Koos Smit

Brendan

Chapters 15-...

As the schooner surges steadily eastward through the swells, the days and nights pass pleasantly for the Morton brothers. Their cabin is comfortable and they dine well. The manservant that their father has sent along draws their baths, cleans their clothes, makes their beds and generally waits on them hand and foot. They spend their days at leisure, playing cards, draughts and backgammon when they are not exploring the ship. They spend hours at the prow of the ship, feeling the spray on their faces and the wind in their hair. They climb the rigging and run about with the two young apprentices when they are not working. The apprentices, who are the same age as Rodney, are well born English boys like themselves, though their fathers are not as well off as the Morton boys' father and, consequently, they have to make their own way in the world by following a profession.

At night they each take one of the slave boys to bed with them, after the slave boys have washed themselves thoroughly and cleaned out their arseholes under the supervision of the manservant, Benson, who has thoughtfully brought with him the small animal bladder with the brass nozzle that the boys were accustomed to use for this task at Morton Hall. More often than not one or both of the ship's apprentices join Rodney and Charles for a few hours of sex fun with the slave boys.

The remaining three slave boys are invariably shared out among James Fulton and the ship's officers, relieving the young apprentices of this unofficial part of their duties (one of the reasons that they are never placed on watch at night).

Other than Brendan, the slave boys have a reasonably easy time of it on this short voyage. Occasionally one of them is flogged for some real or imagined offence, or just because it gives Rodney pleasure, but they have quickly reverted to the slave's habit of fatalism, accepting their whippings as an unremarkable part of the life of a slave. Otherwise, they are no longer shackled to a chain all day and can move reasonably freely about the ship. They are fed and watered with the crew. They are kept busy on deck with physical labour during the day but the work is not exhausting. They sleep comfortably since they are always sharing the bed of one of their masters or of one of the officers or even of one of the apprentices.

The apprentices are in the peculiar position that they are regarded both as part of the crew and as part of the officer corps of the ship. The disadvantage of being part of the crew is that they are subject to corporal punishment like members of the crew, though with the Boy's Pussy or the cane rather than the adult Cat o' Nine Tails. Being part of the officer corps, however, gives them certain privileges, including some authority over the members of the crew. On this particular voyage they consider that the greatest benefit of being regarded as part of the crew is that they are also eligible to make use of Brendan for sexual release whenever they can.

For Brendan, however, the days and nights are a blur of pain and pleasure.

All night, except for one two hour dog watch when he is allowed to sleep unmolested, there is hardly more than half an hour at a time when he does not have some rough and horny crewman's iron hard cock thrusting up his arse or down his throat… often both.

Then at dawn Brendan is brought up on deck for his morning flogging. For the first few days he waddled along painfully in a wide-legged gait, his arse hole red and sore from a whole night of hard sex. His body is always dirty and sticky with the sweat, piss and semen of the twenty or so men and boys who have fucked him in relays through the night, and his untidy thatch of straw-coloured hair is tacky with globs of drying semen. Cum and piss from the last few men who filled his arse dribbles from his winking bumhole and trickles down the inside of his thighs as he walks, making wet tracks through the grime overlaying his smooth honey brown skin.

Brendan is then tied over the breech of one of the cannon so that Rodney can cane his arse with the long yellow rattan that the bosun normally uses on the apprentices or the ship's boys. Rodney usually keeps Brendan waiting for anything up to an hour while he finishes his breakfast and then makes a leisurely appearance to lay ten searing welts over the fading purple stripes on Brendan's buttocks from the day before and the day before that.

After his caning Brendan is allowed to wash himself as best he can in a bucket of sea water before wolfing down his only meal of the day: half a loaf of dry bread and some hard and crumbling cheese, washed down with water.

After this he is put to work under supervision of a petty officer with a mean streak who loves using the rope's end on Brendan, and has indeed been instructed to do so at every opportunity. He scrubs decks, scours rusting metal, cleans the shit and piss out of the heads and generally does the dirtiest and most menial tasks that the petty officer can find for him. At regular intervals he is pulled from whatever he is doing and made to bend over some convenient object while two or three off duty crewmen line up to ream his arse.

When there are no more chores for him to do, Brendan is made to mount a belaying pin on one of the fife rails again until someone needs his arse for more constructive purposes.

When darkness falls Brendan is allowed to get off the fife rail and he goes below where the all night fuck marathon begins all over again.

And so the days and nights roll by for Brendan. However, within a week Brendan has become so accustomed to his new role as the lower deck bum boy that it is no longer much of a hardship for him. His bum hole has stretched and toughened and he no longer finds it painful to walk.

Though on a punishment diet of just one meal a day the amount of cum that Brendan ingests in the course of 24 hours provides him with more than enough protein and he seems to positively glow with health after a while. Brendan had developed a taste for semen when he had worked on the wall-building gang at Morton Mall. A gigantic negro slave named Jabu had introduced Brendan to cum-eating during rest breaks. He had taught Brendan that in his culture the strongest and best warriors were expected to give their seed, both anally and orally, to the young boys of the tribe, so that the boys might acquire the strength and prowess of the warriors. Over time Brendan had swallowed many litres of Jabu's semen in the hope that he might grow as big and as powerful as the spectacularly muscular negro. So when the hunger pains caused by the punishment diet started to cramp Brendan's belly, he remembered the lessons he had learned from Jabu about the nutritional value of semen. Now Brendan seeks every opportunity to swallow any semen that comes his way, though of course many of the crewmen prefer to discharge their loads in Brendan's arse, leaving him to try to scoop up what he can of what dribbles out of his bum hole and down his thighs.

Of course, like any young teenage boy, he thinks of almost nothing else but sex in his waking moments, but Brendan spends so much time in a state of sexual stimulation that it has become an almost permanent state of being for him. His cock, prodigiously large for his age even on the slack, is in a constant state of partial erection; tingling and bobbing like a thing alive; and his anus winks and puckers continually in anticipation of being entered, stretching instantly into a gaping yawn on the lightest touch. He has become, in fact, what we would call a sex addict today. Of course, in his day no such label existed, probably because no one would have thought it to be an affliction. He would have been regarded, with pleasure rather than contempt, simply as a particularly "frisky" or "willing" boy. (It leaves us to contemplate that not all things improve with the advancement of science).

Meant to be part of his punishment, even his enforced daily impalement on the large wooden phallus represented by the belaying pin has become more of a pleasure, at least once the daily ordeal of adjusting to the great girth and length of the pin is over. It gives him a strange sense of satisfaction to have the massive wooden pole fill his channel; as well as a tremor of excitement when it reminds him of the big strong men whose huge and powerful cocks have been inside him from time to time, taking him from extremes of pain to extremes of pleasure in the space of a fuck. His cock remains swollen thick and hard throughout the time that he spends with the belaying pin up his arse. He can sometimes be seen raising and lowering himself on it energetically, flushed with pleasure and exertion, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open slackly, until he climaxes and squirts great jets of thick and slippery silver cum over his belly and chest, which he then scoops up on his hard brown fingers and slurps down with relish.

Rodney often seems to be about on deck at this time and spends a lot of time in Brendan's vicinity, watching him surreptitiously out of the corners of his eyes even as he leans, apparently nonchalantly, against the rail and pretends to be interested in the distant horizon. The slave boys notice, though none would dare to mention it, that something alive always seems to be straining to get out of the front of his breeches, and they know quite well that their lord and master is lusting after Brendan and is itching to satisfy that lust. This always seems to them to be confirmed when, apparently unable to bear it any longer, Rodney would send the nearest slave boy to his cabin, follow him there very soon afterward, and fuck him long and hard. Embarrassed by his momentary weakness, Rodney would then thrash the boy with a cane on some pretext and send him snivelling back to his work.

After nearly two weeks of this, Rodney's lust for Brendan finally prevails over his desire for revenge and, one morning after giving Brendan his usual caning, Rodney has him released from his bonds and announces that he has decided that Brendan has been punished enough.

Brendan drops to his knees and throws his arms around Rodney's calves. He kisses Rodney's bare feet and cries out:

"Thank you, Lord, thank you for your mercy!"

Rodney raps Brendan hard against his ribs with his cane.

"Get off me, you Irish brute, you're filthy!" he says sharply.

"Forgive me, Lord, please forgive me!" Brendan begs.

Rodney summons his manservant:

"Benson! Take him to my cabin and get him properly cleaned up and ready for service." Rodney orders.

In Rodney's cabin Brendan is made to get into the copper bath tub where he soaks in hot water for twenty minutes before Benson, armed with a stiff brush and a bar of strong soap, scours the layers of grime off every inch of Brendan's body. When the foaming soap suds are rinsed out of his matted yellow thatch even Benson pauses to admire the startling contrast of his smooth tanned skin with his sun-bleached white blonde hair. Brendan is quick to notice Benson's interest and he smiles disarmingly up at the man bending over the tub. Benson slides his one hand slowly up and down Brendan's muscle-knotted back while his other hand reaches down to close around the boy's cock as it hardens and rises out of the bath water.

Brendan gets up onto his knees in the bathtub, spreading his legs as far apart as they will go in the narrow space to give Benson access to his anus. Benson's hand glides down the soapy valley between the muscles on either side of Brendan's spine and on into the deep cleft between his hard round buttocks. His fingers quickly find Brendan's pucker, which flexes open eagerly in welcome.

As Benson fingers his hole Brendan reaches out and starts pawing the bulge in the front of Benson's trousers.

Just then Rodney walks in, accompanied by one of the apprentices, a short and wiry black-haired boy named Geoffrey. Rodney frowns:

"I trust you are not taking liberties with my property, Benson?."

"Not at all, young sir!" Benson replies glibly, "Just cleaning out his hole proper like you wanted.!"

"Well… it looks like both of you are enjoying it rather too much," says Rodney, looking pointedly at Benson's crotch.

"And who can blame me for enjoying my work, sir," Benson chuckles.

Geoffrey starts to giggle but cuts it short as Rodney snaps:

"Don't be impertinent Benson! You may leave now!"

"As you wish, sir" says Benson with a tight smile, inclining his head as he leaves, fuming inwardly at the dismissive manner in which his employer's son treats him but powerless to do anything about it.

Rodney tosses a towel on the deck next to the bath.

"Get out and dry yourself!" he orders Brendan.

Brendan obeys. Rodney peels off his shirt and drops it on the deck. Geoffrey does the same and the two boys watch Brendan towel himself dry as their cocks harden and lengthen, straining against the fronts of their breeches.

When Brendan is finished he drops the towel at his feet and stands with head bowed but eyes fixed on his master's face, his hands by his sides, as he waits for further orders, his cock slowly hardening in anticipation.

Rodney looks at Brendan a long while in silence. With his heart beating in his throat and his tongue thick and dry in his mouth, Rodney's eyes rove lustfully over Brendan's beautifully proportioned, deeply tanned body and his exceptionally large cock, now fully erected above a ponderous set of balls.

"Gosh!" says Geoffrey in frank admiration, his eyes on stalks. "He's even bigger than you there, Rodney!"

A flash of irritation crosses Rodney's face, but he says nothing. By now Rodney is so horny that he can barely able to trust himself to speak. Rodney motions with his eyes to his crotch. Brendan knows at once what is expected of him. He steps forward and unbuttons Rodney's fly before tugging his breeches down to concertina around Rodney's ankles. Rodney steps out of them and kicks them to one side with a hard bare foot.

Geoffrey hastily pulls his own breeches off and bounces up and down on his toes in eager anticipation as he fingers his own medium sized erection, now dribbling long silvery strands of precum onto his thighs and feet.

