Bill Underhill

Collars

PZA 5th Anniversary 2007-2012 Story

Chapter 7-12

Chapter Seven

Couldn't take the sleeping bags out there early, he thought. The kid would've noticed they were gone from the clothesline. Besides, Andy's bag had needed the longer airing-out. He hadn't learned until last September, after the annual FTX, why a guy who's stopped getting the shots should really use foot powder when he's going to be out in the boonies for a solid week.

Mike was right to bitch about that, Andy ruminated as he caught sight of Frank moving efficiently under the weight of his own pack and jogged to catch up. The little guy had even looked up ways to get the smell out of Andy's clothes and gear. Dad would've just let me reek until I learned better.

Andy had told his mother that he'd arranged to meet Mike on the little guys' way home from the Center and they'd take off into the woods from there.

"Get two nights out there instead of just one," he'd explained. Frank had to be doing the same thing with his own and Richie's parents.

Meanwhile, the two kids thought they were going to be spending Friday night in their own beds and hitting the trail Saturday morning. They'd be in the clearing by the time Frank and Andy came up on them, bare-assed and dressed up – hah! – like sexy little slave boys..

This was going to be sweet!

They'd learned about applying big temporary tattoos when they'd managed the Klentroid Invaders thing, and they'd brought along three elastic bandages, those tan stretchy things that were used for wrapping up a swollen ankle. Richie had a super-wide one that had been used to hold an ice bag on his knee when he'd fallen on the ice in January and they took him to the school nurse's office to make sure he hadn't actually busted something inside.

Stripping naked the instant they got into the clearing, they spread out one of the old army blankets they'd hauled in a few days before and carefully wetted down one of the thick paper sheets in a battered aluminum cookpot half-filled with water from the creek. Richie lay down, watching as Mike applied it to the blond boy's thigh with exacting caution.

"Gotta get this just right…"

Careful not to move the backing, Mike then used the really wide bandage to wrap it tight upon Richie's leg.

"Don't wrinkle it!"

"Shaddap, or I'll wrap your balls up with it, too. Where's that third clip thing? Okay, be careful how you move." Mike picked up his pocketphone and set the timer going. "You sure fifteen minutes will do it?"

Richie nodded, keeping reclined on his side. "Yeah. That's how I did these stars on my arm. These temporaries are some kinda new thing, y'know?"

The bandage properly clipped ("Careful! Those clip things bite!"), Mike settled back on his rump to wait out the required quarter-hour. Casually, he reached for Richie's penis, enjoying the way the clean, familiar stiffie quickened even harder between his fingertips as his friend gave a delicious shudder. They'd been playing with each other like this since before either could remember. Mike peeled back the delicate skin of the hood to expose the tip of it, considering the ways in which it was different from his own, and yet so familiarly the same. He'd seen lots of other boys' dickies, including some that had been circum-something'd, with the skin cut off so that the tip wasn't covered when they got their hard-ons.

Mike made a face for an instant thinking about it. That was gross. Why would anybody want to cut the skin off a kid's dick?

'Routine' infant circumcision had become a widespread fad in America during the 'progressive' 20th Century, endorsed by religious fanatics who had in the 19th Century conceived that by denuding the head of a male baby's penis, the skin covering the glans would thicken and otherwise become desensitized, reducing the temptation to seek sexual gratification.

Sex was bad, of course, and masturbation was 'self abuse'.

A pseudoscientific medicalization of the practice – which had long been perpetrated for purely religious reasons in various bizarre sects – made some entirely unsupported claims for 'cleanliness' and alleged protection from venereal diseases, and under these excuses health insurance providers were induced to pay for these surgical procedures as women came overwhelmingly to be delivered in hospitals rather than in their own homes. It got to the point that almost no male babies were allowed to go home with their mothers unless they'd gotten what the obstetricians cynically called a 'snip job'.

For the doctors and the hospitals, it was a welcome revenue enhancement, and for the parents it wasn't an expense that they had to pay directly. The insurance covered it, so why not have it done so that young sonny would 'look like all the other little boys'?

When government regulations were issued so that the health insurance programs weren't required to reimburse for those 'routine' circumcisions, and groggy, exhausted mothers were told that they'd have to pay out of pocket some hundreds of dollars…

Suddenly 'routine' became not so routine at all any more, and with remarkable celerity it had to be said that if a parent wanted his or her child to 'look like all the other little boys', the kid was emphatically not circumcised.

Mike didn't try to get Richie off, but kept it leisurely, purely for his own selfish enjoyment. Mike liked Richie's penis. Heck, he liked all little-boy dickies, even the stubby ones on the first- and second-graders who tried to hang around the big boys in the Center's locker room at the end of swimming sessions. The ones who lived in their neighborhood went through days or weeks sometimes doing just about nothing but pestering the older kids for 'ticklebone' sessions.

Then they'd get interested in trading cards or toy dinosaurs or some other screwy thing and they'd quit grabbing at your crotch and giggling every time you turned around.

When the phone timer went off, Mike turned his attention back to the tattoo sheet, and he unwrapped the bandage carefully, rolling it back up again, the way you're supposed to. Then the paper was gently peeled away and Richie strained, stretching to look at it.

"Is it okay?" the blond boy asked. Did it come out right?

Mike concentrated, examining the number-and-barcode image scrupulously from one corner to another, from one side to the other, from the top to the bottom and back again. He grunted, then he smiled.

"Welcome to slavery, Mr. 6-8-2-4."

The camp site Andy had chosen was about a quarter-klick upstream, to the west and north of the clearing where the children had established their hideaway. The creek there had widened and deepened before the flow slid out to make its way east and south, yielding a satisfactory if small swimming hole along one margin, and on the opposite side held a sheltered corner in which to deploy sleeping bags and a campfire. The two teenagers had been lugging in supplies and comforts for a couple of days. They'd collected some deadfalls and other wood as fuel. They'd even filled two big matte black water bags from the creek, and set their tripods in a sunny patch to warm. No hot showers, but it didn't take much to make a difference from bathing in cold running water. All the amenities.

And no distractions, thought Andy contentedly.

Mike regarded Richie intently as the younger boy picked up the open slave collar and settled himself on the blanket next to him. It had gotten to be kind of a ceremony. You didn't put your collar on yourself; you had the other guy do it, fitting the cold steel yoke in front of your throat, then carefully pivoting the back half around its hinge – machined and smooth and strong as the pivots on a bank vault – to bring the teeth of the locking mechanism together, then pressing them closed with a solid clunk! that made Mike's dickie quiver like a tuning fork, sticking up straight from the base of his belly.

Once closed, Richie settled the collar just a little bit, the feel of it astonishingly heavy on Mike's shoulders and neck even after days of role playing with these symbols of power and submission. What was it like for the real slaves, the boys who knew that the sound of closure meant a presence that would be with them for years, maybe for the rest of their lives?

Mike looked at his friend's face, and he saw a funny kind of expression there, something almost tender, something that made him remember the way Richie looked when he'd been asleep, both boys cuddled up together in bed at one or the other's house. He wasn't really surprised when Richie's hands shifted to hold Mike's shoulders, and then the blond boy leaned over and kissed him, warm and intimately, right on the mouth.

When Richie had backed away, Mike could read something like confusion on his friend's face.

"I-I didn't mean to do that," said the younger boy. "It's just that you looked so, so…"

Mike nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I know." He swallowed hard. "It's all right. I won't tell anybody."

Richie blushed ferociously. "I'm sorry!"

The older boy got up on his knees and it was his turn to take a pair of smooth shoulders in his hands. He looked his friend in the eyes. "I'm not."

Whereupon Richie got kissed in return.

"It's not fag stuff we're doing," Mike explained, frowning. "It's just what regular guys do when they really, really like each other."

The expression Richie gave him was full of doubt, full of shame.

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely!" Mike shook his friend slightly and then reached for the other collar. Grinnng, he said: "C'mon! Let's get you into this necklace and start making vids."

"Let me go!" Mike growled, struggling furiously as Andy's hands tightened on his wrists, keeping the double-hammerlock in firm control. What the heck had happened?

One moment Mike had been savoring the taste and feel of Richie's dick, breathing in the scent of his friend's naked body, loving the way the other boy was shuddering in the aftercum excess of feeling that made the lightest tongue-touch on the tip of his penis an agony of exquisite sensation, and the next instant he was in the hands of two big teenagers, one grabbing his arms and the other with inescapable grip on each of his ankles.

Spread-eagled with his own ankles and wrists tied tight with lengths of thick woven cotton clothesline to stakes the boys had hammered into the ground, Richie was sure no help.

Bad as it was, Mike thought, it could've been worse. If this had happened thirty or forty minutes earlier, he would've been the one belly-up and bound hand and foot.

"Let me go, or I'm gonna kill you!" he raged. He felt Frank's knee a weight across his calves as the rope went around his right ankle, then swiftly encircled his left, the knots going home with competence borne of long practice. His wrists would be next, and knowing that made Mike redouble his efforts, sputtering helplessly in his captors' control.

Richie could contribute nothing but cries of "No! Don't! Get me loose! It's not fair!"

The older boys joined forces to tie Mike's wrists together, and when Andy flipped his brother over onto his back, Mike glared up at the both of them with murder in his eyes.

"I'm gonna get you!" he promised. "I'm gonna get you back for this!"

"Yeah, right," said Andy, his tone cocky. He reached down to examine the collar around his brother's neck. "How the heck did you guys make these things, anyway. Jeez, they look real."

Then his expression changed. "Gawd, they are real!"

Mike winced as his brother manipulated the steel weight encircling his throat, hefting it as best could be managed between thumbs and fingertips, testing the rigidity and solidity of it. Frank joined him, peering closely at the etched barcode on one side of it, peering at the lines where the now-concealed hinge and locking mechanisms were.

Both of the adolescents had long since satisfied themselves with the characteristics of slave collars one could see and touch while using slave boys in the Comfort Complex. On their first visit, one of the slaves they'd selected had told them both about how almost every first-time client showed fascination with these obtrusive symbols of servitude.

("When they get a slave boy in bed," the youngster had explained, "it's, like, the first time you get a really close look." He'd smiled. "You guys get to see slaves out there in your home town wearing collars like mine, but you were too polite to get up close and check 'em out. When you've got a boy like me to do the sex with, though, you're supposed to get close, so…")

Mike didn't know that, of course.

"Yeah, it's real," he replied. "So's Richie's."

"Where the hell did they come from?"

Richie jerked at his bonds. "Let me up," he yelled angrily, "and I'll tell you!"

Frank knee-walked over to his cousin and grinned down at the blond child. "I don't think so." He ran a hand up and down the length of the slender, muscular young body. "I like you just like this!" Then he got a grip on Richie's little ballsac and squeezed it just enough to make the kid lurch and yelp with surprise and pain.

"Talk, little guy!"

They talked, almost taking it in turns to explain where Mike had found the collars, and their speculations about how they came to be packed away in Uncle Jack's stuff up in the attic.

"So we decided to make vids," explained Richie, lifting his head up as much as he could to nod in the direction of the little camera on its motorized tripod, which was still recording everything within its programmed field of operation.

Andy regarded it for a moment. "Okay. So where's the key you found with these collars?"

Mike indicated the place where they'd piled their clothes, and Frank rummaged around in the pockets of one pair of shorts and then the other, coming up with the funny-looking little combination of various silvery and bronzen and golden metals. He grunted with approval and pocketed it.

"Hey!" Richie cried. "C'mon, get these things off us!"

"Oh, no!" replied Frank. "Not until we've had a little fun. You two went through so much trouble to make yourselves into slaves. You think we're going to emancipate either of you until you've had the full experience?"

Richie looked puzzled for an instant, then his alarm was profound. "No!"

"Yeah," Andy countered. He looked down at his brother, who was breathing hard, his chest and belly heaving with his own efforts to break free, the look in the brown-haired boy's eyes growing more and more frantic. Mike saw the bigger boy's hand descend on his little hardness and gasped as the fingers played with him, squeezing and stroking to make him squirm with anguish.

The smiling adolescent carefully pleasured his victim. "Why did you think I left that dildo for you to find?"

"D-dildo?"

Andy nodded. "Yeah. The thing that looks like a big penis. You've been using it in your bottoms, haven't you?"

Mike's eyes went wide, and he paled, trying to shake his head.

"I know," said Andy confidently. "Stretching each other nice and wide, doing 'torture' all sexy and nasty." He grinned wickedly. "Getting yourselves ready for Frank and me."

Andy and Frank hadn't discussed tactics, but each had independently come to the conclusion that the best way to get things started was to keep the little guys tied up and suck them silly. It had taken some time after their suppressant drug injections had been discontinued for the two older boys to begin showing the incredible growth surges that commonly resulted when deferred sexual maturity is allowed to manifest. Before they started to blitz through the Tanner stages [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanner_scale], though, the teenagers had been pretty close to the same size and strength as Richie and Mike, and the four of them had kept on indulging together in little-boy orgies of manual and oral stimulation.

Especially oral sex. Once upon a time, neither of the younger boys could remember a week in their lives – heck, a day – when they were not getting sucked-off by either Andy or Frank. Or both. They'd learned everything they'd really needed to know about the subject from their older partners.

At first the older guys' bigger balls and their longer cocks and even the first evidences of crotch hair had been pretty neat changes. Andy started showing first, but both he and Frank began shooting stuff at more or less the same time, manifesting semenarche thinly, but then rapidly progressing to full production of sperm-bearing jism, viscid and voluminous.

And that put the little fellas right off. First Mike and then immediately thereafter Richie expressed repugnance, repelled by the thought of having anything to do with stuff that squirted out of the place the piss came from, no matter how fervently Andy (and then Frank) pleaded with them, protesting how amazingly good it felt to squirt real sperms just like in the porn vids they'd illegally and immorally accessed. No matter how good the older boys were at sucking little-kid dickie, however, there was no possibility that either Mike or Richie was going to do sex with them that way.

"If I let you suck my penis," Mike put it grimly, "you're gonna say I gotta suck yours back, and –" he grimaced disgustedly "– no way am I gonna suck your leaky pizzle anymore!"

Just the private mention of a little assplay – not even fucking, just jazzing off between Richie's delectably smooth young buttcheeks – damned near got Frank an enraged kick in the balls. He managed to catch his cousin's effort on his thigh, but it'd still hurt like a bitch.

All this, of course, left the hormone-raging Andy (and to a lesser but still profound extent, Frank) obsessed with the sexual desirability of the forbidden fruit in their own back yards.

They'd both thought that the approval of their access to the delights of the government Comfort Complexes would satisfy their appetites. Slave quim was made abundantly available to the newly raging adolescent boys who'd been released from the chemical bonds of the sexual development suppression shots, and each had sampled timidly and then avidly everything available, including not only prepubescent children of both sexes but also women, teen-aged girls, and even those male slaves who had been induced to show signs of sexual maturation and then 'frozen' pharmaceutically into a condition approximating that of an unsuppressed thirteen- or fourteen-year-old.

For some adults – both men and women – the early blush of male sexual adolescence (with seedless sap-slinging genitals and a susceptibility to acne) was inexplicably attractive. Andy and Frank had early in their Complex adventuring agreed to request a few of those slaves, but after giving half a dozen of them a tumble or two, they'd gone back to the naturally sweet-scented and smooth little guys.

("If I was really hot for that kind of thing," explained Frank to his friend, "I woulda tried fucking you.")

"Oh, you bastard!" Mike gasped after his brother had driven him to yet a second orgasm, barely letting up after the first one. Both had been A-number-one suck jobs, admittedly, but having it done to you while your hands were tied behind your back was unspeakably demeaning. Like any other normal, healthy little boy – especially in the rivalry all brothers knew so fiercely – Mike wanted to be doing the penis-sucking right back so that the other guy couldn't take unfair advantage.

