a brief period of time only that ends in spots and hairiness. There can be no equality between the two for the man is so much more experienced and physically stronger than the boy. It is possible to love boys but not a boy and happiness comes only to men like us who see a boy only as something to enjoy and use and do not delude themselves with romantic dreams."

The End

*. Readers may well share Sir John's obvious scepticism. There are recorded instances of cases where it has at least been claimed that father's have offered their sons to their male lovers. Andre Gide refers to one in his autobiography "si le grain ne meurt." I cannot point to any instance of the sort envisaged in the current story where fathers having been sexually abused by a school master send their sons to him so that he can do the same to them. However in those days when British newspapers were enlivened with detailed reports of school masters being prosecuted for excessive use of the cane (often with hints of "inappropriate relationships" with boys) a common feature was the parade of old boys of the school in question as character witnesses for the accused. These invariably expressed their affection, respect and gratitude to the man who had so enthusiastically thrashed them as boys. Often they would express their intention to entrust their own boys' education to the same master, sometimes the witness said that he already sent a son there. On a more general point I have often wondered why parents sent their boys to British boarding schools up to the 1960s at least (I think the establishments changed considerably in the latter part of the last century). They surely knew what often went on in such places.

**. For those unfamiliar with the game, a cricket stump is a wooden baton about two and a half feet [75 cm] long and one or possibly two inches [2½-5 cm] across. Their precise dimensions are no doubt fixed in detail by the rules of the game. I can vouch from personal experience gained in my early youth that to receive a sharp rap across the shins from one of them is not a pleasant experience.