Brendan drops to his knees and takes his owner's by now rock hard cock between his fingers; pulling it down to the horizontal before eagerly enveloping its swollen purple head with his full moist lips. Quickly he sucks Rodney's thrusting meat into his wide warm mouth, drawing it all the way back into his greedy gullet. Rodney interlocks the fingers of both hands against the back of Brendan's head and Brendan firmly onto his cock just as Brendan starts to withdraw. Brendan is momentarily taken by surprise but he waits, breathing heavily through his nose as Rodney's fat cock jams his throat like a stopper. After a short wait Rodney realizes with a pang of disappointment that Brendan is not going to gag, squirm and thrash about like a novice and he starts fucking Brendan's throat with short hard thrusts. He is trying to hurt Brendan but Brendan's throat, like his arse, has had much bigger cocks in it than Rodney's and he takes Rodney's fucking with ease.

Then Rodney clamps one hand to Brendan's neck with his thumb pressing against the slave boy's throat. He loves to feel the neck swell with each thrust of his cock. A hoarse growl vibrates in Brendan's throat. It feels like he is being strangled, but it is nothing he cannot handle and his pride will not let him give Rodney the satisfaction of seeing him pull away. Brendan starts using the swallowing movements of the back of his tongue to spur Rodney's cock to ecstasy.

Soon Rodney feels himself rushing to the point and climax and he pulls his throbbing meat roughly out of Brendan's mouth, slapping Brendan hard against first one side of his head and then the other as he does so. Dazed, his ears ringing, Brendan distantly hears Rodney berating him:

"There you go thinking of yourself again, Brendan! Trying to rush me because you want to get it over with!"

"No Master, I enjoy having Master's cock down my throat!" Brendan protests, "I was trying to increase Master's pleasure!"

For answer Rodney steps forward and swings his right leg hard between Brendan's kneeling thighs, the top of his foot connecting viciously with Brendan's balls, causing Brendan to double over and collapse on the floor, where he writhes about groaning and clutching his nethers in pain.

"Don't talk back to me Brendan! When are you going to learn your place?."

"Yes Master! Sorry Master!" Brendan moans through clenched teeth.

"Now stop crying like a big baby and get up!" Rodney orders as he delivers another vicious kick, this time to Brendan's ribs.

Brendan yelps as he scrambles to his feet.

"Please let me have a go now, Rodney!" Geoffrey pleads, his swollen cock throbbing with the need for release.

Rodney ignores Geoffrey and, looking pointedly at Brendan, gestures toward his bunk. Brendan jumps onto it quickly, waiting on all fours as Rodney gets up behind him, slathers his cock with his own saliva and gets ready to insert it into Brendan's arse. Brendan rests his head on the bed as he reaches behind him with both hands to pull his butt cheeks apart and expose his hole, already flexed open like an engorged vagina as he eagerly anticipates the entry of his master's cock.

Rodney leans over Brendan's butt, purses his lips and expertly drops a long glob of saliva into Brendan's crack, just above his anus. He quickly fingers it into Brendan's hole and hastily pushes his cock deep into Brendan's fuck channel.

Geoffrey, unable to wait any longer, closes a fist around his shaft and starts pumping himself to climax. Rodney spots him doing this.

"Stop that Geoffrey!" he orders, "You'll get your chance shortly!"

Geoffrey flushes with anger, but he obeys at once: His welted buttocks bear testimony to the last time he went against Rodney's wishes. Rodney had simply complained to the captain that Geoffrey seemed not to know his station and Geoffrey had found himself bent over the breech of a gun with the Bosun administering twelve searing strokes of the cane across his naked buttocks.

He stretches tight lips into an ingratiating smile:

"Okay, Rodney, I'm sorry," he says.

Rodney's cock slides into Brendan tightly but smoothly and Brendan purrs his pleasure as Rodney fucks him, long and slow at first but quickly picking up pace until his cock is ramming fast and hard into Brendan's arse like the piston of a machine. Now both Rodney and Brendan are grunting like animals and moaning with the shared lust of their rutting.

Finally Rodney stiffens and then shudders violently as his cock spasms deep inside Brendan, releasing jet after jet of his hot and slippery load into Brendan's channel. Rodney moans in deep satisfaction as he collapses onto Brendan's sweat drenched back and lays there a while before rolling off and flopping onto his back on the bunk.

Rodney gives Brendan a shove and he tumbles off the bunk onto the deck. Brendan quickly scrambles to his knees.

"Very well, Geoffrey, now it's your turn" says Rodney as he swings himself up to sit on the edge of the bunk.

"Thank you Rodney!" says Geoffrey and takes position in front of the kneeling Brendan, holding his cock out for Brendan to take into his mouth.

"No, Geoffrey," says Rodney, "I want you to bend over that table so I can watch Brendan fuck you in the arse."

Geoffrey is outraged.

"You mean… you mean I… you mean I must submit to this slave… fucking me in the arse?" he splutters.

"Yes Geoffrey, that's exactly what I mean" Rodney replies calmly.

"But I say, Rodney… really? Why?" says Geoffrey

"Because it will give me pleasure. Besides, since you admire his cock so much I want you to have the opportunity to compare what it feels like to have his… much bigger…cock up your arse," Rodney replies maliciously.

"I will not do it!" Geoffrey says defiantly.

"You know you will, Geoffrey," Rodney says calmly.

"You are not my master, Rodney, you cannot tell me what to do!"

"I know you will do it, Geoffrey, because, first, I heard you screaming when the Bosun caned you yesterday, and I know you don't want more of that, and second, because you really like having your arse fucked and, despite what you say, the idea of being fucked by that brawny brute with his huge tool actually makes you really horny!"

Geoffrey falls silent as he contemplates the truth of what Rodney has said.

By now Brendan is on his feet and lusting strongly after Geoffrey's arse. As Geoffrey hesitates, Rodney nods his head in Geoffrey's direction and Brendan at once takes that as a signal to go ahead. He steps quickly up to Geoffrey and seizes the apprentice's wrists in his own strong, iron hard fists. He twists Geoffrey's wrists hard to spin him around and then lifts his arms backward to force him to bend over the table. Geoffrey yells in pain. Brendan lets go of Geoffrey's wrists and holds the unwilling boy against the table top with one big hand pressing against the middle of his back while he uses his other hand to guide his throbbing cock, slippery with precum, against the deeply concave entry to Geoffrey's tight pinched hole. Geoffrey struggles to lift himself off the table and Brendan pauses to give him a ringing crack against the side of his head with the open palm of his meaty hand that makes Geoffrey slump over the table again, dazed and shocked, all the fight gone out of him.

"Lie still until I'm done with ye!" Brendan orders.

This is Geoffrey's first voyage as an apprentice. Mainly due to the presence of the slave boys, he has had very little sexual experience thus far. On the outward voyage, before the Morton boys and their slave boys were taken on board, his sexual experience was limited to a few inexpert fumblings with his fellow apprentices. Beyond that there were just a couple of occasions when he had been called upon to masturbate one of the officers. Now on the return voyage to Barbados he was cajoled by his peers into fucking some of the slave boys, including Brendan, on several occasions. He found this a very gratifying experience, although he is not yet very proficient at it. But he has yet to experience having a man's, or boy's erected penis up his own arse. Not that he hasn't thought about it, having learned from the other apprentices and from the bawdy ribbing of some of the crew members about his virgin status that it is just a matter of time before he is initiated into this unaccustomed role. Now he realizes that that moment is upon him and the prospect both terrifies and excites him.

Brendan scoops up some precum from his dribbling cock, smears it around Geoffrey's pucker and tries to insert a strong brown finger into his anus. Geoffrey squeaks in fright and his anus tightens involuntarily against Brendan's probing. Brendan raises his hand as high as his shoulder and whips it down to smack sharply against Geoffrey's butt cheek.

Geoffrey yelps and complains indignantly:

"I say, Rodney, are you going to allow your slave to assault me like this?."

"Assault you like what?," Rodney asks, as he nods at Brendan to repeat the stroke.

Brendan's big hard hand cracks against Geoffrey's other butt cheek with a report like a pistol shot.

Geoffrey yelps in pain.

"I don't see any assault," Rodney says innocently.

Geoffrey tries to push himself off the table, outraged and red-faced.

"Just wait till we get to Bridgestone," Geoffrey yells, "My uncle is the magistrate and I'm going to get this slave of yours arrested and hanged! You'll see!"

Brendan slaps him hard against the back of the head and Geoffrey drops back onto the table. Geoffrey sobs now in frustrated anger and defeat.

"We'll see indeed!" Rodney replies reasonably, "In the meantime this slave of mine is going to split your bum open with his big fat cock that you admire so much!"

"Put your hands back here and pull your bum cheeks apart," Brendan instructs.

Geoffrey reaches back both hands and does as Brendan orders.

"Now relax your arse…" Brendan says, "Make like you're trying to have a shit."

Geoffrey does so and Brendan manages to get his thick middle finger half way in before Geoffrey starts yelping.

"Ow! Ow!" he squawks and his arse ring clamps around Brendan's finger like a vice.

Brendan waits until he can feel Geoffrey's anus relax and then he pushes his finger slowly further in. Geoffrey pants and whimpers with pain as he does so. Finally Brendan's finger is in as far as it will go, Brendan waits a moment and then starts fucking Geoffrey's arse slowly with his finger.

Rodney picks up his cane from where it is lying on his bunk and gives Brendan a sharp cut across his buttocks. Brendan yelps.

"Stop mollycoddling him Brendan! Get on with it now!"

"Yes Master!" Brendan says breathlessly, his erected cock instantly becoming even harder. He rubs his freshly striped bottom with one hand while he starts pumping his finger faster in and out of Geoffrey's arsehole.

Geoffrey cries out, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the table with both hands.

As Brendan forces a second finger into his hole Geoffrey lets out a howl of pain.

Rodney's cane cuts another stripe across Brendan's buttocks. Again Brendan yelps. Once again the effect on his cock is instant as it swells visibly to a quivering steely hardness, the precum dribbling copiously out of its gaping tip and dripping on the deck in long silvery strands.

"Stop playing about, Brendan! Fuck his arse with that thing!" Rodney orders, flicking Brendan's fuckpole with the tip of his cane.

At once Brendan yanks his finger out of Geoffrey, catches up some precum, slathers it hastily around his swollen purple cockhead and presses it up against Geoffrey's pucker. He reaches over Geoffrey's back and takes a strong grip of both his shoulders in readiness for the almighty thrust it will take for his battering ram to force its way past the tight and unyielding gate to Geoffrey's fuck channel.

To the accompaniment of loud grunts from Geoffrey and the sharp crack of Rodney's cane against his clenching buttocks, Brendan rams his cockhead against Geoffrey's pucker three times before it gains entry. When it enters, Brendan forces it all the way in and Geoffrey's screams split the stuffy air in the close cabin.

Brendan fucks Geoffrey long and hard. Geoffrey screams and thrashes about but Brendan is bigger and stronger and he has no difficulty holding him down as his long thick cock pistons repeatedly into Geoffrey's reluctant channel.

After a while Geoffrey's screams subside to moans and finally, as Brendan reaches climax, to whimpering and crying.

The moment Brendan withdraws Rodney steps up and starts rogering Geoffrey himself. Brendan goes around to the other side of the table and pushes his still swollen cock, now covered in cum and Geoffrey's anal juices, against Geoffrey's lips.

"Clean it off!" he orders.

Geoffrey gags and jerks his face away. Brendan instantly slaps him hard against the side of his head. Geoffrey distastefully takes Brendan's cock into his mouth and sucks it clean, all the while moaning softly as Rodney's fat hard cock slams repeatedly into his arse.

Having just come inside Brendan, Rodney takes a little longer to reach climax with Geoffrey. By now the pain has been replaced with the most exciting sensations for Geoffrey also and he has begun to participate in his fucking, rocking his pelvis back and forth on Rodney's cock as he tries to urge Rodney to fuck him harder and deeper, almost yearning now for Brendan's much bigger cock.