But that would mean sucking Andy's big, hairy, precum-dripping dingus, wouldn't it?

Jeez!

"Now, now," admonished the teenager as he crept up to lay on his side against the belly-up little victim's body. Gazing down admiringly at the sweaty, flushed face of his brother, Andy caressed the child's eyebrows and nostrils and lips then slid his hand downward, bumping over the slave collar before going lower to gather up the perfect little prick and pods, testing them fondly. "No naughty language. Damn, but I don't think you can go soft, can you? Being hog-tied really turns you on."

That wasn't precisely right, of course. Andy hadn't bound Mike's wrists to his ankles, instead leaving the kid's legs comfortably extended, but the thought of that zinged through the little boy's mind and made him gasp more fervently as his brother played with his dickie and teasingly squeezed his balls and the other stuff inside his scrotum. Richie had done that 'hog-tie' thing to him a couple of times, and it left you even more helpless during the sex!

"How did that dildo feel up inside you?"

Mike blinked at him, terrified. What could he say? "It hurt some at first, but then it got to be pretty okay" wasn't what he wanted. It was true, but it sure as heck wasn't what Mike wanted to say!

"Only fags like to do stuff up their bottoms!" the child responded angrily. "I'm not a fag!"

The big teenager chuckled. "No, of course you're not." Andy leaned over and kissed his helpless young brother on the cheek. "I know you're not. Neither am I. But you don't know what I know about little guys' bottoms, or how big, hard things going up inside them can make the sex feelings way stronger than anything else."

"You never got a big dickie shoved up your bottom," Mike protested. "If it's s'posed to be so great, how come you don't get it done to you?"

Andy shrugged, frowning. "Because it's a kind of 'little guy' thing, I think. I've talked with some of the slave boys about it, because they get grown-up cocks shoved up them all the time, and the ones who tell me about it say that when it's not done really nasty – just to hurt them and make them feel ashamed and make it painful for them – it's something that tells you how much you really make the guy who's doing you so sexed-up that he can't do anything else but want to get deep down inside you."

He paused. "I never had anybody who liked me enough to want that, to do me up inside my bottom that way. Maybe there was – Uncle Jack, I think – but Dad never left him alone with me, and maybe Uncle Jack was too scared to break the law with me. The laws are pretty awful, Mikey." Andy's hand was back around Mike's face, brushing back the boy's hair, and Mike could scent the smell of his own sweaty penis and testicles on his brother's fingers.

It was… exciting.

"And you… like me?" Mike asked in a low voice. "That way? You wanna push your dickie up inside me, like doing a real slave boy?"

Wincing, Andy nodded. "That's why Frank and I jumped you guys like this. I'd been watching you." He flicked the collar with one fingernail. "I thought you'd just made some kind of fancy fakes, but I figured if we caught you out here, where nobody could see, we could, uh… make you let us do the sex to you. All the way, I mean. And, yeah, I want to push my cock up inside you."

His expression was so sad, Mike thought. He looks like it's the most impossible Christmas present in the world for him. And it was something only Mike could give him.

Tied up, naked, collared, and utterly helpless, the little boy realized that his big, strong brother was asking for permission to do the sex inside his bottom.

"You promise you won't hurt me?"

Andy sighed. "I can't promise that, Mikey. It always hurts when a little guy like you gets a grown-up sized penis in his bottom. It hurts 'most all the time for the slave boys, and they get even bigger dicks than mine or Frank's shoved up inside them five or six times a day." He put a fingertip just between Mike's lips, at the corner, the way he used to do when Mike was only about three years old, and without thinking the younger boy parted his teeth to touch it with his tonguetip, feeling the fingernail and tasting it.

"Your hard-on," Mike half-mumbled, "isn't as thick as that dildo thing, is it?"

A chuckle, and the teenager shook his head. "No. I don't know if my dick is ever gonna get that thick. I've seen some really big ones on the grown-ups who come to the Comfort Complex." He sobered. "I think some of them would like to fuck me. I'd never let somebody like that even try to do you, Mikey. That'd be… really bad."

"Good," decided the younger boy. "But only if Riche says he'll let Frank do him." He grimaced, trying to rise up enough to see what the other boys were doing. "I'm not gonna be the only one to get a cock up inside him today!"

At that moment, Frank came over to kneel down next to the two brothers. "Mike?" he said uncertainly, "Richie just told me that he'll only let me do him – you know, up his butt – if you'll let Andy do you, too." A hard swallow. "He doesn't want to be the only one getting done that way, and he made me come over and ask you. Is it okay?"

Mike grinned. "If I tell you no, are you gonna fuck him anyway?"

The neighbor looked embarrassed. "Oh, man. I wanna do him so bad I think my cock's gonna jump off and go for him on its own! Please, Mikey? I promise, I won't hurt him. Not bad, I mean."

The little boy lost his grin. This really wasn't funny. "You love Richie, don't you?" he asked.

Frank hem'd for a moment, then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Yeah. I guess I always have."

"Then you gotta kiss him," Mike ordered. "A real 'lover' kiss, like in the vids. And you gotta never be mean to him again." He thought for a second. "Me, neither. You got that?"

The adolescent nodded. "Sure, Mike. If he doesn't yak when I try to smooch him."

"Do it anyway," the child recommended. "He'll get used to it."

Frank's face brightened. "Sure." He leaned over, took Mike's head between his hands, and kissed him, right on the mouth.

"See?" said Frank. "I'm a pretty good kisser. I'll make him like it!"

Mike and Andy watched their friend return to the blonde boy's spread-eagled body, Frank stripping off his tee-shirt and untying the drawstring of his board shorts eagerly. "Mike says it's okay!"

Richie groaned theatrically. "Oh, no!" He lifted his head to yell at Mike: "Traitor!"

Helplessly, Mike and Andy broke up laughing.

Chapter Eight

Frank shook his head. "No." He regarded the slave-tattooed, slave-collared little boy tenderly. "I asked some of the kids at the Comfort Complex about how they got it, their first time. The Slave Authority calls it 'conditioning,' but the boys talk about it as getting 'broken in'. The Discipline Masters do it with your hands tied, so there's nothing a guy can do to fight back." He reached for Richie's left hand, palm-up in its wonderful vulnerability, and touched the fingers lovingly before testing the cord around the boy's wrist.

"E-even if I say it's okay for you to, uh, do the sex inside me?" Richie blinked up at his cousin, the fear impossible for him to hide.

"Unh-uh," responded the big teenager. "It's done that way so that when a free boy gets made into a sex slave, it's, like, obvious to him forever that getting fucked isn't his fault. That the first cock goes inside him whether he wants to go along with it or not, that he hasn't got a choice, so he knows that he doesn't own himself anymore." Frank cleared his throat nervously. "So he doesn't feel guilty about what's being done to him. You understand?"

"You want me to feel everything the way a real slave boy does?" The blonde child shuddered ever so slightly. "For his first time?"

Frank nodded again. "I, I don't want you to think that this is your fault."

Richie thought for a moment. "Then it's your fault?" He shook his head. "I don't think it's really your fault, Frankie. It's just…" He gave a little shrug. "Y'know?"

"I think so," said the older boy. "It's just the way it's gotta be. The way we both need it to be."

Richie licked his lips. "Being a slave boy – a real slave boy – has gotta be awful, right?"

"I guess so." Frank leaned over his cousin to look down into the child's eyes. "But I want you for my own slave boy. I'd like to own you forever. Keep you forever, even though I know you're gonna have to be a regular boy, and grow up and everything."

He shifted up to straddle Richie's torso, leaning forward over the boy, coming down on the blanket on his elbows, his hands holding the child's head from either side, both thumbs stroking the eyebrows as he studied the beloved face.

"I want to put my penis in your mouth," Frank said softly. "Not to make the sperm come in your mouth or anything, but just to see you do it, the way you used to suck me before I got bigger." He sighed. "I really liked it when you used to suck me. Not just how good you were at doing it, but because it was you doing it, because you wanted me to feel good, and you were willing to take my dirty old dingus in your mouth for no other reason."

Richie grinned at that and tried to shake his head. "Not really," he said. "I wanted to suck your dickie because it made you go crazy, all squirming and jumping and yelping, like a complete spaz! That was fun."

Frank smiled in return. "Like you didn't go just as nuts when I did it to you? Heck, you still do!" He shifted to slide his long, thick cock up and down along the smooth, muscular young body beneath him, shivering with pleasure. "Oh, you feel so good!"

"You – you're gonna make me suck you, right?" Richie looked up at Frank. "I gotta suck you, on account of I'm tied up, and I'm just a slave boy, and I gotta get you ready to put your dickie in my bottom." He gulped. "And it's gonna hurt a lot more if you're mad at me for not showing you I'm a good slave."

Frank didn't say anything for a long moment. "Call me 'Master,' slave boy." He gazed down with grim intent. "Show me that you understand why you're here, and what you are."

An electric thrill ran through Richie's whole being, and with astonishment he heard himself saying: "Yes, Master! I, I understand, Master! Please put your penis in my mouth, Master, and let me prove that I understand." He licked his lips, which had suddenly gone so dry that the boy wondered if he could suck his cousin's cock. This was so sexy!

The big, strong body moved above him, knees on either side of Richie's chest, and one hand went around the back of the child's head to lift it up while the Master took the shaft of the enormous cock in his other hand to bring it to the slave boy's face. When Richie breathed in, the smell of it hit him like a load of bricks, mature and musky and powerful, something at once strange and familiar, a potency he had never known before but for which he was astonishingly hungry, and Richie felt his face going hot with shame like nothing he'd ever known before.

Oh, jeez, does this mean that I really am some kind of fag? The big, domed head of Frank's grown-up cock glistened with the thin pre-cum stuff that Richie had been taught about in Health class, which a man made in his penis to help the sperms go into a lady's cunnie and make her have babies. But what's it for if you're doing fag stuff like this?

Man, but it smelled so weird, so fascinating, so nice! It meant that the Master really wanted him, wanted Richie, wanted to see him take that big penis into his mouth and taste it so that it could be shoved up into Richie's body to make the sperms squirt all the way inside him.

And that's because I'm a slave! thought the child frantically. Just a slave, and I have to do what my Master wants! Oh, God!

He watched it come close, felt it being rubbed, slippery and warm and big against his lips, and without thinking he opened his mouth, moaning as it slid inside, meeting it with his tongue, closing his lips around it, going shut-eyed to taste it better, surprised by how it was different from the way Frank's dickie used to be, and yet knowing it really was Frankie's, the part of his cousin's body that he'd learned to know so well ever since Richie had been just a toddler, so nice to hold and suck and play with…

And he's my Master now! He wants me for the sex, the real sex, the sex that makes me a bad boy, so awful that anybody who looks at me will know how bad I am because I'm letting him do it, letting him make me his slave boy! Richie groaned and felt the big penis move just a little inside his mouth, whereupon he started slowly and deliberately to test the mass of it with his tongue, gently sucking upon it, swallowing saliva flavored with his Master's grown-up maleness, the scent of his possessor's body filling his nostrils and overwhelming him.

It seemed a long time later that the Master pulled his cock out of Richie's mouth, gasping, gazing down at the little boy with lust that made the slave quiver in response. Richie watched the grown-up shift again to kneel on the blanket further down, to spread the slave's legs apart, grappling ankles and pushing them up on either side, then taking him by the hips, lifting Richie's body up, the clean little-boy penis so stick-up stiff in the warm sunlit air, the opening in Richie's bottom still slippery from the antiseptic ointment Mike had used to grease up the big dildo-thing to work it up inside Richie's butt when his friend had sucked him off such a long time before, and then lowering the slave upon the Master's cock…

"Oh!" The blond boy's eyes went wide at the feel of it settling in the entryway. It seemed so much bigger than the dildo-thing! It pressed against the tender opening, where a regular boy was never supposed to be touched, where only a slave could be made to feel a grown-up's penis, a slave boy all helpless and despised by good people, a slave boy who wasn't allowed to say "No" to a Master, who had to surrender his body to anything a man wanted to do to him…

The living mass of hard maleness shoved into Richie's flesh, a surge of pressure and then it was in, the smooth head of it, so thick!

Richie gazed up at his rapist wonderingly, shocked at the sensation within him. Why would anyone want to do something so awful, so cruel, to a little boy? Especially with a beautiful grown-up penis that was so good to hold and play with and suck? This was so dirty, so shameful!

The boy felt terrible that the Master should be using his wonderful cock on a sinful, disgraceful, unworthy slave, a slave who didn't deserve anything but beatings and humiliation and suffering instead of the – oh! – sensation of having a Master's body so intimately connected with his own.

Moving gracefully, easily, the experienced Master worked his thing slowly, inexorably further and further up inside the body of his slave boy, studying the child's response to his first-ever fucking, a victim utterly helpless, staked out under the sky for this sacrifice of his virginity, wanting to escape the pain of it but knowing that there was nothing he could do, no way he could resist.

Wider and wider Richie was feeling his bottom being spread open, the bottom of a naked and collared slave boy, getting just what a dirty little slave deserved, the punishment that was proper for something that was only human in shape and response, not a real boy, not a kid who anybody had to treat as worthy of love and protection. This was a deprivation of everything Richie had ever known, and at the same time an endowment of terrible privilege, the joy of letting go, abandoning all pretensions, the slow disappearance of the whining young brat he realized he had been and the acceptance of something he hadn't even been dimly aware of, something both greater and lesser, an expansion of his world while at the same time a concentration of focus so intense that it shocked him with its intensity.

This is what I want! he thought This is what I'm supposed to do! Who I was always supposed to be!

Richie groaned as he felt the Master's penis shove the last little bit needed to get all of the hard flesh all the way up inside his bottom, filling him so full that the boy thought he might not be able to breathe, but breathe he did, panting in terror and amazement as he looked up at the face of his owner.

"You, you're there, aren't you?"

Frank nodded, his hands moving from Richie's hips to the boy's thighs, folding them up a bit more as he shifted himself to loom over the child, pushing his penis impossibly deeper, making the little guy give a tiny yelp of pain as it went – astonishingly! – deeper still. Richie had watched in the forbidden sex vids as grown-up men did the fucking to little boys and girls and women, but this was something new in spite of the fact that Frank was doing it to him in a way Richie knew he had seen a number of times.

But in each of those vids it had been done to someone he didn't know, somebody who wasn't really real, just a fantasy on a vid display. This was actual, it was happening, it was inside Richie's own bottom, big and hard and living, full of real blood and powered by real muscles and searching up into the most secret part of a little boy's body, hurting him with real pain and stirring real feelings that made the child's face burn with humiliation and unspeakably sordid pleasure as he was used for the sex by someone who was making Richie his slave.

Richie had read about how a cock moving inside a boy's bottom touched parts that made a kid have strong sex feelings, but he hadn't understood. When Mike had used the dildo in his bottom there had been something almost like what he thought the stuff on the 'Net was talking about, but he hadn't been sure. Now – ah! – he knew! Oh, God, he knew! Frank's penis was rubbing back and forth against something so deep inside Richie's middle that he had no idea where it was, only that it was there, that it was in the parts of him that made him a boy, and that it felt absolutely horrible and absolutely wonderful, all at the same time.

It was almost as if Richie needed to pee, but it wasn't that. It was almost as if he was on the edge of getting his good feelings, but Frank hadn't touched Richie's stiffie since he'd started the fucking. It was in his guts and somehow even deeper than his guts, spreading out from his bottom and the roots of his penis, up into his back, aching so profoundly and nonetheless something he wanted to go on feeling, more and more, even if it killed him.

Could a guy die from this? Richie pulled hard at the ropes that tied his wrists down, wanting desperately to get away, but realizing how glad he was that he couldn't, that he had to lie here, his bottom being jammed full of Frank's cock every time the big teenager finished the slow pull-back with a much faster shove all the way back up inside. If he could die from this, Richie realized, he was going to die.

And was dying like this really such a bad thing to happen? Oh, jeez! Oh, jeez, oh, jeez, oh, Gawd!

Never had the good feelings come for Richie like this, and still his dickie hadn't been touched! It just twitched against the child's smooth young belly as the convulsions hit him, again and again and again.

Part of Richie's mind realized that Frank was having his own good feelings, too, and he wondered whether his cousin's sperms looked like the white stuff that spurted out of men's things in the vids. It's going all inside me! The money shot, he remembered. How come they call it that? Oh, man, that hurts so good!

Mike and Andy weren't idle while this was going on. So much the opposite of 'idle' in fact that they didn't give an honest damn about their friends. Andy had spread out the other old army blanket on the other side of the little clearing and he carried his well-trussed little brother over to settle the child belly-up on the center of it.

"C-could you please untie me?" asked the younger boy, and Andy just smiled, shaking his head. Reclining next to Mike, the teenager supported the kid's head with one hand and ran the fingers of his opposite hand through the sweat-soaked brown hair, gazing down at Mike's face.

Mike had seen plenty of vids in which boys and girls and women got the sex done to them while they'd been tied up, and he admitted to himself that in spite of being scared he was also way turned on by the idea.

"But how can you do it with my legs tied together?"

After all, nothing like that had been shown in any of the vids Mike had ever seen. The person getting the penis inside him – or her – was supposed to put the legs apart, and Mike tested the bindings Frank had knotted around his ankles. Wasn't gonna happen.

"Trust me," replied Andy, and then seeing the look his younger brother gave him, the bigger kid had to laugh. Mike had long ago learned what 'Trust me!' meant.

"Honest," Andy said confidently. "Slave kids in the Complex get done in their bottoms just like this."

"But, uh, how d'you…?" Mike wriggled slightly in embarrassment. "You can't get your dickie all the way up inside, can you?"

The older boy leaned closer, kissing Mike fondly on the lips. "I can get my cock inside you, little guy. Doesn't matter how far, as long as it's inside you. You, little slave boy. You personally, and nobody else."

"But I'm not a slave boy," Mike said softly, apologetically. "I'm only a slave boy for pretend." It was as if Mike wanted his brother to have something better, something real. He just wasn't good enough for Andy, just a snotty kid playing a dumb game.

Andy shook his head, still concentrating on Mike's face. "You're the best slave boy in the world for me." He smiled. "You're the boy I think about every time I fuck any of those other slave boys. You're the one I really want." There was a strange look on the teenager's face. "Always have been."

"You can untie me," Mike said in an almost whisper. "I won't try to fight you. I promise."

Again there was a headshake in response. "No. I want you tied up, just like this." There was a sadness in Andy's eyes, but a fierce desire, too. "I've dreamed about having you, tied up like this, totally helpless, and so beautiful. We both know that it's going to hurt you, and even though you're a brave little boy – such a nice little guy! – I want you to be absolutely perfect for me, still innocent, still pure, only taking me up inside you because we both know that there's no way for you to say 'No' in spite of how bad its going to be for you. I want the sex to be strong for both of us, strong because there's nothing you can do to get away from it, because nothing that happens to you in the sex is your fault."

He hugged the little boy firmly. "Doesn't it make you feel embarrassed to know that you're going to get a big man-sized penis shoved up into your bottom, just the same way a dirty little slave boy has to take it? That I'm going to use you, totally against your will, to make my cock shoot sperm all the way inside you? A free boy is never supposed to let a grown-up do this to him, and here you are, all naked and tied up and unable to get away from it. Doesn't that scare you? Doesn't that make you disgusted?"

Glassy-eyed, Mike nodded, not realizing he'd done so. Then he blinked, shook his head slightly, licked his lips. "N-no," he insisted. "Uh, not that I'm not scared, 'cause I am. Your dickie is really big. But it doesn't matter if it's disgusting, because it's what you want to do to me, what you need to do, and I guess I always knew that someday I'd have to let you do it."

"You're not letting me, little guy." Andy's face was utterly serious now. "The moment we got our hands on you, there wasn't any kind of choice you had. You don't have any choice right now. Understand?"

Reluctantly, Mike nodded. "I, I guess." He paused. "Andy? You really love those slave boys, the ones at the Complex. Don't you? I mean, you love them in spite of how they're just dirty slaves."

His brother held very still, looking down at Mike. "I, uh… well…" Mike saw Andy's face go red with the heat of his embarrassment. "Yeah, I think I do. Some of them." He grimaced. "You're not supposed to do that, you're not even supposed to think of them as people, and lots of those boys aren't really boys anymore, not regular kids. I think that being collared for so long, getting the sex done to them too much, the way so many grown-ups do the sex to kids at the Comfort Complexes, does something to them, something that just wears them out, makes them less like what regular children are supposed to be. 'Specially the girls, but I quit doing any of the girls, like, months and months ago."

Andy's fingers went through Mike's hair again, kind of combing it, making it less messy, the way he'd done so often under other circumstances when he'd taken care of a much younger version of the strong, beautiful little boy he held at this moment. "Most of them," said the teenager, "the ones who've only been sex slaves for a couple or four years, they get to like the sex pretty quickly. They get used to it, have clients who see them regular, and they even might get bought by some of the men who like them. Except for that, they're just like regular boys."

"I'm a, a 'regular boy,' Andy?"

That got a little smile out of his brother. "Oh, yeah. I don't think I could love you as much as I do if you weren't a regular boy. All boy, snotty and nasty and stealing my socks and all the rest of it." The smile became a grin. "The spoiled brat who always gets the last cupcake, who leaves his wet towel on my bed, who jams his bike into mine in the garage. You, kid."

For some reason that made Mike feel so nice he was afraid that he was going to start crying like a baby. And his hands were tied behind his back so that he couldn't even wipe the tears away. Jeez!

"When you do the sex to me…" Mike hesitated. "I mean inside me… Will that make me not be a 'regular boy' anymore? You know, like those slave boys who got too many grown-ups' dickies up inside them?"

"No way," replied the big teenager. "You could get twenty different grown-up cocks up your bottom, and you'd still be the same great little kid, all sexy and cute and 'regular.'" He bent his head down and kissed Mike again. "You're too tough to get worn out that way!"

Mike blinked a few times. He hadn't even gotten one cock up inside him yet. What would it be like to have twenty grown-up men doing the sex to a kid that way, one after another, squirting their sperms up inside the boy, filling him up with their big, hard things? Could a guy die of so much sex like that? The helpless, naked young child shuddered at the thought of it.

That sounded like something out of the school S.C.A.R.E. classes!

He was still thinking about it when Andy rolled him over on his belly and crouched over him to hold him by the shoulders and kiss the side of Mike's face and ear and hair. He closed his eyes, sighing. He was bare and tied up and yet somehow he felt all protected, as if nothing could hurt him. He was in the hands of somebody stronger and bigger, somebody who owned Mike, just as if the collar around his neck really belonged there.

Andy began to massage him as well, the big, strong thumbs working into the muscles of Mike's shoulders and back, along his spine and down, slowly, confidently. It made Mike remember how his brother had massaged him in years past, not always because Mike had been sore and needed it, but because Andy had enjoyed doing it, feeling the bones and the joints and the muscles in his little brother's body, learning how they were connected, how they moved, what each touch and stretch and circling pressure did to the younger boy, making Mike whimper and squirm or sigh and relax, testing the way Mike breathed.

For a long time it had been an every-bedtime thing, done to make the little boy give up wakefulness and surrender to sleep, as necessary as the before-bed trip to the bathroom and the necessary drink of water.

When did we stop doing this? Mike thought. It wasn't making him drowsy, but the familiarity of Andy's touch was so comforting. It was when the hands worked down to his hips and bottom that the sexuality hit him, and he felt his dickie go incredibly hard against the rough cloth beneath his body. There were muscles deep inside the cheeks of his bottom, and they'd been toughened by years of Conditioning Center exercise. Andy probed them, followed them, stretched them as if he working living leather and clay, hurting Mike but not in a bad way, then going down into the boy's thighs, seeming to sink those thumbs of his all the way down to the bone on each side, then lower, into the calves and then the soles of the feet, finishing off with flexing and slow pulling at each toe.

That completed, Andy was up again, over Mike's bottom, and the child felt his brother kissing at the base of his spine, the thumbs digging into Mike's butt cheeks, and then the kisses went down into the valley between those cheeks, the tongue working against Mike's skin, warm and wet and slippery as it slid further and further into the cleft until… he gasped!… Andy was pushing his tongue right in there, right where a grown-up put his dick into a little boy's body!

Mike had read something or other about guys doing this to a boy, but not many of the vids had shown anything like that. Yeah, it was done to girls' cunnies, but it wasn't as good as watching somebody suck a dickie. You couldn't really see what was going on when somebody was getting chin-down in a girl's crotch, could you?

But – wow! – if what people did to girls' cunnies felt half as good as what Andy was doing with his tongue in Mike's bunny-hole… He groaned, and arched his bottom up, trying to give Andy a better chance to push his tongue up in there, the sensation at the same time soothing and exciting. It was different from getting your penis sucked, but amazingly sexy in its own way.

This had to be something that grown-ups did to get a little kid ready to have a big cock shoved up inside him, and though the thought of it was kinda disgusting, the feeling was way cool. It made Mike struggle against the cords around his wrists and ankles, pulling them slowly, as strongly as he could, trying to break free of them, not to get away but to prove to himself – and to Andy – that they held him so strongly that there was no way he could escape.

Mike sensed that Andy could feel the smaller boy's muscles working, tightening, the joints creaking in his shoulders and elbows and hips and knees, hearing Mike's grunts and gasps of exertion even while Andy's thumbs spread the boy's bottom cheeks apart to work his tongue into the heat of Mike's bottom.

Then Andy rose up and over Mike, flipping him belly-up again, crouching over him, holding Mike's face between big hands and kissing the younger boy, right on the mouth, pushing that tongue between Mike's lips, between his teeth, into his mouth itself, and there was nothing bad about the taste of it, even though Mike knew where it had been pushing, and he could still feel the saliva slippery between his bottom cheeks, the kind of kissing Mike realized that he'd seen in the vids, where men and women got all mush-faced together, but this was pretty great.

I guess when it's guys kissing like this, he decided, it's not so yucky.

The kiss ended, and Mike looked up at Andy's face, his feelings suddenly fierce. There was a surprising sense of regret, the realization that his brother was growing up, that the closeness they'd known as little boys was going to end soon.

Seventeen! he realized. He'll have his driver's license next year, and he won't want me along when he goes out. Mike suddenly started to cry.

"What's the matter, Mikey?" Andy's voice was low, private. "Are you, uh, scared? If you are, I don't have to…"

"No!" Mike hissed angrily, ashamed of his tears. "I'm not scared! Not that way, anyhow. I'm just… just missing you!"

"Huh? Mikey, I'm right here." The older boy smiled kinda wickedly. "I'm gonna be right inside you in a minute."

How could Mike explain it? He was already missing the brother he'd lived with, shared with, fought with, hated and loved and had taken for granted all his life, ever since he could remember. This was the first time he'd really understood what he was losing as his dorky big brother was doing the last bit of growing up.

"You gotta do me in my bottom," Mike said, keeping his own voice low. "You gotta do me hard, understand? It's what you're supposed to do to a little slave boy, a dirty kid like me, so he can know how big and strong you are, so he can have a part of you inside him." He sniffled, the tears streaming now. "I could never have you do that to me when I was a free boy, but now I'm a slave, and it's okay. You can do it, and I gotta take it, and I can remember it for always after you're gone off to college and I won't have you messing with me anymore. Understand?"

Surprised, Andy nodded slowly, solemnly. "Yeah, I think I do." Leaning forward, he kissed the child. "I don't go off to college until after next summer. You want us doing the sex together until I do?"

"Hunh!" Mike glared through the tears. "You don't want that, too?" He made a razzberry. "I knew you wanted to screw me for, like, a year. Maybe more." He hated himself for crying, but he couldn't help it. "I shoulda let you, Andy. I know that now. All that time we wasted, me hating you because I was so stupid and scared. And now I'm a slave boy for you, like I should've been all along, but I didn't want to know it. So you gotta do it in me now, to make me be your slave boy, to make the sex happen between us, 'cause it's all gonna be going away in a year, and we'll never have it like this ever again afterwards!"

"So you're my slave boy?"

Mike nodded emphatically, snorting hard to get the thin snot sucked back and swallowed. It was kind of a bitch to have his hands tied behind his back, but it was so sexy, and Mike knew that he shouldn't be able to use his hands until after his bottom had been filled full of Andy's sperms. He just had to be patient.

"Then call me Master," said the teenager. There was a funny look on Andy's face, and Mike shuddered with excitement, feeling his dickie harden so bad that it made him want to shove it up against Andy's body. He was instantly aware of Andy's cock, big and thick and strong, pointing at the middle of Mike's belly, pulsing with every beat of the teenager's heart.

"Y-yes, Master!" he breathed.

Omigawd, he thought. It's real! I really am a slave boy! And he's the Master who's going to make it happen to me!

Suddenly the steel collar around Mike's neck pressed down on him, heavier than ever, almost crushing the breath out of his chest, and the child squirmed in the space between his Master's knees and elbows, his whole world shrinking into that volume contained by the muscle and bones and blood of the captor who commanded his obedience.

The law said that a free boy couldn't be fucked. But Mike had to be fucked, and Andy had to be the grown-up who fucked him. So Mike had to become a slave.

The Master was shifting again, rising up, kneeling over Mike's body, the big cock bobbing in the air, but not like a toy, not like a little guy's dickie. It was ponderous, powerful, long and wide and darker than the rest of the Master's body, with the big balls hanging down behind it. There was a hand on Mike's head, holding him, lifting his face up, and the other hand took the cock by its root, bringing it down so the tip of it rubbed against Mike's face, the warm wetness there spread across the slave boy's cheek and then his closed eye on that side, across his eyebrows, into the other eye, along the nose.

The big body of the Master was moving, the whole body working to push the cock against the slave's face, sliding it back and forth, marking the slave boy with the thin, slippery fluid. It wasn't pee, the boy knew, but something heralding the sperms' arrival. Sometimes a Master would shoot his sperms all over a boy's face, to make the boy know his Master's power, to show the boy that the taste and the smell and the feeling of a Master's sperms were what a slave boy deserved, and the thought of it ran through the core of Mike's being, filling him with both revulsion and eagerness.

So bad! he thought. So dirty! The Master knows I'm just a dirty little slave boy, and that's what a dirty little slave is supposed to get!

The boy waited to have the Master's sperms jetting out all over his face, and was surprised when the tip of it found his lips, rubbing at them, between them. He opened his mouth, taking it inside, his eyes still closed, tasting it.

He'd seen boys in the vids, sucking big dickies, proving to their older partners how much they liked the sex, and though Mike couldn't hold the shaft of the Master's cock – and that made it difficult for him to do the sucking as good as he knew he could – it wasn't difficult for him to take the big penis sliding in and out of his mouth, knowing that the Master was using him, using him to make the cock slippery with the slave's saliva so it could slide up inside the slave boy's bottom.

Or would the Master want to shoot his sperms in his slave boy's mouth, and make the boy swallow them? Could Mike do that? Could he swallow living sperm cells, all the way down into his stomach? Raw sperm cells?

But, no, the Master raised himself, the big cock leaving Mike's mouth, and the Master was kissing him again, tasting the Master's own penis on Mike's lips and tongue, taking this proof of the slave boy's obedience.

I'm your slave, Master! See? See?

When Mike was rolled over onto his belly, he arched his bottom up as best he could. Too much and he'd fall over to one side or another because the ankles were tied together so well that Mike couldn't get his knees apart very much. He felt the Master's hands on his hips, settling him down, but still he tried to make his bottom come up, a sign that he knew what he deserved, that his bottom was ready to take a man-sized penis into it, no matter how much the Master was going to hurt him.