Then, just as Geoffrey himself is about to reach climax, Rodney's body stiffens and he gasps and groans as the waves of pleasure convulse his body repeatedly. Rodney pulls his cock out of Geoffrey's arse and, hands on hips, gestures for Brendan to suck it clean. Brendan instantly kneels before his master and takes Rodney's now softening cock into his mouth to suck and lick it clean.

"You can get up now," Rodney says to Geoffrey, who, unsure of what he was expected to do next, had remained lying over the table.

Geoffrey gets up and looks nervously at the young master and his slave, his cock swollen to bursting and begging for relief as it bobs against Geoffrey's tight belly with every heartbeat.

Rodney places a palm against Brendan's forehead and pushes him roughly off his cock. Brendan falls backward onto his arse.

"Give Geoffrey some help with that," Rodney says, pointing at Geoffrey's straining cock.

At once Brendan scrambles up onto his knees and shuffles over to where Geoffrey is standing. He takes Geoffrey's cock into his mouth and swiftly brings the moaning boy to climax.

Rodney and Geoffrey lie back on Rodney's bunk for a while, recovering from their exertions. Brendan kneels on the deck, his eyes fixed on his Master and awaiting further orders. They are not very long in coming.

"Brendan!" says Rodney, sitting up suddenly, "It occurs to me that you struck Geoffrey several times while we were teaching him how to take a cock up his arse!"

"Master?" exclaims Brendan in surprise, remembering Rodney's earlier flat denial that he had seen any assault when Geoffrey had complained about it.

"I hope you don't mean to deny it now, Brendan!" says Rodney, "It will not go well for you if you do!"

"But… Master… I mean… No Master," Brendan replies. "Then you must be punished for your insolence, would you not agree?"

"Yes, Master," Brendan says in a resigned tone, although the glint in his eyes and his stiffening cock betray his rising excitement at being whipped yet again.

Brendan wakes to the sound of the chain rattling out through the hawse pipe as the anchor plunges to the seabed. He stretches sleepily on the comfortable mattress just before the anchor pulls the ship up short. At the same time the helm is put over and the sails let fly and the ship swings round to stand head to wind in the gentle breeze blowing off Bridgeport, the capital of Barbados. The sudden swing of the ship as she is jerked to heel by the anchor chain causes Brendan to roll into his bed companion.

Rodney immediately punches him hard in the ribs.

"Careful, you big Irish oaf!" Rodney says crossly.

"Sorry, Master!" Brendan says sleepily.

"You're not sorry, Brendan, but you're going to be!" Rodney grins at him maliciously.

"Yes, Master," Brendan says resignedly.

It has now been two weeks since Rodney released him from duty as the lower deck bum boy and taken him into his own bed, and not one morning has gone by without Rodney finding some or other excuse for giving Brendan a sound thrashing.

Not that Rodney needs an excuse and, in fact, sometimes he doesn't bother to offer one. And Brendan knows better than to ask. He knows perfectly well that Rodney whips him because it gives him sexual pleasure. No other reason. And as Rodney's slave boy it is Brendan's duty to provide that pleasure. Brendan knows that and accepts it.

Not that it matters to Rodney, or to anyone else for that matter, whether Brendan accepts it or not. But Brendan has consciously decided for himself that he accepts it. And the reason is quite simply that he loves Rodney. He always has loved Rodney, although that became complicated in the short while that their roles were reversed. Now the natural order, as both Rodney and Brendan see it, is restored. Rodney is once again Brendan's master and Brendan is once again Rodney's slave. And Brendan's whole being is concentrated on serving his master in the best way he knows how, which is to give Rodney sexual pleasure. If that means having his back or buttocks whipped raw for Rodney's pleasure, Brendan is more than willing to endure the pain. Of course it helps that Brendan derives almost as much sexual pleasure from being tortured by the object of his love.

And so, while the sails are being furled and the ship is being prepared to discharge its cargo into the barges which are even now being rowed out by huge, muscular negro slaves, Brendan finds himself once again bent over the back of a chair while Rodney viciously overlays the older cane stripes on his arse with twenty fresh ones.

When, red-faced and perspiring from his efforts, Rodney tosses the cane onto the deck, the slave boy stays bent over the back of the chair, licking his lips and flexing his bumhole in the knowledge that Rodney will soon be ramming his fat cock into Brendan's hungry hole.

For Brendan, although his current situation has many benefits, the one great drawback is that, having served the sexual needs of the entire crew as the lower deck bum boy night and day for two weeks, he has become completely addicted to sex and can think of nothing else all his waking hours. He is just not getting enough of it from Rodney and goes about nearly permanently erected. During the day, when he is supposed to be working with the other slave boys he is continually sneaking off to the rope store or any other convenient corner with the petty officer in charge of them or with any other man or boy who wants to fuck him. Often he gets found out and this earns him a whipping from the bosun and a caning from Rodney for good measure. But Brendan considers it worth it.

Pretty soon Rodney is finished and he dresses hurriedly before rushing on deck to see what is going on. Brendan follows, his arse still dribbling his master's cum and his cock still rock hard and waggling from side to side as he trots after Rodney.

The last time Brendan saw this view of Bridgeport was when he arrived from Ireland on the slave ship, Artemis, nearly a year ago and his stomach lurches with the same fear that he felt on that day. He reaches for Liam's hand, knowing that he must be feeling the same way. Liam sidles closer and puts his arm around his cousin's back.

For a while they watch as the cargo barge comes alongside and nets filled with items of cargo are lowered into the barge and stowed.

A Navy cutter slowly comes into view, rowed by seamen from the Royal navy frigate in harbour. Even at this distance the boys can see it carries a party of red-coated marines. Soon it is clear they are heading for their own ship. They wonder idly what the marines want. Perhaps it is just a routine customs and excise inspection.

The cutter comes alongside and the marines come aboard. There is a young Ensign in charge who demands to see the captain. After a while they emerge from the captain's cabin and the captain goes straight to Rodney.

"The officer here has a writ issued by the magistrate ordering one of your slaves to be taken into custody," he tells Rodney.

"Who and what for?" Rodney demands.

The ensign answers:

"Brendan O'Neill… Captain Morton has lodged a runaway slave complaint with the magistrate and we must take him into custody to receive justice"

"He is not a runaway!" Rodney exclaims, "He was taken by pirates… we all were!"

"It is nothing to do with me," says the young officer, "My duty is simply to execute the arrest"

Brendan goes pale, as does Rodney. They both realize that Brendan is in mortal danger if Captain Morton does not withdraw the complaint. There is no such thing as a fair trial for slaves. In fact, there will be hardly any trial at all. All that is required to establish guilt is the owner's accusation. And the penalty for running away in Barbados is usually death by impalement… that is, if they manage to survive the floggings, mutilations and tortures that may be ordered to precede this terrible form of execution.

"But he belongs to me; not my father!" Rodney splutters angrily.

"Then take it up with him," said the ensign, "But I think you will find you are too young to own property independent of your father"

Despite Rodney's heated protestations, Brendan is shackled and transferred to the cutter.

An hour later Brendan finds himself shuffling through the dusty streets of Bridgetown to the grim and dirty edifice that is the slave barracoon. By now the citizens of Barbados are well used to the sight of white Irish slaves and the naked, muscular young blonde boy escorted in chains by two red-coated soldiers draws barely a second glance from the people passing by.

Brendan's thick, strong wrists have been shackled together behind his back. Iron shackles clamped around his ankles are joined by a short length of chain which threatens to trip him up and forces him to shuffle with quick, awkward steps along the dirt road, his tough bare feet kicking up little clouds of dust as he moves along. A heavy iron collar has been padlocked around his neck and a soldier with slung musket walks ahead of him, pulling Brendan along by a length of chain fastened to the iron collar, every now and then yanking on the chain, jerking Brendan forward and making him tumble in the dirt for the soldier's own amusement. Another soldier walks behind, his musket also slung at his shoulder. He carries a long thin whippy cane that he uses whenever Brendan falls down, slashing at him repeatedly as he struggles to scramble to his feet… no easy feat without the use of his hands and arms.

Finally, they arrive at the barracoon. Brendan remembers, with a clutch of fear at his heart, the last time he passed through these studded wooden doors. So much has happened since then that it is hard to believe that it was less than a year ago that he and his cousin were bought by Captain Morton and taken out to the captain's sugar estate to begin their lives as slaves.

One of Brendan's escorts hammers the great iron doorknocker until the big door is opened to let them in. The soldiers lead Brendan through the entrance hall and down a passage towards the closed door of an office which bears the title "Controller" in official looking lettering.

As they approach the door Brendan hears the muffled but familiar sound of a man grunting and panting in lust and the quavering squeaks and yelps of a young boy having his arse fucked hard.

The soldiers wait discreetly in the passage until the man's satisfied bellow announces that he has reached climax. They wait a moment longer and then knock on the door.

"Just a moment!" a man's voice calls.

A moment later the door opens and the Controller waves them inside the room.

A young white slave boy is bent face down over a sturdy wooden table. His shock of red hair and smooth white skin marks him as an Irish captive slave recently arrived. His feet are spread wide apart with his ankles shackled to the heavy table legs. His arms are stretched out before him, gripping the table edges on either side with whitened knuckles. The boy looks about 10 years old. He is completely naked and his muscled young body glistens with perspiration. He is whimpering softly. His firm round buttocks are striped with fresh cane welts and there is a mixture of cum and blood dribbling down the inside of the boy's sweaty thighs.

Against the wall stands another naked Irish boy of about twelve. Flaming red hair crowns his head also, and it does not require great powers of observation to realize that they are brothers. Clearly embarrassed by his nakedness, he holds his interlocked hands in front of him to cover his genitalia and he nervously shifts weight from one foot to the other. He is wide-eyed at what he has just witnessed.

The soldiers eye the boys with interest.

"Pretty pair you got 'ere, Mr Lawson" says the one soldier, "Putting 'em through their paces, are ye?"

"Yes," Mr Lawson replies, "Just off the boat… Special delivery for Lord Howden all the way from Ireland. His Lordship returns in two weeks" time from visiting his new estate there. Sent them ahead. Sons of the previous owner I hear. They're a bit full of themselves and his Lordship has instructed me to break "em in for him."

"Lord Howden, hey?" says the one soldier, "They's in for a right treat, poor buggers! Give us a shout if you need any help breaking 'em in!"

"Oh, I think I'll manage" says Mr Lawson with a smirk.

"So, what can I do for you gentlemen?" asks Mr Lawson, as he buttons up the fly of his trousers.

Before the soldiers can answer, the man snaps at the whimpering slave boy:

"Stop that infernal noise, boy! Do you want another flogging?"

The boy stops whimpering at once, nervously watching Mr Lawson over his shoulder with a terror-stricken face.

One of the soldiers hands the man a document.

"Mr Lawson, this here is Captain Morton's young Irish runaway. He's to be held in custody until he goes before the Magistrate day after tomorrow"

"It's not true, Sir!" Brendan, "I didn't run away… I was captured by pirates… we all were… even the young Masters!"

One of the soldiers clips Brendan across the back of his head with his hand.

"Be quiet!" he snarls, "Speak when ye're spoken to!"

Brendan glowers at the soldier but says nothing.

Mr Lawson looks Brendan over. He likes what he sees and he feels the tip of his cock tingle.

"It doesn't matter what the truth is, boy… if your Master says you ran away… then you ran away!"

He reaches out to close a hand over Brendan's long thick shaft, soft now but held in a permanent state of semi-engorgement by his cock ring.

"Well, well, well… it is a rare thing to have such a young boy… especially a white boy… incarcerated for such a serious offence… very rare indeed!" says Mr Lawson.

"Aye, Sir," one of the soldiers responds, "Rare indeed!"

"Though it does seem a terrible waste to kill such a fine specimen of a boy, if you ask me… especially by hammering a stake into his guts through his arsehole," Mr Lawson adds callously.

Brendan heart lurches and he shudders at this casual confirmation of his worst fear.

Mr Lawson notices Brendan's reaction and he puts his hand on Brendan's shoulder.

"I know it's hard to hear it, boy, but you must buck up and steel your heart to your fate. There is nothing else for it."

Brendan just looks at Mr Lawson with panic-stricken eyes. He can't trust himself to speak.

"Anyway… don't worry too much about it," says Mr Lawson as he turns to his desk and scribbles something on the soldier's document.

"There'll be plenty of other things to take your mind off it while you enjoy our hospitality," he says, winking at the soldier as he hands back the document.

The soldiers chuckle and wink back. One of them removes the iron collar from Brendan's neck and hands Mr Lawson the keys to Brendan's wrist and ankle shackles.

"Right you are then, Sir, he's all yours until the Constable sends for him!" the soldier with the cane says as they leave.

Mr Lawson follows the soldiers to the door and then closes and locks it.

"Now, then…" he says as he turns to the boys, "Let's continue with the instruction, shall we?"

He picks up a long yellow rattan cane from his desk and sharply raps the older boy's hands.

'I've told you before, Seamus…" he says amiably, "…keep your hands to your sides!"

The boy yelps and whips his hands away from his penis, pressing them palm down against his smooth, hairless thighs. Brendan looks with interest at the boy's long white, blue veined cock, hanging down perfectly straight between his marble-white thighs.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" says Mr Lawson, noticing Brendan's glance.

"Yes Master," says Brendan, running a tongue over his suddenly dry lips. He feels his own cock thickening and lengthening.

"I may let you play with it a little later," says Mr Lawson, "But first, every slave boy must be taught to fear the lash!"

Seamus glares at Mr Lawson with hatred and folds his arms across his chest in defiance.

"I am no slave, I am the son of Lord O'Leary!" the boy states firmly. You will not lay a hand on me!'

Mr Lawson smiles:

"Well, I fear that your Lordship is quite wrong about that. Your father treasonously took up arms against the English Parliament. He forfeited his title, his lands and his life for that crime. As his son you should also have forfeited your life. Remember that you owe your life to English mercy. You should be grateful that all you forfeited was your freedom!"

The boy looks at Mr Lawson uncertainly, biting his lower lip as he tries to master his fear.

"Go unshackle Kevin and take his place on the table," says Mr Lawson.

Seamus hesitates momentarily and then, with all the dignity he can muster in his quivering nakedness, steps forward and drops to his knees to unshackle the younger boy's ankles from the table legs. Kevin stands up unsteadily and shakily moves away to stand with his back to the wall, his handsome face screwed up with pain and his hands clamped across his welted buttocks.

His older brother stands at the edge of the table, facing it, his arms folded.

"Bend over the table," Mr Lawson orders.

Seamus does not move.

Mr Lawson raises the rattan cane high above his shoulder and then brings it down to slash across the boy's buttocks with a sharp crack.

The boy yelps and his body jerks forward, slamming his pelvis against the table edge. He grabs his burning butt with both hands and bounces up and down on his toes as he tries to rub away the pain.

Immediately Mr Lawson delivers another stinging lash across the top of the boy's hands. He shrieks in pain and wraps his arms across his chest with a hand clamped under each armpit.

"So, your little Irish Lordship," Mr Lawson sneers, "Is this the courage of the Irish nobility? Snivelling and howling like your younger brother. No doubt your father did the same thing as he mounted the gallows!"

Stung by the insult, the boy immediately stops sobbing, turns to glare at Mr Lawson and then angrily bends over the table, gripping its edge on both sides.

"Shackle his ankles!" Mr Lawson ordered Brendan.

Brendan jumps to obey, his own chain and shackles rattling on the stone floor as he does so. He pulls the boy's legs apart until the ankles press up against the table legs, clamping the shackles around his ankles and shutting the lock.

"Now stretch his arms over the table and hold his wrists!"

Brendan lies over the far side of the table, takes a firm grip of each of the boy's wrists and pulls hard to stretch his arms over the length of the table. Seamus looks up at Brendan's face and their eyes lock.

No sooner has he done this when Mr Lawson lays a searing stroke across the boy's buttocks.

Seamus gasps and his whole body jerks with the shock of the blow. His hands grab at Brendan's wrists and grip them tightly as the pain shoots through his body. Brendan sees the pain instantly cloud the boy's blue eyes as beads of sweat break out on his smooth skin and his handsome face screws up in pain. It takes all his willpower not to cry out in pain.

Brendan feels his cock hardening under the edge of the table. Soon his engorged cockhead has expanded out of its prepuce and is pressing uncomfortably against the side of the table. Brendan pushes his butt backward and lifts himself onto his toes until his swollen tool pops free of the table edge and snaps against his hard belly. He slides forward to lay his cock on the table top and wriggles his butt until it is nestling comfortable between the smooth wood and his belly.

Mr Lawson observes Brendan's manouevre with great satisfaction. He intends to make full use of his sexual privileges as Brendan's gaoler for the few days that Brendan has left to live.

With enhanced vigour he raises his long cane and once again brings it fluting through the air to crack against Seamus's buttocks, searing a second fiery red stripe over the marble white skin. Again the boy's body jerks violently. This time a low strangled groan escapes his lips.

By the tenth stroke the 12 year old loses control and bellows with pain. By the twentieth he is sobbing continually, rising to a full-throated scream with every stroke. His muscles tremble and quiver continually and there is a puddle of pee on the stone floor between his feet where his bladder emptied itself of its own volition.

Mr Lawson notices that Brendan is slowly humping the table on the other side of the Irish boy, his eyes glazed and his mouth slacked open in lust. He reaches over the table and delivers a stinging lash to Brendan's back with the long yellow cane.

Brendan yelps in surprise and pain and he momentarily lets go of the other boy's wrists. This earns him another stroke even as he scrabbles to regain his grip.

"Keep your attention on the job at hand!" Mr Lawson snarls, "I want you to stay hard and full of juice for your next task!"

"Yes Master!" Brendan splutters.

'I'm warning you… if you ejaculate before I allow you to I will give you a flogging like you have never had before!"

"Yes Master!" says Brendan, not particularly worried. From almost continuous practice he has complete control over his rate of climax and knows that he can stay hard and carry on for hours without ejaculating if he wants to.

By the thirtieth stroke the young red-headed boy has lost every shred of his aristocratic pride, screaming, sobbing and begging Mr Lawson to have mercy and stop beating him.

Finally, Mr Lawson sets down his cane and tells Brendan to let go the boy's wrists. Brendan does so and stands up straight. His inordinately long hard cock is standing straight up against his belly, liberally leaking pre-cum.

Mr Lawson orders Brendan to shackle the younger brother, Kevin,to the other side of the table and to shackle the brothers' wrists together. Then he undoes the fly of his trousers to expose an enormously engorged cock and he takes up position ready to fuck Seamus. With a motion of his jaw, he indicates that Brendan must do the same with Kevin.

Soon both boys are emitting the most heartrending screams as their virgin bumholes are violently invaded and vigorously fucked by Mr Lawson and Brendan.

"Do not ejaculate inside him!" orders Mr Lawson, "I want them both to learn how to pleasure their Master's cock with their mouths also."

After a while Brendan feels the body of the ten year old beneath him begin to relax even as his screams slowly change to painful grunts and moans. After a while the grunts seem to change to sounds of mixed pain and pleasure. Brendan reaches around to Kevin's cock and finds it erect and hard. He glances across at the older boy and sees that he too seems to be moaning and squirming more from pleasure than pain.

Mr Lawson has come to the same conclusion and he orders Brendan to unshackle the boys. As Brendan pulls his cock out of the ten year old's arse, the boy looks around almost in disappointment. Brendan grins at him. He is not surprised at the quick change. Time and again he has seen how quickly tight-assed well-brought-up young boys revert to their baser selves under the influences of fear, pain and a hard fucking.

Brendan unshackles the boys and they are made to kneel on the floor.

"First show them how it is done!" Mr Lawson orders.

Brendan kneels in front of Mr Lawson. Unconcerned that the man's long fat meat is smeared with blood, pre-cum and the other detritus associated with fucking a young boy's unwashed anal channel, he quickly slurps it into his mouth and gives the boys a great demonstration of what is required of them.

Kevin seems quite ready to take Brendan's cock in his mouth but the older boy baulks and Mr Lawson has to give him several lashes of the cane across his back before Seamus finally submits and tearfully opens his mouth to Mr Lawson's cock. Nevertheless he gags several times before he actually manages to take it in. By that time Mr Lawson has become impatient and grab's the back of the boy's head in both hands and pushes down hard, forcing his cock all the way in and fucking the boy's throat so hard you can see it swell with each thrust. Seamus gags, splutters and tries to writhe away in panic, but Mr Lawson slaps the side of his head very hard a few times and the boy calms down and submits once more.

By now Brendan is also fucking the throat of the other slave boy but the younger boy seems to be enjoying it.

"Master, may I please cum now?" Brendan asks Mr Lawson.

Breathless and red-faced with effort Mr Lawson bobs his head and Brendan finally allows himself to climax. His fuck juice jets into the slave boy's mouth in hot slippery gusts. Taken by surprise the boy swallows some involuntarily but immediately shuts off his gullet and great silvery globs squirt out of the corners of his mouth and splatter onto Brendan's muscular thighs, calves and feet.

When Mr Lawson climaxes he holds the older boy's head firmly impaled on his cock, so he has no choice but to swallow all of the man's cum or drown in it.

Brendan makes the both boys lick up and swallow all the splattered cum from his feet and legs. He makes the older boy lick his cock clean. Then the two new Irish slave boys are made to kneel with their backs to the office wall while Brendan and Mr Lawson fasten shackles to their wrists and call for a guard.

"For the next two weeks until your owner, Lord Howden, arrives," Mr Lawson tells them, "You will be brought to my office every day to further your training, which will basically consist of getting your bodies used to the cane and the whip… and… much more important… learning to satisfy the many and varied sexual desires of your Master and his high society clients"

To Brendan he adds:

"While you await judgement by the Magistrate you will assist me in their training."

"Yes, Master," Brendan replies.

Two barracoon guards arrive to fetch all three boys. They lead the boys out of the reception offices across the sandy square to the cells. As Brendan crosses the square, he remembers the Negro runaway who was executed by impalement when he first arrived here from Ireland. Fear clutches at Brendan's heart as he shuffles past the spot where the executioner hammered a wooden stake up the slave's arse. The man's screams of agony echo in Brendan's memory and he trembles as he sees in his imagination the prisoner writhing and jerking in the sand, the bright blood frothing out of his mouth and soaking into the sand inches away from where he is walking now.

The guards lock the two new slave boys in one of the cages where Brendan and his compatriots were kept when they first arrived.

The guards then lead Brendan to the far side of the square where they unlock a small steel door opening to a narrow stone stairway that winds down into dank-smelling darkness. Brendan's stomach lurches with fear as he recalls from the last time he was here that this door leads to the barracoon dungeon. He has never been down there but he has heard of the horrors perpetrated upon the slaves who are taken down there. When he first inhabited the slave cages here, he had seen with his own eyes the handiwork of the Torturer on the bodies of some of the slaves who had been sent down there.

They wait while one of the guards takes an oil lamp from a niche in the stone wall and lights it. The guard starts down the winding stairs. Brendan hesitates until the other guard jabs him in the ribs with the handle of his whip. Brendan jumps forward and hobbles down the stairway after the first guard, his chain rattling on the stone with each downward step.

The stairs lead to an open, stone floored space, dimly lit by small shafts of light filtering through barred openings at the top of the wall on one side of the room.