There was a fingertip – no, two fingertips! – poking into the opening, and the feeling of it made Mike gasp. A doctor had examined him once, with just one fingertip, but in the vids Mike had seen little boys get fingers all the way up inside them, to push the slippery stuff up inside. Did the Master have slippery stuff?

There was something on the fingers now, something cool and sticky. The antiseptic stuff they'd been using for the dildo thing. Mike had only used the dildo on Richie. Mike hadn't had it used on him yet today.

Now I get a real penis inside me! he thought. Alive, and it makes the sperms go inside a boy!

The antiseptic was in some kind of thick jelly that melted on your skin. Or inside you. Mike had put some of it just into Richie's bunny-hole the first time they'd tried the dildo thing a few days before, and was surprised by the way it melted, just like butter on hot mashed potatoes.

Only we put this stuff between warm boy-buns. Oh, jeez! That's GOTTA be two fingers, and Master is pushing them in, and in, and – "Oh!" he yelped. "It hurts! Please, Master, it hurts!"

The Master said nothing, moving his fingers inside Mike's bottom slowly and carefully, but constantly, and the boy felt the stretching. It almost burned, and it ached, but he breathed deeply, concentrating hard.

I can't get away! I've got to relax. Let the stretching make me open up, open so that the Master can put his penis up inside me. Ouch! Did I say that? No! And I won't. The Master has to do this, the Master wants me to feel this, the Master knows I need this! Oh, gawd, but I feel like he's turning me inside out! Please!

The fingers slid all the way out of his bottom then, and Mike trembled, feeling cold all over his naked body at the same time his face went so hot he was sweating. The Master was crouching over him, leaning close, as if the Master were going to lie down atop him, and then the big penis was sliding up and down between the cheeks of Mike's bottom, guided by the same hand that had pushed the fingers into him, the penis spreading the ointment stuff, which had all melted, slippery and comforting in a funny way.

Such a big penis it was! How heavy it felt! It hadn't looked that big, it hadn't seemed so massive when Mike had had it in his mouth. Did it grow somehow? No, impossible!

Then the tip of the penis was in the opening, and Mike felt it pushing down, ponderous against the sensitive flesh, a place so secret and dirty that a kid couldn't imagine anyone wanting to look at it, much less touch it or taste it or put a beautiful big dickie into it, but that was what his Master was doing!

In the opening now, the thick wide rounded tip of it, catching there, where the fingers had gone into him, spre-e-a-d-ing Mike's bottom open as the boy arched his butt up, the way a guy does when he's pulling back to push his dickie against the bedsheets, but Mike wasn't trying to do that downward pushing. I have to lift up for him! thought the boy frantically. I've got to make it better for him to go inside me!

A penis is pretty obviously made to go inside a kid's bottom. It could certainly work to put the sperms up inside a lady's cunny, but a grown-up's hardness was straight or just a little curved, and round, just like a kid's anus is. A woman's vagina was vee-shaped for some reason, probably so it could stretch more open to get a baby out. The thought of that – even in the middle of being tied up and getting fucked – made Mike a little bit sick. Those vids got shown in Health class, and the ones about how kids got big guys' dicks up their butts were 'porno'.

Teachers and parents and the rest of those guys were out of their frickin' minds.

In all the sex vids, Mike had watched for the grown-up's penis starting to go in, even when it had just been girls getting it done in their heinies. He especially liked the ones showing the child's face when the head of the grown-up's dickie had popped through the entrance to begin the fucking, how shocked the little guy was when that happened, and now…

"Ungh!" Mike grunted, lurching a little in spite of his determination not to, recovering like the good slave boy he had become, not resisting, not trying to get away. It burned a little in the opening, pretty much the same way that the Master's fingers had burned, but it didn't scare him. Every slave boy's bottom had to burn like this – oh, darn! – when it was stretched open by the big penis of a Master.

It was so weird, and yet so right! His wrists tied together behind his back, his ankles tied together so that there was no slack between them, Mike couldn't escape what the Master was doing to him. He felt the big, strong hands on his hips, lifting him upward even more, not so much fixing him in place but actually pulling Mike's flesh onto the Master's penis, like a man pulling a slightly-too-small glove onto his hand. Oh, it hurt!

Each time the Master adjusted his position, each time the push-down drove more of the thick hardness into his bottom, the slave boy cried out his pain. The thing entering his body seemed to be getting tremendously thicker with every millimeter of penetration.

All the years Mike had sucked on Andy's penis, it had been the dickie of a little boy. Like most kids, the suppression shots had kept Andy from getting bigger down there, and up until they'd taken Andy off those medicines, Mike had really liked the way the two of them were almost equal in size and development. Doing sex stuff with Andy had been almost like messing around with Richie or the other guys in school, only Andy had been nicer somehow.

That had ended when quitting the shots had made Andy change, like, almost overnight. The balls got bigger, the dick got enormously longer and thicker, the hairs started showing…

(Oh, man, I can feel the hairs touching my bottom cheeks! He's that far up inside me already!)

…Andy got taller, got muscles, his voice changed, and – all of a sudden – Andy stopped being Andy the way Mike had known him, the brother who was just a kid like Mike, smarter and able to do more neat stuff because he was older, but instead a guy who was turning into a grown-up, robbing Mike of the companion he'd cuddled with and played with and did sex with.

And Mike had hated that Andy. He'd wanted his old Andy back, and Mike could never have that Andy any more. Not ever again.

Now Mike was learning to know that grown-up Andy the way a naked little boy should always know a grown-up man, feeling the strong man-smelling body all on top of him, the big, thick hard penis spreading his bottom open and working in and out, in and out, going deeper and deeper as it spread the boy's flesh wider with every push, hurting the boy with the power of a grown-up's tribute to the boy's value as a sex slave.

Like most small boys subjected to pedication for the first time, Mike came to terms with the reality of his rape by silently offering himself to the new Master, angling his bottom upward so that the big penis could explore his flesh less painfully, discovering as he did so that this made the thick mass of manflesh slide along something within Mike's body that made the boy's sense of pleasure peak unspeakably.

"Ah!" he gasped when first he felt it, sensed the Master shifting to do it again, harder this time!

That was… jeez! He knows he hit it, whatever it is! Oh, you bastard! Unwittingly, Mike wriggled, trying to roll out from under the relentless imposition of this pleasuring excess, but one hand was on his hipcrest now, holding him pinned like a butterfly on a specimen tray, the Master's other hand and forearm gathering up Mike's head, pinning him down on one cheek to the rough surface of the blanket, making sure Mike knew that this could not be evaded.

Mike felt the Master's big, sweaty body moving on top of him, the muscular belly coming down and shifting up against Mike's fingertips until the sensations inside Mike's bottom and on his dickie – being pushed down into the blanket – were so strong that Mike had to pull his hands into fists, clenched tightly to help him hold back, and hold back…

Oh, gawd, I'm gonna explode!

Sobbing his frustration and humiliation into the blanket beneath him, the slave boy surrendered to his Master, receiving as his reward first of the many anal orgasms to which he would be submitted in the course of his life as the servitor of grow-up lust.

Chapter Nine

Frank started working on his cousin with a few of the wipes, and Richie accepted the treatment without protest. Both family camping trips and Militia field training exercises had proved that doing this kind of 'whore's bath' business yourself was less than efficient and not anywhere near as effective as having it done by a buddy. Andy grabbed the packet and began getting the grass and sweat… and sexual fluids… off his brother.

"You want me to clean you up after you get done with me?" asked the blond boy as Frank used a wipe in each hand to clean the child from his hairline down. Richie sat compliantly on his heels, lifting first one arm and then the other, luxuriating in the vigorous massage Frank was providing to leave the boy's skin cool and tingling.

"Nah," replied the teenager, "Andy 'n me got more work to do." He grinned at the younger boy, taking the kid's chest between his hands, one in front and one in back, scrubbing away. "You can get the sweat and the stink off us after that. Okay, over on your back."

Richie was more embarrassed than usual when Frank folded the boy's knees and hips to get at his bottom. He could feel the stickiness where the ointment didn't make it all slippery, and suddenly he noticed the smell of Frank's sperms, a scent that had become so familiar that it had seemed natural to him.

"I'm, I'm sorry, Master," whispered the boy. With one hand holding Richie's knees together, Frank looked at him in puzzlement.

"For what, little guy? I'm the one who did this to you." He smiled apologetically. "I should be telling you how sorry I am, but…" The smile became a leer. "I'm not!"

That got a giggle out of Richie as his cousin finished getting the smut off his butt. Frank called to Andy for the wipes, and got the package tossed to him. Pulling out another pair of the little paper towels, Frank tenderly cleaned the child's penis and testicles before treating Richie's legs as he'd handled the kid's arms, finishing off with the youngster's feet. Then he had Richie stand at the edge of the blanket and fetched the sunblock/repellant lotion from Frank. Applying it sparingly, Frank worked the younger boy over with the stuff, including Richie's face and ears.

Richie realized that his cousin's touch had become so familiar again that his dickie didn't even go stiff when Frank had cleansed it, and now when Frank applied the lotion there was no sexy response. Knowing that made Richie feel happy in a way he didn't fully understand.

"Okay," said Frank, down on one knee after treating Richie's legs. "Bring your backpacks over here. Both of them."

Richie obeyed without wondering or asking why, though when he saw Frank bundling up Richie's sandals and clothes to put them in Mike's pack – where he could see Mike's stuff similarly stowed – he caught Frank's eye, his expression quizzical.

"No, you don't get dressed," the teenager replied, smiling. He reached up and flipped the tip of Richie's soft little dick, which almost instantly became a hard little dick.

The younger boy shuddered as he looked wide-eyed at Frank. "H-how come?"

"Are you kidding?" Frank shook his head. "Slave boys aren't allowed to wear clothes, 'specially in warm weather like this."

"But I'm not a slave," said Richie in a low voice. He reached up with one hand to shift his collar. "This is just for pretend."

Frank shook his head. "Not until that collar comes off, 6-8-2-4."

Uh-oh! thought the boy, and his dickie went even harder, sticking up at an angle from the bottom of his belly. Looking over, Richie saw that Andy had finished with Mike, too. The younger boy was on his feet, helping his brother gather all the stuff from the cache at the margin of the clearing, arranging it in a row near one edge of the blanket they'd been using for the sex.

"We've got the camping gear upstream," he heard Andy say. The teenager folded the younger boys' truck into the olive drab cloth to bundle it into a blanket roll. He began using the lengths of clothesline with which Richie and Mike had been tied, obviously delighted with the re-tasking.

"But how come we can't just come with you?" asked Richie.

Andy grinned. "Because we've got you two naked!" he said exultantly. "Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, without a stitch of clothing, unable to run away. You'll be right here when we come back for you."

Mike regarded Richie with a frown. "At least they're not leaving us tied up," he observed.

"Yeah?" Richie regarded him indignantly. "They're leaving us bare-ass! We can't get home this way, can we? Frank?" He turned to his cousin. "How come we can't just come with you right now?"

Frank shrugged. "Well, the campsite's not completely set up," he admitted. "There's a couple of things that we want to finish before we let you see it. We've gotta dig a fire pit, for one thing, and an, uh…"

Mike snorted. "Yeah. If we're going to be out here all week-end, we're gonna need a latrine, aren't we?" He focused on his brother. "I figured you were gonna make us little guys do that job!"

"Well," Andy admitted, "we were. But using even a camp shovel in your bare feet is kinda not gonna happen, is it? And you guys only came out here in sandals. We both forgot to grab your hiking boots." He finished tying up the blanket roll. "Look," he continued, "just relax. Catch a tan, okay? Maybe snooze a little. It'll take some time to get the fire down to coals and thaw the soyaburgers. The cold pack probably won't keep 'em overnight, so we might as well have them for dinner today."

Richie perked up at that. "I got some pickles in my backpack I like 'em sliced thin on soyaburgers Can I have two burgers?"

Frank hefted Richie's pack. "Pickles. You and your pickles. Any other kid would've brought beef jerky, maybe some gorp."

Mike grinned. "Got that stuff in my bag. Can't we at least carry our backpacks over there?"

Andy shook his head decisively. "Not until we've got it looking right. Just shut up about it, okay?" He smiled fondly at the two younger boys. "You guys are entitled to a little pampering."

"Yeah?" Mike didn't get up, but he took his slave collar between thumb and fingertips on either side and waggled it. "How about pampering us out of these things?"

"Oh, no!" said Frank. "You guys are slaves for the weekend. No clothes, no shoes, no getting away. That's the rules."

"And if you aren't allowed shoes," put in Andy, "you're not gonna like walking through the bushes to the camp site. When we come back, we'll carry you there. Save your tender toes."

"Hey!" Richie objected. "We're not babies! We were out on exercises a couple of times last summer. We know how to get around in the woods."

"Not with your peckers hanging out," said Frank, "and not even those sandals you were wearing." He slung both of the backpacks on one shoulder. "Barefoot, remember?" He grinned. "And those are such pretty little peckers, too!"

Richie took a knee on the remaining blanket, then settled back on his heels, conceding defeat. "Well… Two soyaburgers, right?"

"You can't eat three?" Andy asked.

The blond boy grinned. "Maybe."

"Well, we gotta cook 'em all anyway." Throwing the blanket roll over his shoulder, Andy followed Frank out of the clearing.

Every Slave Police patrol car was equipped with a standard-issue Recovery Kit incorporating the items considered essential for 'bagging and tagging' up to half-a-dozen runners, including not only tough plastic zip-ties for wrists and ankles but also ball gags to abate the recaptured slaves' noise. There were even conformal blindfolds to render the recovered slaves incapable of seeing what was happening to them. Though the kit that Kemp pulled out of the compartment at the rear of their vehicle was made of the same black ballistic nylon as the kits Danny had trained on, it was easily three times the size.

"What the hell have you got in there?" he asked. "We're supposed to secure them, not carry 'em off in this thing."

Kemp flashed him a grin. "The telemetry reads them both as male, prepubescent. A couple of joy-boys, probably some rich civilian's sex toys. You never heard of that saying about how fortune favors the prepared mind?" He patted the kit. "You're gonna thank me later."

Ramirez fingered his own small belt kit, which he'd never opened except before inspections to make sure he wouldn't get gigged. Two sets of the regular zip-tie handcuffs issued to all cops, Slave Authority or not, a stubby little pre-loaded tranquilizer injector that could be dialed up or down for estimated weight, and a simple bite-block gag to prevent a recaptured slave from using his jaws to injure anybody. The trainers had spoken emphatically about cases in which runners had done that.

"How come we're not calling in back-up?"

Kemp regarded his partner with a moment of silent but scorching scorn.

"Because telemetry shows that there are two of them, and they're little boys, probably cute and fuckable. You wanna share them with goons like Ostrowski or Parker? Who the hell wants sloppy seconds after Parker puts that friggin' fungo bat of his up a kid's hole?"

The older man resumed getting geared up. "Hell, Parker's bigger than you are, and you're a goddam freak of nature. What the hell did I do to deserve a probie for a partner?"

Ramirez had completed probation months ago, but he wasn't going to stress the point.

It'd just make me look even more like a goddam n00b anyway…

"They coulda left us a bag of gorp," Mike groused. They'd moved the blanket a bit further out, to where the sunlight dappled the grass and gave them the chance to get a tan in spite of the sun block. Sitting there, both of them welcomed the warmth on their naked bodies, more conscious of their vulnerability than they'd ever been before. To be bare-assed in the pool at the Center, to be stripped for sex play as they'd been doing – that was something they'd chosen to do, knowing that they could get dressed right away if they wanted.

Here and now? They were naked because two big, strong teenagers – no matter how loving, no matter how sexy – had taken their clothes away from them, leaving Mike and Richie with slave tattoos on their thighs and slave collars around their necks, unable even to sneak back home.

"This sucks," said Richie decisively. He glanced sidelong at Mike who was giving him a funny kind of smile.

"Speaking of sucking…" said the older boy.

Richie's giggling got Mike going, and then they threw themselves at each other to wind up in a tangle of arms and legs and stiff little dickies, wrestling erotically on the rough cloth surface, each supposedly trying for one of the come-along holds they'd recently been reviewing in their Conditioning Center sessions.

In truth, neither was trying very hard.

Kemp was obviously in hog heaven. Ramirez saw the older Patrolman flash him a grin, barely visible through the foliage off to his right, about thirty degrees counterclockwise along the roughly circular clearing. A pair of slave boys, maybe ten, maybe twelve, just at the edge of the shade, one hand each locked on the opposite wrist of the other, laughing happily, not really trying to hurt each other, just playing as kids their age could be found playing on any beach or in any swimming pool in the country.

Except for those collars, and what Danny could see of one boy's thigh tattoo. He remembered his training, the manuals prescribing discipline and structure for slaves of all ages, how they were never allowed interpersonal contact, never permitted to become involved in bonds of friendship with other slaves. What Masters might choose in their attitudes toward their living property was recommended by the Authority, not required. But the sight of this pair grab-assing like free children was deeply repellent at a level Danny couldn't articulate, but he didn't deny.

Slaves had to be kept mindful that they were slaves. Not truly human. And it was most important to drive that lesson home when they were young. He glanced down at his pad. Still no hits on the database he'd refreshed the day before. Out here in the woods, they didn't have the bandwidth to get a properly encrypted link to the 'Net, so all the information he could access was what he had in the memory of his pad. The collar traces – even now that he was close enough almost to make out the slaves' giggling conversation – were spotty and degraded.

There was nothing about the name of the owner or owners, nothing more than I.D. numbers and out-of-permitted signals, all of it incredibly faint. If Danny and Kemp hadn't been specifically looking around here, closer by than any routine patrol route ever took anybody working out of the Hadleyville barracks, there was no way these traces could've been picked up.

These two had to have escaped at some time before the time at which Danny had gotten the first hints of their presence out here, so if they'd been reported by their owner(s), it would've been in the national runner database a day ago, right?

Maybe the owner – or owners – hadn't been able to report these runners. Danny thought of possibilities. Somebody had had a vehicular accident, rolled into a ditch or something, and the wreck hadn't been discovered yet. One or two dead Masters in the front seats, the slave boys in the back not properly locked down, and we're off to the races. Yeah, that could be it.

Or could these two cute little fucktoy bundles of boyish laughter have found a way to murder their Master(s) and 'elope'? Ramirez had read about cases of child sex slaves doing things like that. Little and cuddly and desperate young degenerates who had no regard for the value of a real human being's life, cunning in the way that even young animals are cunning, capable of killing in their hatred of the men and women who used them for sexual pleasure.

Well, he thought grimly, one way or another, these two are going to get what law and custom say they deserve!

Danny looked over at Kemp, who had his pistol out. Danny nodded exaggeratedly, and drew his own weapon, checking the setting on the stun round to make sure it was at its lowest level. These were children, after all. What would take down a farm laborer on the run would kill one of these little pieces of filth, and the objective was "Bring 'em back alive."

He had the one on the left, the blond. Danny saw Kemp hold up three fingers, nodded acknowledgement, and when his partner's hand went down Ramirez snapped his vision back onto the target, reaffirmed his sight picture, and…two, three…!

Like every other Militia kid, Mike had been put into the target pits at the local known distance range, not just to learn how to pull and mark targets on the primitive set-up common in dinky little burgs like Kingstown but also to learn what rounds sounded like incoming as well as from the firing line. He acknowledged that it had been a real lesson for him. Going supersonic at the muzzle and for a considerable distance until it strikes something, a standard small arms projectile makes a pronounced crack! as it shatters the air through which it passes, and the report of the propellant discharge being much less overwhelming five hundred (or even three hundred) yards downrange, that tiny breaking of the sound barrier could be easily perceived.

A half-second before Richie screamed in terror and surprise, his back arching, his eyes round with anguish, Mike heard something go subsonically thw-i-f-f-t! past where he was sitting on the blanket, knowing in that instant it was obviously not a rifle bullet, but some kind of projectile nonetheless, and he rolled instinctively away from his friend, intending to hit the ground on his belly and crawl to the nearest cover.

As so commonly happens in combat situations similar to this one, the second round Kemp fired from his stun pistol hit Mike in the ass, and the charge lanced through his body in a frequency and intensity designed to stimulate the pain centers of the brain so profoundly as to induce unconsciousness.

"Took ya two!" Danny called exultantly.

"I didn't allow for the wind," returned Kemp, completing the litany [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rio_Bravo_%28film%29]. Stepping out into the clearing while Ramirez kept the two runners in his sights, the older Patrolman approached the boys warily, checking out each of them while keeping as much as possible out of Danny's line of fire. He looked up at his partner and nodded. "They're down. Bring the kit."

Kemp regarded the brown-haired boy who'd reacted so quickly to the sound of the missed shot zinging past. This was a smart little son of a bitch. Better watch this one.

Mike became conscious first of something in his mouth, between his teeth, not choking him but definitely unwelcome. He tried to push it out with his tongue, but it wouldn't go. He could move it a little – he bit down on it – and it was rubbery both in texture and in taste. His tongue explored it, felt a rounded smoothness with a cleft in the lower part from the tip of it to something like molded flanges on either side at the base, just like…

His eyes opened and he breathed in sharply through his nose and around the thing in his mouth. It was shaped like the tip of the big artificial penis Mike had found in Andy's stash at home, the dildo. He'd tried putting the dildo partway into his mouth a couple of times, wondering about sucking a grown-up-sized penis, and this rubbery thing was shaped just like the head of that dildo, only not made of hard plastic. He tried to move his hands, but they were stuck somehow to his legs on either side, and at the same time he tried to sit up, but a big hand shoved him back down again. He tried to kick himself free, but there were things around his ankles, and he couldn't move his feet any further apart than about six or eight inches.

What happened?

His heart pounding, Mike darted his eyes all about and again he tried to sit up. The hand was on his chest again and this time he followed its arm upward to see the face of its owner, a dark-complected man who grinned down at him.

"Feeling all better, little runner?" It was a slave cop.

Then the hand was on Mike's upper arm and he was being lifted to stand, unsteadily but able to balance himself, at one edge of the blanket, gazing in astonishment at Richie who was poised opposite, his own arm in the grasp of another uniformed man, also one of the Slave Authority's Finest. Instantly Mike took in the collar insignia of a Junior Patrolman and he looked up at the man who held him. Same rank.

Richie was silenced by something red strapped into his mouth by a band of black leather that circled his head, some kind of gag. The same kind Mike was constantly testing with his tongue? A penis gag? He knew they made those; he'd seen them advertised on the 'Net in places a kid wasn't supposed to be able to go. It was obvious that they were made to force a kid to think about sucking grown-up cock, but all Mike could think about was getting it out!

Each of Richie's wrists was held by some kind of reddish-orange plastic tie that was joined to a similar band zip-tied around the top of his thigh on the same side, holding his hands below his waist. The same kinds of plastic ties were around Richie's ankles, joined by a plastic band that left him unable to put his feet more than about eight inches apart.

Mike had seen news vids of escaped slaves trussed like this, and he felt the panic rise in his throat.

Frantically Mike's eyes flashed from the man across from him to the one who held him and then back again. An important part of Militia training for children was familiarization with the Slave Police personnel in their county. The Free Citizens' Militia was a paramilitary arm of the Department of Homeland Security organized on a county-by-county basis, and though they had their own commissioned and non-commissioned officers, every contingent was subordinate to the slave cops assigned to their home county.

This was one of the reasons why almost all training of juveniles was conducted by Slave Police, which ensured the same uniform standard of compliance with requirements as well as making certain that the children in the Militia got to know 'their' local slave cops by sight and not uncommonly by name. By the time they got into their adolescent years and began assuming cadet rank with responsibility for handling the younger children, the average Militia kid was almost as competent a beater and shooter on his home turf as could be expected without a few years' service in the military or one of the tough multi-year courses for civilians similar in intention to (but hellaciously more effective than) the early-20th Century Plattsburg Movement [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizens%27_Military_Training_Camp#Plattsburg_Movement].

Mike was heart-poundingly certain that he'd never seen either of these guys before. He looked in panic at Richie, who was just as pale and wide-eyed. The younger boy shook his head desperately. He plainly didn't know them either.

Where the heck did they come from?

The one holding Mike's arm regarded him with a leer. "You two both speak English, right?"

Mike blinked up at him, tried to speak, but he couldn't get even a "Yes" out. He just nodded. So did Richie.

"Okay," said the man. "It's time for me to read you two your rights. You ready?"

Mike glanced at Richie. Rights? Are we getting arrested? He looked back up at the cop and nodded again.

"You have no rights," said the man with obvious relish. "You're slaves. You're going to be taken to the barracks and we're going to enter your numbers in the system. Your owners will be found, and if they want you, they'll come and claim you. If not, we'll probably add you to the local Comfort Complex stock." The guy looked Mike up and down appreciatively. "You're too pretty to turn over to the transplant service people to get parted out. Yet."

That caused Mike's throat to go into a knot! There was never official news about it, but he'd heard the rumors about surplus slave children getting harvested for their organs, especially escaped slaves. Could they do that to him? Would they do it?

Richie was on the edge of panic, too, but the other cop had the boy firmly in his grip.

"When you go back to the barracks, while we're all waiting for your numbers to come up in the system," explained the man holding Mike, "You two get introduced to all the policemen assigned to this here county. All the ones who like your looks – and you two look particularly nice! – get to do what they want with you. To you. As long as they don't leave marks. Now, I know that pretty little slave boys like you have had a lot of experience with men's cocks, but I'll bet that you're going to set yourselves a couple of new 'personal best' scores for overall number of fuckpoles rammed up your little asses before any hits come back from the computers in Arlington. Ain't that nice?"

Mike became aware that he'd been shaking his head, trying to speak, making noises in his throat with nothing coming out. He wasn't! They couldn't! This was impossible! Where were the big guys? Had they been captured by the cops? Arrested for something?

"Yeah," continued the man, nodding slowly, savoring the boys' terror. "And best of all, that experience begins right here, right now. Y'see, the officers who make a recovery get special perqs. When we catch pretty little boys like you, we get to enjoy ourselves with you for a while before we bring you to the barracks and start the search for your owners. My partner and I figure we've got a few hours before we have to report in, and it's such a nice day, all sunny and warm, there's no reason we can't start that out here in Mother Nature's living room."

The dark-haired man looked up at the younger Patrolman, the one with hair even lighter in color than Richie's. "I got dibs on little blondie there." He shoved Mike staggering across the blanket. "Here's yours."

Mike fetched up against the younger man, gazing up in fear and rage at the cop's face as the boy was taken firmly by both arms. The guy was strong!

The man liked what he saw. "Damn," he said softly. He caressed the side of Mike's face with surprising tenderness, keeping a grip on the boy's other arm and staring down at him. "Those are the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." The cop's smile was a strange mixture of fascination and contempt, and Mike shuddered in spite of himself.

"They say that the eyes are windows on the soul." His hand back on Mike's arm, he lifted the boy easily up until their faces were at the same level, and then the cop kissed Mike on both eyelids, gently, firmly, slowly, before he put Mike back on his feet.

"The gag doesn't come out while we use you," the cop explained. "Mustn't bite."

Mike's eyes flickered to the name tag – 'Ramirez' – then back to the man's face. Funny, he doesn't look Mexican, he thought as the policeman began removing his equipment, piling most of it not too far from the blanket, but taking care to chuck the gunbelt and his holstered stun pistol well away, almost to the other side of the clearing.

"Slaves shouldn't be tempted," said Ramirez.

Damn right, thought Mike. If he could get his hands on that sidearm… His mind's eye gave him a picture of this Ramirez character – or better yet that "Kemp" bastard who was stripping off his clothes and his gear in front of Richie, who gazed at him in horror – over the sights of Mike's 'A7, and what Mike might be able to do with a magazine full of 5.56mm ammunition. Dead meat.

Mike couldn't do anything but stand there and watch as the man continued stripping, and when Ramirez was about half-done and Mike could see most of his upper half, the boy breathed in sharply. The guy was ripped! There were lots of men and teenagers in the Militia who worked out, but nobody who looked like this. Some kind of serious weightlifter or something. And then Ramirez dropped his trousers, pulled down his briefs, and Mike got his first sight of the man's penis, already thick with sexual excitement and going harder and longer and thicker still right before Mike's eyes.

Omigawd!

It was huge, easily the biggest dick Mike had ever seen, like one of those dicks on actors in the sex vids, the kind you figured had to have been 'digitally enhanced' or something. It wasn't really as big as what Mike had seen on a stallion when his class had visited the place where they bred horses down in the south end of the county, but maybe good enough for a Shetland pony.

And this Ramirez guy was going to use that thing on him!

Chapter Ten

In that distant part of his mind, Richie was thankful that he'd gone decorously behind a bush half an hour before to empty his bladder.

This man named 'Kemp' was even less pretty without his clothes than he'd been in uniform. Not as tall as his partner, the slave cop was two-by-fours and baling wire where the younger guy was tree trunks and jungle vines. That didn't mean he wasn't scary-looking, not at all. There was the way Kemp carried himself, the way he looked at you, the pure nastiness as he leered down at Richie.

For a boy who'd been a virgin when he'd awakened this morning, Richie had a better idea of what a grown-up's cock should look like, and though any grown-up's penis is bigger than a little boy's prod, Kemp was hung much less generously than cousin Frank was.

But it was grown-up nevertheless, it was hard, and Kemp clearly intended to rape Richie. That 'special perqs' business couldn't mean anything else.

What Andy and Frank did to us, thought Richie, was 'rape', too, but it was really what Mike and I wanted, and the big guys knew it. These cops, though…

Richie swallowed to deal with the saliva this rubber thing in his mouth was forcing him to produce. He'd seen gags in some of the sex vids, and he'd read about them online, but he'd never realized how much these things could make you slobber.

Part of what was making this 'rape' – real rape, not some pretense in which all the participants were agreed – was the fact that these two slave cops had attacked the boys and bound them like this intending to do the sex to a couple of kids whom they thought were slave boys, and who could therefore be treated with cruelty and contempt.

Ramirez turned Mike so that the boy faced away from the blanket, and still standing in front of the child with one arm in each of his big hands, the cop drove Mike down like a toppling tree, but slowly, landing the youngster on the rough cloth as the man himself went down on one knee beside his captive.

How is he gonna do this? Mike wondered Is there anything I can do to get away?

Crouched over him, Ramirez reached into his piled clothing, and pulled out something that looked like a mask without eye holes.

"See this, Bright Eyes?" Ramirez asked. "It's a blindfold. I've used it on slave boys before. Ever had one used on you?"

Eyebrows arched, Mike shook his head, his attempt at "No," coming out as a consonantless grunt.

"Tends to quiet them down," said the man. "Bound and gagged is pretty bad, isn't it? Well, think about what it's like to be blindfolded, too."

Mike thought. Mike blanched. His Militia instructors – slave cops! – had taught him never to think or say "Things couldn't possibly get worse." That's because things always did.

"If you give me any crap, little filth," said Ramirez, "this blindfold goes on, and it doesn't come off until we get you back to the barracks. Understand?"

The boy nodded.

"Good. Now, you may have noticed that I'm, ah, larger than most of the Masters who've used you before." The blonde giant chuckled. "I've torn open a few little tails in my time, but I've gotten sick of the mess. I've found ways to do you slave kids without sending you to the vet for all kinds of nasty surgery, and there's a bunch of Patrolmen and Watch Officers back at the barracks who'll be upset if I bring you back ruptured and ragged, so we're going to do this just so. Heck, it's for your own good, too. Understand that, too?"