The light of the oil lamps spills around as the guard heads for a passage leading off the far side of the room, dimly illuminating the furniture and equipment of torture: A table bristling with straps and shackles for holding down victims; a rack with a big double wheel for stretching bodies and dislocating limbs; a brazier red with burning coals and a forest of irons stuck in it; heavy iron rings set into the walls and columns; ropes and pulleys suspended from the high ceiling; a whipping post; barrels, baths and basins; chains, shackles, whips, canes, spikes, knives, axes and many other strange implements that Brendan had never seen before.

The guard turns and holds the lamp up to peer at Brendan's face. He emits an ugly snort of laughter as he identifies the fear in Brendan's eyes. He closes a hand around the back of Brendan's neck and pulls him toward the whipping post in the centre of the room.

"Now you get your welcome whipping, boy! Three dozen strokes to remind you to behave yourself while you enjoy our hospitality!"

Brendan's heart sinks.

"Please, Mister, don't whip me!" he whimpers, "I promise I'll be good!"

"It's not up to me, is it?" the guard chuckles, "It's the rules!"

'I'll give you good bum… an' I'll suck you off real good, Mister… just please don't whip me!"

The guards laughed.

"You gonna give us good bum an' you gonna suck us off real good anyway, you little guttersnipe!"

Resignedly, Brendan steps up to the whipping post and raises his arms above his head.

Quickly, the guards shackle his wrists to iron rings on either side of the post and pull him up until he is just barely standing on his leathery bare toes, with most of his body weight painfully suspended from his wrists.

"Aint you gonna secure his ankles also?" asks one guard of the other.

"Nah! I like watching 'em twist and jerk as they try to get away from the lash… not like he can go far… hanging nearly off his feet like that!" chortles the other.

The guard fetches a braided leather whip coiled on a peg nearby and flicks out the long lash so that it lies on the stone flagged floor. He takes up station to one side of and behind Brendan while the other guard prudently moves out of the way.

The guard lifts the handle of the whip above his shoulder and behind his back, waits a split second for the lash to straighten in the air and then flicks the handle forward and down, bringing the long black lash fluting through the air to crack against the straining muscles of Brendan's back, instantly raising a thick fiery welt as it hisses cruelly over his skin.

Brendan's body slams into the whipping post and he gasps with shock a split second before the pain runs through his whole body like a lightning strike, instantly driving the breath from his lungs and leaving him unable even to scream.

The next stroke tears an ear-splitting shriek of agony from the depth of his being. His back feels like it has been stroked with one of the red-hot irons standing in the brazier.

Again and again the long braided leather lash slices through the thick air of the torture chamber and slashes a fiery trail across Brendan's back. His toes scrabble to keep a footing as his body jerks, bucks and writhes against the post, bruising his strong thick wrists against the hard edges of his iron shackles, but he is unable to escape the relentless caress of the whip.

By the time the last stroke bites into his back, Brendan is hoarse from screaming, sobbing and crying and he hangs, listless and moaning, from his wrist shackles. His tough brown toes are standing in a puddle of his own piss and his inner thighs and calves are streaked with his shit, now splattered on the floor beneath him.

One of the guards tosses a bucket of cold water over him. It seems to cool the fire on his back a little and revives him somewhat.

After a while, the guards loosen Brendan's wrists from the iron rings and he collapses to the cold stone floor. One of the guards sets a bucket of water next to him.

"Get yourself cleaned up boy, I aint fuckin you like that!" he orders.

Painfully, Brendan obeys, red-faced with embarrassment at his own terror and pain induced incontinence.

When he is as clean as he can get himself the guards lead him out of the torture chamber and down a passage that leads past a double row of tiny cells. The stench of mixed fear, sweat, faeces and urine emanating from the passage is so strong that Brendan can almost taste it. He gags momentarily and stops, earning himself another fiery lash from the guard's whip.

As Brendan passes by the cells he notices that several of them are occupied by Negro slaves. All of them are naked, of course, and in irons, and they are all chained to rings in the stone walls or floors. Every slave is shackled in such a way that he is either kneeling or standing, his muscles straining, and completely incapable of any form of rest, let alone sleep. Whimpering and moaning continually in pain the hugely muscular Negroes are entirely absorbed in their own suffering. As the guards pass their cells their eyes widen momentarily in fear, but once they realize that the guards have another victim in tow, they lapse into painful but relieved introspection and pay no further attention to the intrusion.

The guard with the lamp stops at the first empty cell. He unlocks the steel barred door and flings it open with a clang. The second guard shoves Brendan inside and follows him into the small space. He points to a thick iron ring set into the stone floor.

"Kneel there!" he orders.

Brendan drops at once to his knees.

"Move forward!" the guard orders.

Brendan shuffles forward on his knees until the guard tells him to stop. The guard shackles Brendan's ankles to the ring. Then he reaches up above his head and pulls down a rope that loops up to a pulley suspended from a thick iron bar set horizontally into the two side walls. He ties the rope to Brendan's wrist shackles and then starts pulling on the loose end of the rope. Brendan's arms are pulled up behind him until they are horizontal, forcing his head and shoulders to the stone floor and his arse up into the air. The agony is excruciating. It feels as if Brendan's arms are about to be pulled out of their sockets.

While Brendan moans in pain the other guard comes into the cell, puts the lamp on the floor and undoes his breeches. His short fat cock flops out and he starts pumping it to erection. He reaches down his other hand and fingers Brendan's hole. Despite his pain, Brendan's anus flexes open immediately and his cock begins to harden.

"Oho!" says the guard to his mate, "What did I tell you? These Irish boys is all hot for cock! Their masters fucks 'em day and night till sex is all they know!"

"Yes," says the other, "It's gonna be such a shame that pussy's gonna be wasted on the stake soon!"

"Well, we better make good use of it whiles we can!" says the first, "Get him on his feet so I can fuck him in comfort… I aint gonna put my knees on the floor for him!"

The other guard pulls harder on the rope to lift Brendan off the floor. Brendan shrieks in agony as his arms are pulled almost vertical behind him before he lifts off the floor. As soon as he can scrabble a foot-hold he plants a leathery sole on the floor and pushes himself up.

"Have a care," says the first guard, "You don't wanna break his shoulders yet!"

"What does it matter?" guffaws the other, "We aint fuckin his armpits!"

"Yeah, but he aint even been up before the magistrate yet an' you know he's sticky about torturing the runaways before he's given the order."

"That's just because Dawson likes to watch it hisself."

Now Brendan is standing on both feet, with his legs spread far apart and his upper body bent over almost horizontal, exposing his winking anus to the guards' view. Brendan's arms are stretched up at a 45 degree angle behind him. His whip-welted back is still on fire and he groans softly in pain but his lengthening and thickening cock tingles in anticipation of the pain pleasure to come.

Seconds later the two guards are banging their cocks into each of Brendan's two welcoming fuck holes. Neither of them is exceptionally well-endowed and Brendan's throat and arse are easily able to accommodate their eagerly thrusting cocks.

Before the guards reach climax they are joined by others, who drop their breeches to their ankles and pump their erected cocks with their fists as they watch their colleagues fuck Brendan at both ends. No sooner does one of the latter shoot his load inside Brendan than the next takes his place in a relay of burly men eager to enjoy the rare pleasure of a white slave boy's arse and throat.

By now Brendan's own cock is swollen rock hard and pushing against his bent-over belly. As the fourth guard shoves his pulsing cock into Brendan's welcoming fuck-hole, Brendan's body convulses in a climax of ecstasy and his untouched cock spurts thick ropes of silvery cum against his belly and chest, dropping down to splatter on his broad brown feet.

By the time the last guard has fucked him, Brendan's open bum hole is still dribbling copious amounts of the men's cum down the inside of his thighs and his face, hair, neck and shoulders are sticky with the cum that he has not managed to swallow.

The guards leave him chained up in the same agonizing bent-over, shoulder wrenching position with his arms pulled up behind him.

Brendan whimpers as the cell door clangs shut and he thinks of the long sleepless night of excruciating pain that lies ahead of him.

Two or three hours later every muscle in Brendan's body is screaming with pain and trembling with the effort of keeping him on his feet so that his arms are not wrenched from their sockets. By now the pain in his muscles has eclipsed the pain of the thirty fiery whip weals that lattice his muscled back. He knows that he is just moments away from collapsing and that the weight of his brawny body will be enough to pull his arms out of their sockets.

Just then there is a rattle of the key in the cell door and the two guards re-enter.

"Lucky for you, boy, Mr Lawson wants you tonight!" the one chuckles as he unties the rope from Brendan's wrists. Brendan immediately collapses onto the stone floor and moans in sheer relief.

The guard bends down and unlocks Brendan's wrist and ankle shackles. He rolls over onto his back and rubs his wrists.

"If you play your cards right, maybe Mr Lawson will let you spend your last few nights on earth in his bed!" the guard chuckles.

"Alright, that's enough loafin" about… get on your feet!' the other guard orders.

Brendan gets up unsteadily.

One of the guards puts Brendan's wrists into manacles behind his back.

"Mr Lawson says you don't need shackles, but I aint taking any chances until I hand you over to him," he says.

They lead Brendan out of the dungeons and across the sandy square to a washroom, where they make him soap and scrub himself before using a pig's bladder with a bronze nozzle attached to thoroughly hose out his fuck channel. Finally, adjudging him ready, they lead him up to Mr Lawson's suite of rooms on the upper floor. Brendan has not felt so clean and refreshed in a long while. It is obvious from the ablutions he has just been put through that Mr Lawson intends to use him for sex and the anticipation shows in lengthening and stiffening of his cock.

The door opens to the guard's knock.

A guard removes Brendan's manacles and gives him a push to indicate that he must enter the room. Brendan does so and the door closes behind him. He glances sideways and sees that it is the younger O'Leary boy who has opened and closed the door. Kevin motions him to enter the next room, where he finds Mr Lawson seated, naked, in a chair while the older O'Leary boy sucks his cock.

"So good of you to join us, Brendan," Mr Lawson says sardonically, "The four of us are going to have a topping time together tonight, aren't we?"

Brendan's cock hardens into a full erection immediately.

"Yes, Master!" he says eagerly.

Chapter 17

Magistrate Dawson sits at the solid oak desk in the room that does service as both his office and as the courtroom on the island of Barbados. Today he is presiding over matters concerning slaves: mostly dreary contractual disputes between slave owners about alleged defects or inadequacies in slaves they had bought.

But the case he has just heard has him in turmoil. It concerns Captain Morton's runaway slave boy.

As always when a case comes up involving a white slave, it has generated considerable interest among the small Barbadian community. The courtroom is always packed with members of the public seeking thrills when a runaway is being tried, but there is a record attendance today as the community vultures have turned out en masse to see what would happen to the boy.

The reason Mr Dawson is in turmoil is that he has strong feelings of unease about the case: Everyone on the island knows about the pirate raid in which Captain Morton's sons were abducted along with his house slaves. Everyone knows that Brendan was not a runaway but a captive like the others. But, of course, no one would dare to say otherwise and there was not a single word raised in Brendan's defence other than his own. Captain Morton is a powerful and well-connected man and there are very few on the island who would cross him.

Captain Morton's sons would have spoken for Brendan, but they were not allowed to attend. Brendan's fellow slave boys would also have testified in Brendan's behalf, but of course, no one asked them to. In any event, as slaves, their testimony could not prevail against that of a free man even if they had been asked.

And then there is the matter of the law. There are no slaves in England and there are no laws in any of the British colonies that currently govern the status of slaves. There has been talk for some time about legislating for a Slave Code in Barbados, but this has not been done yet and, as things stand presently, Mr Dawson is not at all certain about the legality of the practices that have grown up around the treatment of slaves in the West Indies generally. He has no difficulty turning a blind eye when dealing with Negro slaves, since England is far away and, as long as the slave population is kept in order and sugar profits keep rolling in, no one cares much about what happens to them. But even with Negro slaves it is not customary to execute a runaway for a first offence. So when it comes to executing a young white boy (essentially a British subject illegally enslaved) for the crime of attempting to escape bondage that is probably unlawful to start with, and a first offence at that, Mr Dawson has serious reservations.