Oh, yeah, Mike understood. He nodded acknowledgement. What else could he do?

"Excellent!" Ramirez smiled with genuine pleasure. "I'd hate to have to put a blindfold over those beautiful eyes of yours, youngster." He leaned closer to gaze down into them. "Those beautiful, beautiful blue eyes."

Rising up, the man reached again into his clothing, and came back with a foil packet and something like a little pliers.

"I'm going to free your legs, Bright Eyes. Don't try to kick. Don't try to get away. Be a good, submissive little slave boy and I won't tie your ankles again. I won't use the blindfold. And I won't disappoint all the folks at the barracks by ripping you open like a brook trout. Got it?"

Mike was white now, but with rage more than fright. Yeah, I got it. He nodded, fury blazing in his eyes and there were the muscle memories of hundreds of hours on the firing range with the kick of an M-16 against his shoulder, locked permanently on semiautomatic as all Militia kids' personal weapons were.

The little pliers were also snips, and he saw the red-orange plastic ties around his ankles parted and removed. The big policeman picked up Mike's right leg and bent it at knee and hip to lift the foot up, the downy fine hairs, golden fuzz thick on the shins and ankles, gleaming in the sunlight, to kiss the place where the zip-tie had been, and suddenly Mike felt his dickie go hard.

Oh, no! Mike could feel his heart pounding. He hated this guy, this stranger who'd come upon him in the familiar uniform of the men who had trained him for years, who had nagged him and chased him around the track until Mike could run almost half a klick, and go right into a half-hour's speed march immediately after. Ramirez was going to rape Mike, and now Mike's treasonous penis was telling his assailant and all the world that what was happening excited him!

Does this mean that I really am a fag? No! Never!

The cop's kisses climbed up Mike's leg, past his knee, along the inside of his thigh – so tender, normally ticklish, but now so sensitive, making Mike arch his middle up, trying to feel it more and more, until Ramirez tongue-touched and then ran his big mouth-muscle all over Mike's tightly-pursed little scrotum before the child's stiffie was enveloped by the man's mouth, a feeling so different from Andy's familiar way of doing this, forcing a groan of pleasure and despair from the boy's chest.

Ramirez raised his head, smiling down at Mike. "You like that, don't you, Bright Eyes? Yeah. I figured." Turning to pick up the foil packet he'd dropped on the grass, the man broke it open and squeezed its contents – a clear jelly of some kind – onto the tips of his right index and middle fingers. Mike watched as those were brought down between his legs and felt the cold of the jelly being worked into the opening of his bottom. He gasped as he felt the pads find the entrance and then push in, just that first little bit.

Mike blinked up at Ramirez, despair and reproof writ large on his face, and this made the blond grown-up chuckle.

"Yeah," said the man, his fingertips circling just within the ring of muscle at the outside of his captive's anus. His left hand was settled and controlling on Mike's right shoulder. "You're getting off on this, aren't you?"

A thrust! that left Mike gasping, his heels digging into the blanket, arching his chest up helplessly, his eyes wide with pain and surprise. He recovered, looked down, and saw that the man's fingers were at least halfway up inside. He felt them working, twisting, stretching Mike's tender flesh all around, and the little penis was harder than ever, bouncing visibly with every beat of the boy's heart. He regarded the man himself again, burning the memory of Ramirez into an image of hatred so powerful that the man's death in agony couldn't wipe it out.

And then the man bent low again to kiss Mike's face with appalling tenderness. Gently, Ramirez' lips were warm and firm against the boy's eyebrows, cheeks, nose and jawline and chin and eyelids, and all around the red rubber penis gag with which the child had been robbed of speech, all the while the fingers were driven further and further up inside the little victim's anus, scissoring now to make Mike lurch with anguish at the pain and the shame of this abuse.

Oh, gawd, this guy is strong! The muscles bulging in the man's right forearm were overpowering those in Mike's pelvic floor, weakening them, spreading him open so effortlessly, with a skill that was so overwhelming that Mike recognized the artistry in this sordid exercise. Huge dickie or not, this Ramirez fella had lots of experience with getting little asses ready to take him inside.

Mike clenched his hands into fists, wondering if there were any way he could work the bands around his thighs down his legs and off before the slave cop could prevent it.

No way, he decided. Especially not with the man's right hand anchored firmly in Mike's guts! Ramirez lifted his head again to look into Mike's eyes, and the boy regarded him uncertainly.

If he wasn't such a son of a bitch, Mike thought to himself, I'd probably like him. He's kinda good-looking…

And then the blond man was kissing Mike again, deliberately and unhurriedly, but emphatically, forcing a deep sigh of unwitting surrender from the boy's chest, an acknowledgement that there was proof in the grown-up's actions that Ramirez didn't hate Mike, not really. All the man's words of contempt and intimidation were falsehoods. Here, in these kisses, was the truth.

When next the man raised his head, Patrolman Ramirez was looking down at Mike with surprise in his own expression, searching the face of the captured runner intently. He was still doing that as he pushed his fingers, hard, all the way up into the child's anus, making the boy grimace and sob with the pain of it, the muscles of the child's legs rigid with the effort to keep still and take this punishment as he deserved.

"Sorry, Bright Eyes!" whispered the slave cop, and Mike blinked rapidly. "I have to hurt you now so you won't be hurt later. Understand?"

Without thinking, Mike gave him a little nod. He really doesn't want to hurt me – really hurt me. What the heck?

Ramirez kissed Mike's forehead one more time. "Good boy," he said in a low voice. "Now for something nice!"

Ramirez moved, kissing Mike's chest and then his belly before returning to the boy's dickie, nuzzling it firmly but slowly as the hand between Mike's legs twisted and turned, the fingers moving within felt like they were going to be joined by the rest of the man's hand.

The penis gag didn't keep Mike from voicing his suffering – or his pleasure – and as the man's mouth opened to resume sucking Mike's dickie, the boy's response to that attention made his bottom muscles tighten upon the fingers within, the sensations front and back joining together to make of his flesh an interacting focus of sexual torture unlike anything he'd ever dreamed possible.

More than physical restraint held the youngster in thrall now, and he knew that the removal of his wrist bindings wouldn't allow him to escape. This grown-up stranger was doing the sex to Mike, and he didn't want to get away, even if it meant that Mike was going to get brought to the Slave Police barracks to be raped by every cop in the county.

He jerked suddenly, trying to lunge his dick up into the man's face. Something inside him! The fingertips were touching something, rubbing it, deep within, and again Mike jumped, frantic, gasping.

What? Oh, jeez, what is this! He remembered something from school, from the stuff they'd taught in Health. The prostate gland it was called. It wrapped around the pee-tube that led into the penis. But what did that have to do with the sex? The man was finding that gland with his fingers and oh, damn! Oh-damn, oh-damn, oh-damn!

Choking, shoving, writhing, Mike was forced to have the sex-feelings of orgasm by the slave cop to whom he had been thrown like a scrap of meat, hating himself for the way he was just giving up to it, shameful and degrading and disgraceful.

Then Mike began to panic. The good feelings weren't going away! All his life, no matter how he got those feelings, they always peaked in a beautiful excess of sensation, almost exploding from his dickie, and then they faded to leave him drained and a little bit sad. But this time, with this man, the feelings wouldn't end. This was insane! This was awful. Again and again Mike shoved his penis against the blond man's face, the lips and the tongue working on him, the fingers teasing inside and punishing him, forcing Mike to give himself up, making the boy nothing more than an animal, incapable of controlling himself, conscious of nothing but the need to be used like this, to be a boy in the hands of a man who hungered for him, who wanted to do the sex to him.

How long did it take for this exercise of grown-up sexual power to wear Mike out so badly that his responses slackened, slowed, lost their intensity? For all the boy knew, it could have been hours.

Of course, it wasn't. Sobbing almost breathlessly, the sweat-soaked child lay weak and helpless between the hands of his possessor, one solid on his shoulder, the other reaching up toward it's mate by way of Mike's anus. When at last the policeman raised his head, Mike gazed dully at Ramirez' face, seeing the man's approving smile.

"Excellent, Bright Eyes." The hand resumed its circling, the fingers scissoring, stretching Mike's entryway with undiminished force. "You're in great condition. Most slave kids your age could never last that long." There was a harder, more painful testing of Mike's bottom, making the boy yelp with pain, his eyes squeezing shut, his limbs going rigid with the hurtfulness of it.

"Yeah, time for you to take my cock." The fingers slid out of Mike's body, making him cry out again, and then the grown-up was up on his knees between the boy's spread-apart legs, both hands on the child's hips, drawing the shuddering, unprotesting victim to his sexual sacrifice.

The gel Ramirez had forced into Mike's flesh had been another result of the restoration of chattel slavery. With so many slave children being sodomized – both girls and boys beginning at ages three or four – the need to facilitate penetration without laceration gave rise to many products that swiftly and effectively relaxed the voluntary muscle guarding the entrance to a child's body. Well-endowed males like Patrolman Ramirez had learned in their adolescent years to exploit these compounds, and with practice on slave boys in Comfort Complexes wherever he'd been trained and stationed, the young man had learned how to judge to a nicety the best technique with which to ensure himself a tight, exquisite fuck without risk of permanently injuring his victim.

Best of all, by Ramirez' standard, the gel he'd chosen did nothing to deaden the sensation for the boys he enjoyed fucking. He delighted in their response to the pain caused by the massive rapeshaft of which he was so quietly proud. The youngster's narrow hips secure in his hands, Ramirez lowered the slave's bottom on the rounded knob of manflesh peeking wetly out of the thin shroud of foreskin and drew the boy's body down to become the living sheathe fitted by fate and nature and law to receive it.

Mike tried not to look down at that big grown-up penis as he felt it catch in the opening. He could tell that this man was like Andy, that he'd done the sex this way to lots of slave boys. The cop wouldn't be doing this to Mike if it could really kill a guy.

The pressure grew to spread Mike's bottom wider and then wider still…

Could it?

A penis gag does not prevent a boy from screaming in agony as a super-huge grown-up fuckpiece breaks into his body and begins the drive all the way up inside him.

Kemp had never seen Ramirez fuck a slave boy before. The two of them didn't pal around off-duty, and Kemp liked to make his visits to the Comfort Complex either solo or with one or another of the female slave cops stationed in the Hadleyville barracks. Lots of them liked little slave boys, too, or they'd team up with Kemp to enjoy a nice little girl together.

A couple of female slave cops had introduced him to the pleasures of having an older slave boy, one of the kids who'd been allowed to get some height on him and grow a little hair around his dick. Those young studs could shoot a load or two in a session, and though it made Kemp feel a little bit of disquiet – doesn't sucking a cock big enough to pleasure a woman make you just a little bit homo? – none of 'em were mature enough to need a shave.

And they were almost as much fun to fuck as the little guys.

Like almost every other Patrolman detailed to the barracks, Kemp had seen Ramirez' Ramrod in the showers now and again. The almost-a-probie was hung like a goddam bull, and Kemp had to admit that he'd been sneakily curious about seeing it angry.

Well, now he was getting the chance, wasn't he?

Without being conspicuous about it, Kemp had dragged little blondie a bit to one side on the blanket so that the man could get a look at his partner and what the man was doing with the pale, freckled kid Kemp had pitched to him. Of course, that didn't keep Kemp from admiring the young runner he'd grabbed for himself. He shoved the kid down into a kneeling position, then all the way down on his cute little ass before seating himself to cuddle the boy.

Blondie was nicely terrified, his eyes flickering over Kemp's face, his body, his cock.

Not as big as the probie's prick, thought the older man, but it'll make you squeal like a little piglet, won't it?

Kemp shoved the blond kid down on the blanket, belly-up, and got over him, rubbing his cock up and down against the boy's junk. He was pleased when he noted the little pecker starting to go hard. Even a scared little slave slut couldn't help but respond when a grown man used him like this. It was one of the reasons why Kemp preferred boys to girls when he was fucking a slave this age. A girl or a woman could fake it. No goddam boy-child could, and there weren't many who didn't quicken up nicely if a man knew how to handle 'em right.

Blondie was a bit better padded than his fellow runner, and that was nice. Not fat, mind you. Slaves were never fat, but a bit more rounded. He tested the shoulders and upper arms, squeeze one little tit to make the boy gasp. Good muscles. The kid was probably stronger than he looked. Whoever owned him – and the other one, too – had kept 'em very much 'plain vanilla', no modifications beyond the regulation registration tattoos. Hell, they could've been a couple of temporarily enslaved critters from a Comfort Complex. Blondie looked intelligent, too.

"Scared, little guy?"

The boy nodded, his eyes wide. He tried to speak, grimaced in frustration, growled deep in his throat, obviously working at the gag for a moment before looking pleadingly up at Kemp.

"Nope," replied the man, shaking his head. "They tell stories about slaves with strong jaws and sharp teeth. I've seen pictures of what a runner can do. Nobody trusts a slave, especially not a runner."

Then Kemp did something he seldom did when he was using a slave. He leaned forward and kissed the kid, right on the nose.

"I kinda wish you weren't a runner, though. If I'd gotten you in the Complex, I woulda ungagged you there, just to see how good you are at playing tonsil hockey. You like kissing, kid?"

Blondie looked up at him in surprise, but he was obviously thinking about it. Slowly, the boy nodded, sort of shrugged a little, and then gave a kind of "The hell with it!" sigh. He nodded emphatically, and tried to smile in spite of the gag.

Gawd, this kid is just cute as all hell, isn't he?

"We get you back to the barracks and you're surrounded by cops, it oughtta be safe to get that out of your mouth. I'll bet you're pretty nice to kiss." Kemp hesitated, startled at what he'd just said.

I don't give a shit about kissing little boys. He stared hard at Blondie's face. The boy looked puzzled at the slave cop's change in demeanor. What the hell is it about this one?

"Okay," he said abruptly, "let's get down to business. I'm gonna fuck you, and you can't get away from it. Cooperate with the inevitable and it'll be great for me and not so bad for you. Give me any trouble, and I'll just slap the snot out of you, and then I'll fuck you." He leered. "And I guarantee it's gonna hurt a whole helluva lot when I do. You got that?"

Resentfully, the boy nodded again, wriggling beneath his captor and poking his hard little prick right up against Kemp's cock. The little bastard! The man smiled appreciatively. The gutsy little bastard.

"No," the man admonished, shaking his head, "you don't get to fuck me back." Again, he bent forward to kiss the child, on the cheek this time. "But I'll see what I can do to make it nice for you, okay?"

That was when the other kid screamed, and both Kemp and Blondie swiveled their heads in surprise to see what was happening. The man was astonished to feel the boy beneath his body twisting with lightning swiftness and unbelievable strength to get over on his belly and shove himself over to rescue his friend. Kemp had to move fast to contain the youngster, and in spite of being tied up for fucking, the kid almost broke away from him.

"Easy!" growled Kemp. "Easy, goddamnit! Let's see what the hell is happening, okay?" Without thinking, the older cop rolled Blondie onto his belly and got the boy up enough to get a look at the other pair. Truth to tell, Kemp was curious, too.

Wow. Ramirez really was getting that thing crammed in there, wasn't he?

Blondie whimpered piteously, and Kemp hugged the kid in an automatic effort at reassurance. "Don't freak out," he said in a low voice. "He's never busted open any little slave boy like your buddy. Even the really young ones."

Blondie regarded the rape of his companion with tears now freely flowing, and Kemp kissed him on the back of his head. "It's all right," the man whispered. "He'll be all right."

Eyes squeezed shut, the fingers of both hands digging into his bottom cheeks, the brown-haired boy was writhing in slow, futile movements, not really trying to get away but rather to accept what Ramirez was doing to him. Kemp saw the kid's prick, and it was harder than a ten-penny nail, bumping into the folds of the boy's belly as the younger Patrolman kept the pretty little ass up to drive that fencepost down into its recipient.