Added to this is the fact that the boy himself has a physical attractiveness that is mesmerising. When Brendan was brought into the room, naked and with his wrists manacled behind his back, Mr Dawson's loins lurched pleasantly and, as so many others have done, the magistrate took an instant liking to the boy. When he asked Brendan to confirm that he was indeed the prisoner, Brendan O'Neill, Brendan's husky-voiced confirmation and hesitant smile made Mr Dawson's heart beat faster. He was grateful that his large desk concealed the swelling in the front of his trousers.

Captain Morton had asked that Brendan be executed by impalement in accordance with the prevailing custom and had angrily brushed aside Mr Dawson's suggestions of more lenient punishments. Mr Dawson eventually realised that Captain Morton felt deeply humiliated by the way Captain O'Neill had outwitted him and, not being able to punish Captain O'Neill, wanted to take vengeance on his nephew instead.

When he pointed out to Captain Morton that Brendan was but a nephew, whereas he actually had Captain O'Neill's son, Liam, in his possession, Captain Morton replied that Brendan was in fact the ring-leader and that in any event he had plans to use Liam to lure Captain O'Neill into a trap and would then see them both hanged as pirates.

Having adjourned the proceedings until after lunch Mr Dawson is passing these thoughts through his mind and considering how best to balance his own interests of career-preservation with what remains of his conscience and his sense of justice, influenced in no small measure by his physical attraction to the boy.

Added to this are the broader policy considerations: The necessity for keeping order among the slaves and the peasant class who so vastly outnumber the upper classes on this island often means that it is not as important that justice be done as it is that justice must be seen to be done. If this occasionally requires the execution, imprisonment, torture or flogging of an innocent slave or peasant… so be it… it is a sacrifice made for the greater good.

Finally, he comes to a conclusion and writes out a brief judgement before going to lunch.

After Mr Dawson pronounces judgement to a jam-packed courtroom:

"Brendan O'Neill, I find you guilty of absconding from your Master's service. Your Master has asked me to impose upon you a sentence of death by impalement, both as a punishment which he says that you richly deserve and also to deter the many of your naturally fractious and rebellious race from any future attempts to escape servitude on this island."

"However, I consider that to have you executed… especially by impalement… would be excessive in view of your youth. Also, it is not customary to execute a runaway for a first offence, as Captain Morton is well aware, having had a problem with a repeat runaway about a year ago, if I recall correctly. In addition, the government of this young colony of Barbados has need of labour in its quarries and construction works. There are no freemen available who will do that work and no funds to pay their wages if they were available. I have therefore decided to sentence you to penal servitude in government works for the rest of your life."

"In addition, in disputing your Master's testimony I find that you have perjured yourself, and for that, as well as to discourage any other slaves of your race from engaging in similarly insubordinate behaviour you will receive fifty strokes of the cat upon your bare back… to be administered in public before transfer to the Superintendent of Government Slaves."

There is a smattering of clapping and Mr Dawson realizes that he is not the only person in the room who has been smitten by Brendan's physical charms.

Captain Morton jumps to his feet.

"This is an outrage!" he snarls as he storms out of the room.

Brendan is visibly relieved.

"Thank you Sir! Thank you!" he says to Mr Dawson, falling to his knees, bending low and pressing the palms of his hands together in the universal gesture of gratitude.

Mr Dawson nods toward Brendan, thinking to himself that, as a government slave, Brendan will soon be available to render services to a public servant such as the Magistrate and the boy will have ample opportunity to demonstrate just how grateful he really is. As he rises to leave the courtroom, he is grateful for his black gown of office, the voluminous folds of which are sufficient to conceal the state of high excitement that his penis is in just now.

After the Magistrate retires, the Constable takes charge of Brendan and leads him back through the dusty streets of Bridgetown to the Slave Barracoon, where he will remain until he receives his flogging from the Constable. Thereafter he will be handed over to the Superintendent of Government Slaves to commence penal servitude for the rest of his life.

Brendan knows that penal servitude as a government slave means a life of the most extreme drudgery and back-breaking labour in the government's quarries, in a road-building gang or on construction projects. Brendan has seen the wretches toiling in their chains on the roads under the tyranny of the overseer's lash and he knows that life for these poor souls is often short. Those who are not whipped or worked to death often take their own lives, believing that the hell that awaits the suicide can only be sweet release after the hell they have endured on earth. Yet, Brendan thinks, he is young, tough and strong; and as long as his pain-wracked body clings to life his mind will cling to hope.

On return to the Slave Barracoon, Brendan is surprised to be taken to the slave wash house in the square and instructed to bath and clean himself thoroughly. A large iron tub is filled with hot water and he is given soap, a scrubbing brush and washcloths with which to perform these ablutions.

Brendan is made to scrub himself shiny under the supervision of the wash-house servant, who also shaves the sparse collection of blonde pubic hairs curling at the base of his penis before administering several thorough-going enemas to the boy. This treatment signals to Brendan that he is wanted for fucking by someone of importance… probably Mr Lawson, the Controller of the Barracoon. At least he has a chance of sleeping in a proper bed again tonight, he thinks. He hopes the O'Leary boys will be joining the fun and his cock hardens pleasantly in anticipation.

"None of that, now!" scolds the wash-house servant, as he flicks a middle finger at Brendan's erection.

"Ow!" says Brendan, though his cock remains erect.

The servant makes Brendan stand up in the tub and bend over as he pretends to inspect his fuckhole for the umpteenth time by inserting two fingers into the flexed open hole and gently fucking Brendan's arse with them.

Brendan looks behind him and grins as he notices the bulge in the front of the servant's trousers. He twists around and cheekily grabs at the bulge.

"None of that, now," says the servant again, without conviction, but he makes no move to brush Brendan's hand away.

Brendan continues to play with the man's thickening cock through the cloth of his trousers. With his other hand he fingers the tip of his own swollen cock.

In a very short time Brendan has aroused the man to the point that he drops his trousers and rogers Brendan's arse vigorously. The man is so roused, however, that it is quickly over, leaving Brendan horny but unsated. When he tries to wank himself to climax, the man slaps him hard against the side of his head.

"No cumming for you!" he growls, "Save it for your betters!"

Brendan drops back into the soapy water to wash away the sweat and cum. The servant gives Brendan another enema to rinse the sperm out of his arse.

After a brief wait in one of the slave holding pens, two guards arrive to escort Brendan to a room upstairs. He recognizes it as the room where he and his cousin Liam were both whipped and fucked by Mr Peel, the shipper's agent, on their first night in Bridgetown nearly a year ago: a clean whitewashed room with a polished stone floor and a tiny barred window. The single iron bed has been replaced with a double-sized bed with a comfortable looking mattress. There is the same wooden bench and the same table with its assortment of instruments to restrain and to punish. The guards take up position in the passage opposite the doorway to keep an eye on their charges.

Brendan remembers how Liam and he were brought here on auction day; to be whipped and fucked by the aristocratic young Morton boys before being put on the auction block and sold to the boys' father. Though a shocking and painful experience at the time, Brendan felt his first pangs of love for the cruel and masterful Rodney on that day and the memory has become a cherished one that never fails to get Brendan hard.

The memory leads to a brief period of introspection for Brendan; something that his hard physical life as a slave seldom allows for. As a slave, his world is entirely ordered by the whims and wishes of his masters. Every minute of every day from waking to sleeping is subject to the will and decision of others. Eating, drinking, washing… even peeing and shitting… happens on the say so of his owners or their overseers. His masters have almost absolute power over his body. They can use and abuse him at will. They can torture, mutilate and even kill him almost with impunity.

Debased and degraded to a status scarcely regarded as human and far less valued than even the family's pet dogs, Brendan recognises that he has lost all sense of dignity, honour, decorum and shame. All his waking moments are spent responding to the basest human motivations: fear, hunger, thirst and lust. These are the stimuli that rule his life.

It was only his love and admiration for Rodney, in spite of the cruelty that Rodney invariably showed him, that made the mindless condition of slavery almost bearable for Brendan.

Now, however, he is owned by the government: a faceless, heartless entity for which he will be no more than part of the inventory, a draft animal whose value will be determined solely by measuring his work output against the cost of housing and feeding him. While he is in good health and has a strong back and strong arms he will be able to retain a positive value. But when the cost of keeping him exceeds the value of his output… well, there are whispered stories about the worn-out slaves disappearing out of the government slave quarters without trace. Some say they are strangled and buried. Others say they are sent away on ships to be dumped at sea.

The truth is that some of these slaves do die from overwork and from the ever harsher punishments they endure as a result of not being able to meet their output targets.

Others are indeed sent away by ship, but, far from being dumped at sea, they are sold cheaply to the tin or silver mines on the mainland. Sometimes they are even sold, via middlemen and a neutral port, to the Spanish enemy, for use in their oar-powered galleys.

Brendan's eyes brim with tears at the realisation that he may never again have the opportunity to worship his young master's fat cock with his lips and throat. He may never again feel Rodney's cock roughly entering and eagerly filling his fuck channel. He may never again lie against Rodney's warm body or feel his hot breath against the back of his neck. Over the last week he has even missed the pain pleasure of the canings that Rodney inflicted upon him with such loving cruelty every day and it saddens him that he may never again be able to give his master (or experience himself ) the pleasure that they both derived from this daily ritual.

Brendan hears steps in the passage and he hastily wipes away his tears and composes himself, quickly adopting the stance expected of a slave awaiting the arrival of his master: Feet apart, hands clasped behind the back, head bowed and eyes downcast.

A man's white stockinged calves and expensive leather shoes with silver buckles enters his vision. He dare not look up to see who their exalted owner might be. Then a young boy's much smaller pair of shoes and white-stockinged calves steps confidently into view alongside those of the man. In the periphery of his vision, on the other side of the man and a few paces behind, two pairs of familiar marble-white bare feet and calves shuffle into view.

From the passage Brendan hears Mr Lawson's familiar voice, now with an unfamiliar wheedling, ingratiating tone:

"This is the young slave I spoke of, my Lord, and whom I wished to place at your disposal this evening, as an entertainment after your long and tiring voyage. He is most excellently talented and highly experienced in the arts of entertaining gentlemen. This is also the boy who assisted me greatly in the training of your wards, your Lordship."

Brendan realises that the stranger must be Lord Howden, the owner of the O'Leary boys, a powerful and influential figure in Barbados society and the notorious owner of the only boy brothel licensed to trade in Bridgetown.

"For the last time, Lawson, stop referring to them as my wards! They may not have been transported on a slaver, but they are slaves nonetheless! And I do not want them referred to as the O'Leary boys either. O'Leary has been dispossessed of his estate for treason and his sons are nameless as far as I am concerned." the man says.

"Er… ah… of course, my Lord, please forgive me!"

Lord Howden looks over Brendan for a moment before reaching out a silk gloved hand and tapping Brendan under the chin with a finger. Brendan responds by lifting his head but keeps his eyes averted.

"Look into my eyes, boy!" Lord Howden orders.

Brendan obeys.

Lord Howden looks into Brendan's face for a moment and then allows his hand to slide down onto Brendan's shoulder.

"Magnificent specimen, Lawson! Is he for sale?" he asks.

"No, my Lord, unfortunately not. He belonged to Captain Morton, but ran away with pirates and has just this day been sentenced to penal servitude for life as a government slave." Lawson replies.

"Oh yes, I know of the case. Of course everyone knows that the boy did not run away, but Morton is like a petulant child that must have its revenge at any cost, I suppose," Lord Howden chuckles.

"Yes, my Lord," Lawson replies.