Hunh! I mighta thought he'd bust like a wishbone, thought Kemp, but Freckles over there is gettin' off from it.

"C'mon, Blondie," said Kemp, shifting the youngster further away from where his buddy was getting stuffed full of man-meat. "We're gonna do it something like that, but I guarantee it's not gonna hurt you as much, okay?"

The boy was trembling, pale, miserable with fear – not for himself, but for the other boy, pretty obviously. Kemp was inexplicably proud of the child. "Good boy," he said approvingly. Kemp kissed Blondie over one eyebrow, then the other cheek. "You can't help your partner now, but he'll be okay. And so will you, my promise." Glancing around, Kemp spotted the tube of lube he'd dropped on the ground near his clothes. Making a long arm, he retrieved it, let go of Blondie, and got up on his knees to stroke his cock in front of the kid.

Kemp always liked doing this. It never failed to get the kid's attention. Not the biggest tree in the woods, he thought proudly, but it ain't going 'Timber!' anytime soon! He got his schlong slicked up from tip to base and grabbed the blond boy's ankles, lifting them up, doubling the youngster's knees and flexing the hips. The hobbling zip-ties enabled Kemp to cross the slender ankles and spread the knees with no trouble, and it brought the kid's ass up nicely.

There was another scream of pain from the little guy getting Ramirez' pole up inside himself, and Kemp grabbed Blondie easily, shaking his head.

"I said he'll be okay," admonished the cop. "Worry about what I'm doing to you, all right?"

Reluctantly, still trying to see what was happening to his friend, Blondie nodded. Assured that his little fucktoy was going to cooperate, Kemp took a firmer hold on the smooth, muscular hips and brought the pretty little hole right up against the nosecone of his missile. He had to let go of Blondie's left hip for a second to adjust the angle, but Kemp's hand went back to its anchorage in an instant, the dick's tip seated securely in the entrance.

He grinned down at his captive. The boy was in a perfect position to kick free, but Kemp knew Blondie wouldn't do that. Things could always get worse, little slave!

Hell, they certainly would.

Carefully, though, Kemp pushed his cock down and in while he pulled the child's body up just a little, delighted by the look on Blondie's face as the boy felt the hard mancock spreading him open and beginning the push all the way inside.

With one smooth motion, the slave cop ran his dick all the way down into Blondie's butt, the child responding with a yelp of pain and a lurch that the well-disciplined little boy almost completely contained.

"Good boy!" repeated Kemp, grinding his pubes against the smooth little bottom. "This ain't gonna take long." He grinned. "You're a real looker, y'know? Pretty!" He began gradually to fuck the kid, drawing back a little and then forcing it back in, delighting in the helpless gasp the kid gave as the big cock went home in his guts.

"Nice, tight little ass, too," he praised. "You're the kind of fuckpiece a guy comes back to. The people back at the barracks are never gonna want to send you back to your owner."

The little boy sobbed brokenly, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to getting fucked.

Chapter Eleven

"Ah, there's my beautiful Bright Eyes," said the grown-up exultantly. "Yes, keep your eyes open, boy. Look at me. You love this, don't you?"

Swallowing hard, Mike shook his head, then groaned as the man shoved his dick slowly all the way down into Mike's bottom.

"Wrong, Bright Eyes," said Ramirez happily. "You love it." He got his fingers around Mike's dickie and squeezed it, making the kid lurch at the sensation, and the guy kept on playing with it, just a little stiffie, nothing like the cop's enormous piece, but it was the primary focal point of a small boy's sexuality.

My bottom is a sex-place, too, he understood now. After getting done by Andy and with all the things this Ramirez guy had done – and was doing – Mike had learned that there was sex inside him, the kind of sex that he was utterly ashamed of, the sex feelings a boy got only when he was being used this way by a grown-up.

The movements of Ramirez' cock was easy now, but not less hurtful. Mike understood perfectly well that the man liked hurting him this way. The cop was proud of his big thing, and proud of the way it scared little boys, and stretched them open, and went all the way – ooh! – up inside a kid, deeper than any other men could do. When the man started to put the sperms all the way up inside Mike's body, would that hurt, too? Would there be a lot of it, squirting into Mike's guts? It felt to Mike like the big penis was going to punch through to his heart or something. Every time Ramirez bottomed out, it was as if Mike couldn't breathe for the pressure filling up his innards.

The sex vids Mike and Richie had gotten to see always seemed to show lots and lots of different fucking styles, with the men doing it in different ways to each boy or girl or woman they were sexing, taking their dickies out and flipping the kids or ladies on their bellies or on their sides or whatever. When Andy had done him, Mike had gotten Andy's boner inside his bottom and it had just been a bunch of in-and-out until Andy had gotten his good feelings. Mike looked up at this Ramirez guy and figured this was how it was gonna happen, too.

I don't care how big his dickie is, thought Mike, he's getting close. Ooh! I'm getting close, too! If he doesn't make me pop real soon now, I'm gonna die! C'mon, you big bastard! Make me orgasm, squirt your sperms inside me, and get your dingus out of my bottom!

Blondie was such a hot little number. Though the boy wasn't exactly enthusiastic in his cooperation, the kid was neither zoning out nor fighting back. Though the cop didn't try to keep the youngster from seeing what was happening to his friend, Kemp sensed the gradual relaxation in his victim's demeanor, and was very pleased to note in short order Blondie's concentration on what they were doing together as well as the drama taking place across from them on the blanket.

He's really worried about his pal, thought Kemp. Nothing especially wrong with that, is there? These little slave sluts aren't supposed to get tangled up with each other, but I guess their owner – owners? – didn't comply with the regulations. Probably why these two bugged out. 'Romance' among the runners!

Working his right hand down between the boy's spread-apart knees, Kemp got the child's little hard-on between thumb and fingertips again, carefully playing with it. The kid had looked up at him fearfully when Kemp started doing this, obviously expecting the man to hurt him, but for reasons the cop didn't quite understand himself, he didn't want to do anything like that to the blond boy. Even though the little guy was just a slave and didn't deserve any better, Kemp found himself liking the youngster. Kemp kept working his cock in and out of the tight-clenched anus, pleased at the way Blondie was responding. The cop had been using slave boys happily since his first days as a horny teenager, and he was proud of his technique.

Especially when he was being punished, a slave child should be made to have pleasure in the sex. Kemp liked the way it demoralized almost every newly-indentured boy he'd ever used, and even a much-fucked kid like Blondie here tended to feel shame when he was teased to orgasm with a man's cock working up inside his ass.

Besides, slaves didn't have much else to live for, did they?

"I know you're diggin' it," said the man in a low, intimate growl, his smile taut. Kemp kept control of the youngster's body with his left hand on the bony crest of the boy's hip, the fingers of his right hand slippery on the child's maleness, moving more and more firmly to harmonize the masturbation with Kemp's copulative rhythm.

The boy's face was hectic, hot with shame, and that tickled the hell out of Kemp. He chuckled.

"Don't worry about it, kid. It's not your fault. Or haven't you noticed how your hands are tied? If you weren't a slave to begin with, this 'ud be rape, plain and simple. You're not getting my dick up your ass because you want it, right?"

Anger in his eyes, the boy shook his head.

"Okay!" The cop began to pick up the pace, both inside and outside, making Blondie wince with both discomfort and the intensity of sexual stimulation. "All you gotta do – oh, yeah! – is let it go, okay? Man, you're tight! Your owner's got you on those asshole exercises? Kegel-ing or whatchamacallit? Nice! I wish I could be fucking you all day long, but – umph! – all good things gotta come to an end…"

Which is when Al Kemp lost his composure, hammering away at Blondie's ass, the weeping, grimacing, groaning little boy striving to push his little pecker up into the grip of the grown-up who was filling him full of slave cop essence-of-man.

Every exhalation was a shudder, every indrawn breath a gasp. Mike gazed up at Ramirez and saw the look on the grown-up's face. There was a surprising sadness in that look, and something the boy thought he recognized as…affection? The man was still moving a little, the big penis working in a bit, then out a bit, a feeling full of achiness but seeming somehow as natural as the beating of Mike's heart.

How much of that sperm-stuff did he shoot up inside me? the boy wondered. His thing is still filling me so much I can't tell. There was still a lot of pain in Mike's bottom, but it wasn't so much that he was absolutely frantic to get the guy's thing out. Still, it'll be nice when he does, thought Mike. The sweat was starting to dry on the child's body, and in spite of the afternoon warmth, he felt a bit chilly.

Slave boys don't wear clothes at all, he recalled. It was part of what was done to remind them constantly that they were slaves. Mike felt a quiver of terror. What if the men at the barracks didn't allow him and Richie to identify themselves as free boys? Could they really wind up getting gang-raped by dozens of policemen and then put into the Comfort Complex to be used by clients coming to do the sex with slaves there? Gawd! He might never be allowed to wear clothes again!

Mike felt Ramirez rising up, the big penis slowly sliding out of Mike's bottom, seeming to take forever until the last bit of it flopped down, all shiny and softening. It left a sensation of emptiness like nothing Mike had ever known before, not even after Andy had pulled his dickie out only a little while before. He felt stretched and achy and tired, but oddly satisfied. Kinda proud, as a matter of fact. Nobody in his class could beat this as a story, if Mike ever dared to tell it. Heck, nobody 'ud believe it. Free kids just didn't get big man-sized cocks pushed up inside them. It was against the law for a grown-up or a teenager even to try.

The slave cop gathered up Mike's ankles and, shifting to one side, put both of the boy's feet down on the blanket. Leaning close over Mike's face, the man smiled.

"Nice job, Bright Eyes."

Mike tried to smile ironically around the penis gag in his mouth, and shook his head a little. Yeah, sure, he thought. You, too, you big bully. But the funny thing was that Mike knew that he really would say something nice to the man.

It was strange, but you couldn't get this close to a guy – having him go inside you, with his dickie, and put his sperms in your bottom, f'gossake, and having him make your own good feelings come for you with both the sucking before and then the penis-play during – and not kinda like him.

"Yeah," said the man. He bent low to kiss Mike on the eyelids and then on the cheek. "Me, too. Now I gotta tighten you up again." He pushed up, reached for something off the blanket, and came back with another foil packet. Mike watched him peel it open, squeezing some kind of yellowish clear stuff onto two fingers of his right hand.

Oh, not again! thought Mike, but Ramirez pushed Mike's legs up again and dropped the boy's knees apart. Mike was too miserable to resist as the fingertips found his opening and they slid easily into his anus.

Doesn't feel so – Oh, man! That stings! Looking up at Ramirez in surprise and dismay, Mike knew that he'd jumped and tried to get away, but it was as if he hadn't even twitched. The big, strong policeman had anticipated the boy's response perfectly. Whatever was in that jelly he was working around in Mike's bottom, it sure as heck wasn't supposed to be soothing. It felt hot inside him, not burning exactly , but like somebody had suddenly shoved a sunlamp up Mike's butt. He could feel his bottom muscles closing down on those fingers, and instead of the looseness the man's massage had made of Mike's bunny-hole earlier, he knew that his bottom was tight around the guy's knuckles. He winced as those two fingers seemed to get as thick as the big goon's whole arm. What the hell is this stuff, anyway?

"It's the antidote," Ramirez explained as if he were reading Mike's mind, looking down at the face of the writhing, grunting, sobbing little kid. "The other stuff loosened you up. This tightens you back down again. It's gonna hurt for a while, but it'll be okay."

The man got up, and the other slave cop – Kemp – stood next to him in decidedly un-handsome nakedness. Kemp had something gray-white about the size of a cigar he was looking at, adjusting a band around the middle. Then he put one end of it against his belly and thumbed a button on the other end. Mike heard a hissing, and Kemp grunted. There was a small red spot on his abdomen, and the guy handed the thing to Ramirez.

Pressure injector, thought Mike. He saw a logo on the thing that read 'ResuRect', and it took him a moment to remember where he'd seen the name before. While that was happening, Ramirez did the same thing to himself, getting a dose of the stuff shot into the skin of his own belly.

Then Mike made the connection with a commercial he'd seen on some of the 'Net sex vid sites. ResuRect was one of those medicines a grown-up man could use to get himself a new hard-on again really fast after having an orgasm. Lying there on the blanket, Mike saw Ramirez' monster dickie start to stir as the blood came visibly back into it.

He's getting stiff again?

The younger man handed the injector back to Kemp. "Did you apply the LaxOn?"

The darker-complected adult nodded. "Yeah." He frowned at the taller, more muscular man. "Take it easy on Blondie, okay? He's a nice little kid, even if he is a runner."

Ramirez flashed a smile. "You can tell how nice he is just by fucking him?"

Kemp looked kind of ashamed, then shrugged. "I'm not gonna give him a clear shot at my balls, but you can tell there's nothing vicious about the little slut." He looked directly at Ramirez. "Just make sure you use your weapon responsibly."

The blond giant chuckled. "You got it, boss." Mike raised his head to watch Ramirez go over to kneel in front of Richie, who was regarding the younger cop – and that huge dickie! – with wide, terrified eyes.

Then Kemp was down on his knees next to Mike, grabbing the older boy's shoulders and shaking him a little to get Mike's attention. Swallowing to get the saliva out of his mouth, Mike blinked up at his possessor, who leered at the boy.

"My turn with you, Freckles," said the policeman. Mike's gaze darted down to take in the sight of Kemp's reborn hard-on. It wasn't as gosh-darn scary as his partner's had been, but it looked to be bigger than Andy's. The boy's eyesight filled again with the saturnine face of the man who owned the 'normal' sized penis.

"With that ReStorIt stuff working in your ass," explained Kemp happily, "you oughtta be nice and snug for me, so let's see how much fun sloppy seconds are." With a little pliers thing, he cut each of the ties around Mike's ankles and tossed them onto the grass. The grown-up regarded Mike's middle with a smile of approval, reaching down to play with the boy's private parts. "Nice little pecker you got here, Freckles." He looked back up at Mike's face. "And those eyes of yours! Wow! The probie is right. You're goddam beautiful, ain'tcha?"

Staring up at Kemp in horror, Mike felt the man's hands taking hold of his hips, lifting Mike up a little, dragging him forward, then lowering the boy's bottom onto the head of Kemp's cock, getting it into the opening, and Mike whimpered his distress at the feeling of it shoving into him an instant before he heard Richie's scream of anguish from the other side of the blanket.

At 17, Andy and Frank had each spent nearly two years as Militia cadets, and their movements through woods had become – as a matter of routine – conscious exercises in hypersensitive situational awareness. They understood and practiced concealment both in setting up their campsite and moving around it. They'd headed back to the clearing where they'd left the younger boys using a route other than the one by which they'd departed earlier, and they were listening acutely for sounds as they got closer, intending both to surprise the children and to critique the little guys on their own noise discipline.

What they detected was perceived instantly as abnormal, the sounds of deeper voices, unconcerned, interspersed with harsh laughter and the sounds of little boys' choked ejaculations of suffering and despair.

Frank was in the lead at that moment and he hand-signaled Andy to fade and flank, the two of them spreading out to come at the clearing within sight of each other through the undergrowth and the trees, but widely enough separated to make simultaneous detection difficult for whoever was there.

What Frank found when he made visual pick-up was a naked man, full-grown, crouching over the belly-up body of – yeah, that was Mike – one wrist of the child fixed to the thigh on the same side with what was obviously an orange zip cuff of some kind. The opposite hand was almost certainly bound in its place the same way. The stranger didn't have his cock up Mike's ass, but from the gleaming perspiration all over the little guy's body and the sheen of sweat on the man's face and chest, it didn't take much insight to understand that the man had been fucking little Mikey only a few minutes before, and was now enjoying the afterglow, leaning down and kissing Andy's brother all over the youngster's face. Was that a gag of some kind in Mike's mouth? Yeah.