"What a waste! He would be in great demand in my Gentleman's Club," says Lord Howden.

"Oh… without any doubt, my Lord!" simpers Mr Lawson.

Brendan glances sideways to check out the boy with Lord Howden. He looks about twelve or thirteen… probably Lord Howden's son, Brendan thinks. He is as well turned out as his father, with buckled shoes, white stockings, knee breeches, silk shirt with lace cuffs and elegant jacket. He holds a riding quirt in one hand that he taps against his calf. Like his father, he fills his clothes well and his breeches and stockings are stretched tightly over his thighs and well-shaped calves. His skin is as pale as that of the O'Leary boys, evidence of a winter spent mostly indoors in rain-soaked Ireland. His sandy hair is cut short and his cold blue eyes mark him as one used to commanding and being obeyed.

Brendan knows the type very well. His own father was a successful farmer in Ireland, but held his land as a tenant of one of the English Settler Earls whose family had held the land for very many years. Both the Earl and his sons felt free to ride across his father's farm at any time they chose, regardless of damage to the crops, and Brendan's father, and his son, were expected to touch the forelock to them and bear it. They regarded the Irish farmers and their barefooted boys as a lower order of life and never hesitated to show their contempt for them.

The boy reaches out with his riding quirt and hooks its tip under Brendan's big cock, lifting it to the horizontal for inspection as he looks up at his father with a smirk and a lifted eyebrow.

"Yes, Oliver, I see the boy is very well equipped." Lord Howden responds.

"He would be perfect for breeding, Father! Just look at the length of that pizzle and the size of the testes!" Oliver says.

Oliver drops his quirt but Brendan's cock remains at the horizontal.

"Look at that, father! Horny as a stallion! One touch and he is as stiff as a board! They are all like animals, these Irish boys!" Oliver sneers, looking around over his shoulders at the O'Leary boys as he does so.

"We are not so, Oliver!" Seamus pipes up unwisely from behind.

Oliver turns quickly and slashes Seamus across the cheek with his quirt. Seamus yelps with pain and flings up a hand to protect his face from any further blows.

"How dare you speak to me as if you were my equal, Seamus! You should have learned by now that you will only speak to your masters when you are spoken to!" Oliver snarls.

Seamus bows his head.

"Now put your hand down, Seamus, you may not resist me if I wish to beat you!" says Oliver reasonably.

Seamus hesitantly lowers his hand slightly.

"All the way to your side!" Oliver insists.

Seamus complies.

Oliver slashes Seamus once again across the cheek with his quirt.

This time Seamus keeps his hands by his side, even as he yells in pain.

Oliver slashes Seamus across the cheek a third time for good measure. Seamus screams and tastes blood in his mouth, but keeps his hands away from his face.

"That's better!" Oliver says and turns his attention once more to Brendan.

Brendan feels a sudden surge of anger at the English boy's cruelty. It reminds him of an incident when, at ten years of age, he was walking across a field on his father's farm and the Earl rode by with his two sons. Brendan's thoughts were on the hare that he held by the ears, that he and his dog had just hunted and that he was taking home proudly for their dinner that night. Happy and flushed with the success of the hunt, he failed to acknowledge the passing of his betters by stopping, bobbing his head and touching his forelock.

"Teach him some manners!" he had heard the Earl say over his shoulders to his sons as he rode on.

The two boys, about twelve and fourteen years old, had turned their horses and blocked Brendan's path.

"Why did you not show us respect?" the older son had demanded.

"I am sorry, lords, I meant no disrespect, I was not thinking," Brendan had explained reasonably.

The Earl's sons had both dismounted.

"Well," said the older son, "We mean to teach you to pay attention to your betters in future!"

The two older English boys had then, not without a struggle, subdued Brendan, yanked off his shirt and breeches, and taken turns whipping his back and buttocks raw with their riding quirts. They had then ridden off laughing with his clothes dangling from their quirts as the naked ten year old lay sobbing and bleeding in the grass.

As Brendan glares at Oliver, he struggles to control his flush of anger.

"Oh see, father, how he blushes!" says the Howden boy, "Does he still feel shame for his nakedness and lust, do you think?"

Lord Howden looks closely at Brendan before answering.

"No, Oliver…," he replies thoughtfully, "I do believe it is anger that we are witnessing… Anger caused by pride. These are the emotions that make the Irish such a rebellious and troublesome people."

"I am not certain that we will ever entirely succeed in taming the Irish," he sighs, "but it is our duty as Englishmen to try!"

"I do agree, my Lord," simpers Mr Lawson, "Will your son require another room or will this be sufficient for both of you?"

"I believe it will be quite sufficient, thank you Lawson" replies Lord Howden, "I see you have supplied everything we might need… restraints… whips… canes… I think that will be all"

"Should your lordships require any assistance, the guards will be on hand at the end of the passage to call me" Lawson replies, clearly reluctant to leave.

"Thank you, that will be all," Lord Howden says firmly and Mr Lawson leaves.

With the door shut, Oliver makes the three naked slave boys kneel side by side with their hands flat on the floor in front of them, while Lord Howden lies on his side on the bed, supporting his head on an elbow as he watches the proceedings with the fond amusement of a proud parent.

Oliver puts his short riding quirt down on the table and picks up the thick rattan cane, about four foot long, leaning against the wall next to the table.

He prods Seamus in the chest with the cane.

"You! Slave! Get on your feet and undress me!"

Seamus hesitates, looking up at Oliver pleadingly.

Oliver slowly raises the cane above his shoulder and then whips it down through the air to crack meatily across the muscles of Seamus's back. Seamus shrieks as a double ridged purple welt mushrooms instantly over the smooth, white skin of his back.

Still sobbing, Seamus jumps to his feet and starts taking Oliver's jacket off. Oliver waits with his arms spread out slightly, the tip of the cane resting on the floor, while Seamus unbuttons his shirt, takes off his shoes, rolls down his stockings, unbuckles his belt and pulls down his breeches.

Oliver steps out of his breeches one foot at a time and waits in his silken drawers while Seamus folds his clothes carefully and places them on a chair.

Finally he returns to remove Oliver's drawers. By now Oliver's meaty young cock is ramrod stiff and tenting his drawers impressively. Seamus gingerly undoes the drawstring and awkwardly manouevres Oliver's drawers down over his erection to his ankles. As he does so his quirt-wealed cheek brushes against the tip of Oliver's cock and he jumps back as if scalded.

"Why are you being so coy about this, Seamus?," Oliver laughs, "I believe you were not so coy when you used to play in the hayloft with your father's stable boy, Dermot!"

Seamus blushes mightily.

Oliver chuckles meanly:

"Oh… you didn't think Dermot would tell us the family secrets in the hope that it would save his back from the slaver's whip? What a shock it must be for you!"

"Dermot would never!" Seamus exclaims.

"Well you can ask him yourself soon, he is already having his pretty arse stretched in Father's Club… where you will be soon!"

Seamus balls his fists and reddens even more with mixed embarrassment and anger.

He thinks of the muscular 14 year old that he last saw when the Sheriff's men had arrived to take Seamus and Kevin into custody and deliver them to Lord Howden. Seamus's father had taken Dermot in as a stable boy two years before when he lost his parents to illness. Lord Howden had revoked the tenancy that Dermot's family had held for several generations and chased Dermot off the land. Dermot was twelve and Seamus ten when Dermot had first arrived in his bare feet and the only clothing he possessed: canvas knee-breeches and a rough woollen tunic with a thick brown plaid thrown across the shoulder that served both as protection against the cold and as a blanket. Dermot slept in the hayloft above the stables and ate with the servants in the castle kitchen.

Seamus had had a lustful little crush on the older boy from the moment he first laid eyes on him and sought out every opportunity to watch him at his work. Visions of the shirtless boy heaving hay arose in his memory now: his straw coloured hair damp and spiky; bits of hay sticking to his sweaty, sun-browned torso and the brawny muscles knotting and rippling under the smooth glistening skin of his strong young back. Seamus's cock starts swelling unbidden at the memory.

Oliver pokes at Seamus's cock with the tip of the cane.

"And see what I told you, Seamus, what a shameless hussy boy you are! See how hard you've become just from undressing me!" Oliver guffaws.

Seamus flushes deep red and involuntarily tries to cover his rock hard young penis with his hands. Suddenly he realises his mistake and darts his hands to his sides, but is rewarded with a sharp rap of the cane on his balls where his hands have just been.

Seamus shrieks and collapses to his knees, clutching his balls.

At once Oliver slashes the long heavy cane across his back. He shrieks again and, wailing pitifully, struggles to his feet but the pain in his balls prevents him from coming upright.

For this he collects another two swift cuts of the cane across his shoulders and his buttocks. The fire in his back and his arse overwhelms the pain in his balls and he straightens up stiffly.

Oliver watches Seamus like a cat watches a mouse it has caught. For his part, Seamus tries not to look at Oliver's hard cock, but his eyes are drawn to it as if by a magnet.

"Suck it, Seamus, I can see you want to!" Oliver says eventually.

Seamus shakes his head.

"Please Oliver, no!" he begs, and then shrieks as Oliver instantly slashes the cane horizontally across his chest.

Oliver raises the cane to lash Seamus again, but Seamus starts forward:

"No, please! I'll do it!" he says.

Oliver lowers the cane.

"Of course you will," Oliver says pleasantly, "And when you're done I'm going to give you a good thrashing to help you remember that, to you, I am Master and not Oliver."

"Master! Please Master, I forgot!" Seamus whimpers in reply.

"Yes, I know, Seamus. That is why I'm going to whip you… to help you remember! Say Thank you, Master."

"Thank you, Master!" Seamus manages to snivel through his tears as he shuffles forward and bends down to take Oliver's swollen milky white penis in his mouth.

Though the O'Leary boys and Oliver have never been close friends (Oliver being English, after all) they have, for as long as Seamus can remember, been on reasonably good terms as neighbours and as social equals. The situation that Seamus now finds himself in: nothing more than property to be owned and used at his owner's will, is utterly mortifying to the aristocratic Irish boy. And to be forced to take Oliver's cock into his mouth and suck it is the ultimate humiliation.

Even more humiliating is the unruly way that his own cock is behaving just now. As Oliver has mockingly pointed out, Seamus's cock has become rock-hard and ramrod stiff and Seamus suddenly realises, to his shame, that it has nothing to do with his memories of sexual exploration with the stable boy. A deeper and stronger imperative than his pride and his sense of position and self-worth as an Irish aristocrat; the most basic primal urge that his flesh and blood shares with all other humans, no matter their station… carnal lust… wells up through his body from the tip of his throbbing cock and takes total charge of his senses. Suddenly, he wants nothing else in the whole world than to feed that lust. All shame and sense of degradation passes from him at that very moment. He hungrily slurps Oliver's hard cock all the way into his throat and energetically pleasures his Master in the way that Brendan has taught him.

Although he does not realise it, it is this very moment that Seamus achieves both complete freedom and complete submission to slavery. His mind is completely freed from the restraints of pride, honour, tradition and civil society at the same moment that it accepts that his body is finally and utterly subject to the will and whim of the object of his lust.

Lord Howden recognises the moment of submission and smiles in satisfaction. He, of all men, knows the power of fear and lust in bending men, boys and women to his will, and he has taught his son, Oliver, how to use them effectively. He has seen Oliver break the spirits of many boys and even some grown men and he takes pride in the swiftness with which Oliver has brought Seamus to willing obedience.

Brendan dares to raise his eyes to steal a glance at Oliver and Seamus. Oliver has his back to Brendan and Brendan is startled to see that the young aristocrat's marble white back and buttocks are vividly striped with purple whip weals. He realises that Lord Howden is a father who does not believe in sparing the rod when it comes to disciplining his son. That Lord Howden would whip his son was not in itself remarkable in those times in which the whip was seen as an instrument of virtue in disciplining one's servants and children (and even one's wife). But what was remarkable was the frequency and even ferocity with which the boy had evidently been whipped. Brendan quickly averts his gaze and stares fixedly at the floor.