So where was Richie?

Answer: not more than a few feet away, belly-down, all but concealed beneath the naked body of an even bigger guy, also naked, prone atop Frank's cousin, not much moving (which seemed to partially account for why Frank didn't fasten upon it at first sight), the relative giant obviously not putting his whole weight on Richie's slender frame. The rise and fall of their breathing was readily visible.

And so was a pistol belt and holstered weapon. Frank glanced into the growth a quarter of the way around the margin of the clearing, and he saw Andy make a motion with one hand, indicting weapon, then one.

Frank signed back the same message, gesturing with a movement of a few millimeters in the direction where he'd seen the one in his own field of vision. Andy made a grab sign, and Frank nodded. He replied with three fingers flashed once, then two fingers, then…

Kemp caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he could turn and get up on his knees in response, the intruder had Ramirez' gunbelt in one hand and the stun pistol in the other, covering both men.

Where the hell had this bastard come from?

He sensed Ramirez moving, getting up on his knees, too, and knew with a sick sensation in his gut that there was another one over there – he glanced; yeah, another teenager – and guess who had Kemp's weapon out and aimed?

Bare-assed, limp-dicked, and unarmed, two Junior Patrolmen had just been totally fucked.

In the figurative sense.

Standard issue Slave Authority weapons and other gear weren't commonly provided to Free Citizens' Militia personnel, but all were included in familiarization programs. By now, Frank and Andy had handled, stripped, cleaned and reassembled these slave recovery stun guns in three one-week-long refresher series. The gadgets themselves were fundamentally pellet pistols with some fancy addenda to impart the projectiles with literally nerve-wracking electrical charges of variable intensities. Ballistically, they were neither more nor less accurate than a service pistol at practical combat distances, meaning about as far from a man-sized target as you could reliably strike with a thrown baseball.

Because they were Slave Authority milspec, there was no 'unique identification security block-out' crap incorporated in these stun guns. If you could pick it up and knew diddly about how the safety was disengaged, it was your weapon to use, and both adolescents knew good and goddam well how these pieces worked.

"Cops," said Frank in an excess of obviousness. The discarded uniforms were piled near the edges of the spread blanket. "You don't look like any of our slave cops. Who the hell are you guys?"

The big blond sonofabitch cleared his throat, staying on his knees and keeping both hands in plain sight. "Ramirez. Daniel M. Patrolman, Hadleyville barracks." He thought for a second. "On temporary duty."

The smaller, more saturnine, ugly man grimaced. "Kemp, Albert. Same goddam thing." He glared at Frank, then Andy. "Now, put the pistols down like nice kids, and we might just possibly forget about criminal charges."

Andy laughed at that. "Against whom? Us for disarming and arresting you assholes? That's not a criminal offense when Militiamen catch a pair of crooked cops in the act of raping a couple of free boys."

When the Free Citizens' Militia was brought into existence in every county and state all over the republic, the membership reached with both hands for the heritage of citizen-soldiers in America, back to Metacom's War [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Philip%27s_War] in 1675. What the government's functionaries couldn't prevent, however, was the appearance in the Militia movement of that particularly American spirit of defiant disdain for arbitrary authority. Habituated to the carriage of (and frequent practice in using) military small arms and tactics, the free population had become more acutely conscious of their responsibility to behave as citizens rather than subjects, and no officers of the federal authority were more conscious of this than the Slave Police, who were tasked with equipping, training, and leading the Free Citizens' Militia in exercises and action.

Both Kemp and Ramirez had been taught something about the more recent history of America's 'rabble in arms', emphasis on the militiamen's fierce pride in the engagement known as the Battle of Athens, Tennessee [http://jpfo.org/filegen-a-m/athens.htm], in 1946, when dozens of discharged veterans of the recent World War constituted themselves as the unorganized militia of McMinn County and took action with military firearms to overcome the well-armed sheriff's deputies of a corrupt political machine and thereby restore lawful government in their polity.

With such episodes prominent in their regard of their own powers and duties, even the youngest members of the Militia were jealously aware of the relationship between the public and the 'public servants'.

Cynical as he was, Kemp understood that these two teenagers – who identified themselves and their status in the county FCM contingent – had to be treated goddam carefully, especially with himself and the probie being caught under their own guns.

"Whaddaya mean, 'free boys'?" he demanded. He indicated Freckles, who was just lying there, knees still spread-apart, humiliation writ plain across the kid's tearstained face. "These are slaves. See the collars? See the goddam tattoos?"

"The tattoos are fake," said Andy, who checked the charge setting on Kemp's pistol, approved what he found, and regarded the man coldly. "The collars were taken out of service maybe five, six years ago. These two little guys –" he nodded at one naked little boy, then the other, too thoroughly trained to use the muzzle of his pistol to point at anything he wasn't happy to destroy "– found them and cooked up a plan to make a video out here in the woods."

"And that's how you found them, right?" The other adolescent, Frank, had the same look of deadly intensity on his face. "You hit 'em with these stun guns, trussed 'em and gagged 'em for recovery, then decided to have some fun with them."

Ramirez nodded, looking from one civilian to the other. Kemp almost snorted. Was the probie buying this line of shit?

"H-how could they be out of service?" asked Ramirez. "We got out-of-permitted collar trace on both of these. Not very strong, and only intermittent at first, but we tracked the signals right here." He indicated Blondie, who tried to get up on his knees, whimpering with pain.

"Don't take our word for it," said Andy. "There's proof right in front of you. If you check the serial numbers on their collars and the numbers on their leg tattoos, you'll see that they don't match. Uh, except the other one. You know what I mean?"

Frank's eyebrows went up. "You mean they put on those tattoos and then they locked themselves into the wrong collars?" An eye roll. "Jeez, how stupid!"

Eyes wide, heedless of the fact that the teenagers held them under their own guns, Ramirez scrambled for where he'd left his pad. Keying a function he hadn't used since training, he staggered back to kneel beside the blond boy, waving the pad in terror over the child's slave tattoo. When there was no response, he rapidly moved it over the left hip, half-rolling the naked, weeping little boy over onto his right side.

The chip reader gave a report that caused all the color to drain out of Danny's face.

"He's a free kid," he heard himself say in a throaty, almost mechanical voice.

"What?" Kemp's horror was a palpable presence in the air.

"I said that he's a free kid." Ramirez looked at the dark-haired one, who was trying to sit up, nodding, an unbelievably apologetic look on the kid's tear-streaked face as he worked frustratedly at the gag in his mouth.

Kemp made a long arm, grabbed for Danny's pad, and motioned to the little brunette, who obligingly rolled onto his right side so that the Patrolman could scan for the RFID chip that had long ago been injected into Mike's left gluteus maximus. The information reflected the most recent update, entered at the end of the boy's annual physical examination last March.

"Oh. My. God," whispered Kemp, looking down into the child's eyes. "We've been fucking a couple of free kids."

The sweaty little boy blinked, blushed suddenly with embarrassment, and simultaneously gave him a small nod and a sort of half-shrug.

"We're dead," Danny said softly. "Totally dead." His despair was absolute as he looked first at Mike then back at Richie. "They'll arrest us. They'll enslave us. Twenty years? Thirty? Oh, Christ!"

But Richie was shaking his head furiously now, trying to sit up, too, making noises desperately, trying to speak. Almost without thinking, Ramirez took the penis gag out of the boy's mouth.

"No, you're not!" sobbed the boy breathlessly. "We won't tell! I promise we won't tell!" The tears streamed down the child's cheeks even more freely. "Please, mister, don't be scared! You didn't know we weren't really slaves, we know that! You didn't mean to do the sex to us!" He realized what he'd just said, and shook his head ever so slightly. "I mean, you didn't mean to do the sex to a couple of regular kids. You thought we were slave boys."

Richie paused, seeing Mike struggling to speak, too.

"Uh, could you please let my friend talk? I think he wants to let you know that he won't tell on you, either."

Absently, Kemp regarded the kid closest to him. "Oh," he said. "Sorry 'bout that." And he took the gag out of Mike's mouth as well.

"What Richie said!" gasped the other boy. "We wouldn't tell on you! Why should we? It was, uh, an honest mistake. You couldn't know that we were just playing at being slave boys."

Kemp grunted a bitter laugh. "Yeah, playing." He half-reached for the barcode and number tattoo on the child's right thigh. "Damned good playing!"

"That was Richie's idea," said the boy without thinking more than he didn't want to take credit for what was his friend's ingenuity. "I found the collars in the attic."

"But we fucked you!" insisted Ramirez, kneeling close by Richie's hip as the boy kept trying to sit up. Absently, Danny took the boy by the shoulders and helped him do so. "My God," the man almost sobbed, "we raped you!"

Richie gazed up at the distraught Patrolman, a tone of despair in the child's voice. "D-Don't! Please, don't! You didn't rape us, not really. We, we…" He struggled to free his hands. "We made you do the sex to us! We tricked you!"

That 'you-didn't-rape-us' bit was a total lie, of course, but Richie was feeling so doggone bad for this poor grown-up. Neither man had really hurt him with his big penis – well,not hurt hurt. Not, like, busted him open or anything. And this Ramirez guy had been so gentle with the sex in Richie's bottom in spite of his ginormous dickie – not even like they talked about in S.C.A.R.E. classes, really – so you could tell that the cop wasn't really being mean.

Kemp was completely flummoxed, and it showed. "That doesn't matter," he insisted. "We're adults. We're Patrolmen! You don't know all the laws we've broken!"

"Nobody else knows what laws you've broken, either," put in Andy. Like Frank, he'd unconsciously backed up far enough so that neither of the two slave cops could rush him, and he continued holding them under their own guns. "Why the hell should anybody know what you two have done? The kids have promised not to rat you out, and we won't." He glanced at Frank. "Will we?"

Uncertainly, Frank frowned, glancing from his cousin to Mike to the Patrolmen and at last to his friend. His eyebrows arched helplessly, he shrugged. "I guess…"

"Bullshit!" growled Andy. "You'll promise. You'll swear! All six of us have got to stick together – you, me, the little guys, the cops. All of us!"

"Okay, I swear." Frank sighed. "When you think about it, every one of us would get in trouble if this came out. The cops would get busted out of the Slave Police, the little guys would get caned – at least! – and we'd get flogged or something. Who the hell wants to spill the beans?"

In unthinking emulation of his partner, Kemp had lifted Mike, still bound and helpless, up into a sitting position, and was supporting the naked child beside him. "That… almost makes sense." He looked at Danny. "Dispatch doesn't know anything except that we're 10-6. You haven't sent anything uplink, have you?"

Ramirez shook his head emphatically. "I was waiting for you to tell me."

That got a weak grin from Kemp. "Great. So something's finally sinking in between those wet-behind probie ears of yours." He looked at Andy. "So you mean we should just… walk away from this, like it never even happened?"

Andy nodded. "Yeah, I guess. No harm, no foul."

Ramirez blinked, then, reluctantly: "What do we do about these slave collars?" He explained about how even these old gadgets drew their operating energy literally from the bodies of their wearers. "They'll keep showing trace and out-of-permitted signals as long as they're locked closed. The only key in the whole damned county is kept in a safe at the barracks in Hadleyville. Somebody else is eventually gonna pick up that telemetry unless we bring you kids in and get the watch officer to take them off."

Unspoken: And how in the name of Tlaloc, the Rain God to whom children were sacrificed, are we supposed to get that guy to go along with this little cover-up?

"Oh, we got a key," said Mike. "It was with the collars when I found 'em in the attic."

"You've got a collar key?" The boys could practically see Patrolman Kemp's hair levitate. He'd apparently thought that the boys had found the collars open and had simply locked them in place around their necks, and now couldn't get them off. If they had a key…

Keeping track of slaves – indeed, keeping them enslaved, period – depended so much on the collars and the surveillance systems tracking them that the special collar keys were treated like the printing plates used for old-style paper currency. They were the modern equivalent of the old nuclear missile launch keys. Nobody let them get away from chain-of-custody.

Gawd, what the hell else was going to jump up and bite them today?

Kemp looked from one boy to another. "Then get out the key and get these collars off. We've got to turn them in!"

Frank made to reach into a pocket, then paused. "What are you going to tell them when you turn in these things?"

"Huh? Why, uh…" Kemp vapor-locked.

Ramirez took it up. "We tell them that they're old military surplus collars that a good citizen found in some stuff in his attic." He smiled. "A good patriotic citizen, a Militia cadet named Andy."

Mike grinned at the big blond guy. He was perfectly happy to have his big brother get the credit for that.

Frank still hesitated, still keeping Kemp's weapon more or less trained on the two Patrolmen. "So how come you couldn't do it on Monday?"

Ramirez looked at him in puzzlement, Kemp's expression notched one step beyond, at bafflement. "What? Why?"

Frank was a bit reluctant, but: "Well, we've got permission to camp out until Sunday night, late, and the twerps here are all hot to learn what it's like to be slave boys. Real slave boys, including what happens to slave boys when grown-up men catch them in the woods."

The teenager smiled. "You guys have helped with that, but there's no reason why we can't give them even more learning experience. You could turn in these collars on Monday morning, couldn't you?"

Patrolman Ramirez looked inquiry at his partner. Kemp's eyebrows were arched, and then he looked at Mike before easing the naked, wristbound, utterly helpless little boy down onto the blanket beside him. Shifting, the older cop caressed the sweaty, now manifestly frightened child's face with gentle fingertips, studying the boy's beautiful blue eyes. He bent low to kiss the kid, delighting in the taste of his captive's saliva as his tongue searched the warm wetness of the boy's mouth, the soft choked moan of mingled pleasure and distress, then rising up to reach for the penis gag, bringing it up again toward Mike's lips.

Pale, shuddering with emotions he still didn't completely understand, Mike looked up at the big, strong, powerful man and – ever so slightly, the boy nodded, whimpering as he closed his eyes, feeling the penis gag re-inserted in his mouth to rob him of the power of speech.

"But, but…!" That was Richie, weakly protesting, wriggling helplessly as Patrolman Ramirez laid him belly-up as well. "I'm, I'm not a slave!"

"Yes, little one," said the man with loving tenderness. "For the next few days, you are."

He sensed the surrender in the child, putting the gag in place and tightening the strap that held it secure, loving the look of desperation in the handsome youngster's eyes.

Danny looked up at his partner. "We go off-duty in a few hours. We're on call, but it's only third call. Until Monday morning…"

The older man nodded. "The only way we get pulled back in is if there's an asteroid about to plough into the Earth." He grinned at Frank. "We gotta sign out, but how about we come out here camping with you for the next couple of days? A little help with these escaped slaves of yours?"

"Yes, sir!" agreed the adolescent eagerly. "Uh, maybe you could bring some stuff with you when you come back?"

"Like what?" asked Danny, his attention divided between Frank and young Richie, playing fondly with the wristbound child's taut, pulsant little penis.

"Field rations," suggested Andy, who had long since safed the pistol and was putting it back into its holster. "Maybe some more ResuRect." He grinned. "Which we're gonna need, I think."

"No problem," put in Kemp. He reached for his clothes, fumbling around with his tee-shirt.

"And if you could," suggested Frank, "do you think you could bring a cane? Y'know, one like you cops use on the little guys when they get a punishment?"

Kemp's cock suddenly betrayed him. What slave cop hasn't fantasized about taking a free boy's caning to the next logical step?

"Yeah, I think we can get one." He smiled down at Mike, who had suddenly gone wide-eyed, writhing against his bonds, heels thumping against the ground, his protests desperate, completely incoherent, but his little pecker tight against his belly with the ardor of his own little-boy lust.

Until Sunday night, Mike and Richie were slaves, at the mercy of grown-ups who were going to use them as slave boys are meant to be used, and they wouldn't be allowed to get away from it.

After all, slaves can't be trusted.

The End