But the slight movement draws Lord Howden's attention to Brendan and he gazes at the boy appraisingly for a while.

In Brendan Lord Howden has discerned a perfect combination of cock-stiffening physical beauty, completely unbridled sexuality and lustfulness and an unexpected eagerness to submit to the will of his betters. Brendan is nearly fifteen but has the build and muscularity of a sixteen year old, the smooth hairlessness of a ten year old and a cock and balls that would grace a breeding bull. Right now Brendan's cock is a breath-taking sight: Fully erected and held proud by his thick iron cockring, its long thick shaft curves gently up to where its swollen purple plum bobs against the hard ridges of his belly muscles. His piss slit has hardened into a dark round hole and is dribbling pre-cum so copiously that the tip of his cock appears to be joined by silvery ropes to the flagstones that he is kneeling on. His eyes are glazed and his lips slack and wet from constant licking. His body is as taut as a drum and shivers periodically with sexual tension.

The younger O'Leary boy, Kevin, is also erect and appears very interested in what his brother is doing to Oliver. Lawson had remarked on his curiosity, his compliance and his apparent willingness to learn and to experience new things. He appears to have adapted very well to the life of a sex slave and Lord Howden has no doubt that he will do well in his Gentleman's Club.

"Come to me boy!" Lord Howden orders Kevin with a smile, crooking a finger at him.

Kevin smiles back and quickly gets to his feet. He scurries over to stand at the side of the bed where Lord Howden is reclining. Lord Howden reaches out and plays with the tip of the ten year old's stiff cocklet. Kevin leans into Lord Howden's hand.

"You like this, don't you, Kevin?"

Kevin nods, smiling.

"Yes, Uncle Hugh, it's nice!"

"Oh, see now, you can't call me Uncle Hugh any longer, Kevin, you have to call me Master!" Lord Howden says.

He says it very gently, but his eyes are hard and Kevin feels a clutch of fear in his belly as he remembers that Seamus has just been caned by Oliver and promised a further whipping for the same crime.

'I'm sorry Master! I forgot! Kevin says with trembling lip.

"That's alright, it's hard to remember in the beginning" Lord Howden says with a smile.

Kevin feels a flood of relief.

"That's why I'm going to give you a beating now… to help you remember," Lord Howden says reasonably as he heaves himself off the bed.

Kevin looks at Lord Howden in wide eyed terror.

"Come lie over the end of this wooden bench with your knees on the floor"!' Lord Howden orders him.

Kevin kneels on the cold stone floor at one end of the narrow wooden bench and then leans forward to lay his torso on the smooth wood with his arms stretched out in front of him.

"Ah, I see you have been taught what to do already," Lord Howden says approvingly.

Lord Howden orders Brendan to fasten the boy's legs and wrists with the leather straps screwed to the bench for this purpose.

Kevin starts whimpering softly in anticipation of what is coming.

Lord Howden picks up the thick four foot cane that Oliver had discarded and swishes it through the air behind Kevin a few times. Kevin strains to look behind him at Lord Howden and the cane. His eyes are fearful and welling with tears.

Lord Howden taps Kevin's firm round bottom with the tip of the cane. Kevin practically jumps out of his skin with fright.

"Don't look at me, boy, keep your eyes on that spot on the wall," he says, tapping a spot of peeling paint.

Kevin fixes his gaze on the peeling paint spot and Lord Howden steps to Kevin's rear, raises the cane above his shoulder and takes two quick steps to bring him level with Kevin's bottom, whipping the cane through the air to crack across Kevin's butt cheeks with the sound of a pistol shot as he does so.

Kevin shrieks in agony, bucks and jerks against his leather restraints as the heavy yellow rattan instantly raises a purple welt as thick as a man's finger across his marble white bum.

Kevin howls pitifully while Lord Howden steps back for the next stroke. Lord Howden waits while Kevin's howling subsides to a snivelling sobbing.

After the third stroke Kevin is howling and blubbering continuously as he begs for mercy and promises never to forget again. The howling rises to a shriek with each fresh stroke until at the tenth stroke the poor child passes into unconsciousness, at which Lord Howden puts down the cane and throws a jug of water over Kevin's head to revive him.

At this point Oliver reaches climax and Seamus feels his Master's cock start to spasm violently in his mouth before squirting a small quantity of pre-teen cock cream onto his tongue.

"Don't swallow! Don't swallow!" Oliver cries out excitedly, "Open your mouth wide, I want to see it!"

Seamus obediently opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.

"See, Father, I knew I squirted that time!" Oliver calls Lord Howden, "Come look!"

Lord Howden indulgently inspects the smear of boy cream on Seamus's tongue.

"Well done, Oliver!" he says

Oliver swells with manly pride:

"That means I must be ready, Father!"

"Perhaps we should wait until you are squirting more than a teaspoonful." says Lord Howden.

"Father! You promised if I made my first cum you would… you know!"

Lord Howden sighed.

"Oh very well, I did promise… but you will need some preparation!"

Oliver flings his arms around his father's waist.

"Thank you, Father! Thank you! I've been so looking forward to it!"

"As have I, my boy, believe me! I just expected you would be at least a year older!" Lord Howden replies.

"You see that, Seamus, I am a man now… something you will never be!"

Seamus looks at him in puzzlement.

"Oh… don't you know? The boys in my father's Club are gelded! Unless we want to use them for breeding, of course, and…" he says, looking pointedly at Seamus's still erected cocklet, "quite frankly… I don't think you have the equipment."

Seamus is still puzzled.

"You know…" says Oliver, with a malicious grin, "They get their balls cut off… so they stay smooth and baby-faced for longer!"

As understanding dawns on Seamus, he clutches at his balls in terror.

"No, please, Master! Please don't cut my balls off!" he cries out.

"What do you need them for, you silly boy?" Oliver says callously, "You'll be a much better bum boy without them!"

Just then Kevin moans in pain as he comes to and his burning arse presses itself into his consciousness.

"Unstrap your brother and take his place for your punishment!" Oliver orders.

Seamus groans inwardly. He had hoped Oliver would forget. He would learn that when it comes to whipping boys or men, something he enjoys almost as much as fucking them, Oliver never forgets.

Seamus undoes the straps holding Kevin to the wooden whipping bench. Kevin struggles to get up, but a swift cut of the cane across his back galvanizes him suddenly. He jumps off the bench and stands shakily next to Brendan, his head and shoulders slumped in the despondency of defeat.

"Kneel down with your hands flat on the floor!" Oliver orders and Kevin hastens to obey.

Seamus now lies over the end of the bench. Oliver motions to Brendan and Brendan scrambles to secure Seamus's wrists and legs with the leather straps before scurrying back to assume his kneeling position next to the snivelling Kevin.

Soon the room echoes with Seamus's hysterical shrieking, punctuated every minute or so with the loud report of the heavy cane cracking across the boy's tortured buttocks.

While this is going on, Lord Howden, unable to wait any longer, quickly strips off his fine clothing and orders Kevin to kneel on all fours on the bed. He gets onto the bed behind Kevin and, without the benefit of lubrication, plunges his huge cock, engorged almost to bursting and rock hard with lust, deep into Kevin's tight, almost virginal, young anus.

Kevin's screams are pitiful but Lord Howden rogers his arse mercilessly. Indeed, the agonized screaming and writhing of the young Irish boy beneath him simply spurs the aristocrat's sadistic lust. Lord Howden has a sinister reputation when it comes to the treatment of the slave boys in his brothel and Brendan's heart pumps with fear as he witnesses the fury with which his Lordship punishes young Kevin's bleeding cane-welted arse with his huge, thrusting piston.

Gradually Kevin's screaming dies to a whimper and Brendan notices that his cocklet has swollen so hard that the purple acorn of his cockhead has escaped his foreskin and is stabbing at his belly with each thrust of his Lordship's noble cock. Soon the whimpers change to grunts and squeaks of pleasure. Lord Howden catches Brendan's eye and a look passes between them. Both of them recognize that instant as the moment when Kevin made the final, irrevocable transition from aristocrat to bum boy slave.

Seconds later Lord Howden bellows as he reaches a long shuddering climax that shakes Kevin to his core and fills his fuck channel with gush after gush of slippery hot cum. Lord Howden extracts his great thick cock with some difficulty from Kevin's tight anus, extracting some yelps of pain from Kevin as he does so. When he finally manages to pull his cock from Kevin's clutching bum ring, his cum burbles out of the boy's bum and splatters on the bedclothes like the first froth from a spiked beer barrel.

Lord Howden heaves himself off the bed and motions to Brendan:

"Clean this up!"

Brendan jumps to his feet at once and scurries over to the bed. He clamps his wide mouth over Kevin's anus and starts slurping up the still dribbling flow, sucking it out of Kevin's sweet channel and sticking his tongue as far as he can into the still gaping hole to lap up the last trickles. Then he runs his mouth down Kevin's smooth thighs to scoop the thick globs of cum that are still sluggishly slithering down. Finally, he bends his head to lap up the puddles of cum on the bedclothes.

In the meantime Lord Howden stands on the floor on the side of the bed and thrusts his slippery cock into Kevin's mouth.

"Lick me clean!" he orders.

Kevin obeys eagerly. Brendan has taught him to enjoy the taste and feel of hot hard cock slathered with the cum and detritus of man sex and he is eager to please this man who, in practice if not in law, virtually has the power of life and death over him.

By now Oliver has thrashed Seamus's buttocks raw and he is engaged in roughly fucking the slave boy's arse to the sound of satisfied grunts and moans from the both of them.

Finally Oliver also reaches climax. Seamus feels his young owner's body suddenly stiffen and then shudder as his swollen cock throbs deep inside Seamus with multiple violent spasms of ecstasy.

As soon as Oliver has regained control of his body, he pulls his still hard cock out of Seamus's bumhole and eagerly checks for signs of sperm. There is hardly a smudge.

"Must have shot it all inside him!" he mutters to his father.

Lord Howden smiles indulgently.

"Indeed, you must have, my boy," he says placatingly.

Oliver plonks himself on the bed next to his father. The two of them catch their breath and chat with each as if they were the only people in the room.

Brendan assumes the customary position of house slaves awaiting orders: On his knees with his back to the wall, leaning forward and supporting the weight of his upper body on his hands placed palm down on the floor. The other two boys line up next to him and do the same.

After a while the Howdens get up and refresh themselves with wine from a decanter and glasses left on a table.

Lord Howden pokes his head out of the room and summons the guards standing in the passage.

"Take these two down to the holding cage!" he says, pointing at Seamus and Kevin, "My Club Manager will fetch them in the morning"

"Yes my Lord," says the senior guard, but he hesitates and looks quizzically at Lord Howden.

'What is it? Lord Howden asks, and then he chuckles;

"Oh, but of course, you and any of your colleagues on duty may take your pleasure with them tonight… on the usual conditions, of course!"

"Yes, my Lord! No lasting damage…They must be able to start work in the Club right away or we compensate for the lost profit! Thank you my Lord!"

Alarm shows on Seamus's face as he contemplates being fucked all night long by the guards on duty.

Oliver spots this and giggles with delight.

"You better get used to it" he says, "It's what you'll be doing day and night from now on!"

"Indeed!" chuckles his father.

As the guards lead the O'Leary boys out, Seamus seems a little apprehensive, but Brendan notices that Kevin's cocklet has stiffened into erection and that he is casting interested looks behind him at the bulging trouser front of one of the guards.

The guards leave with their charges and Lord Howden close the door once more.

Oliver looks at his father.

"What are we going to do with this one Father?" he asks.

"Well… I had thought I would let you practise some of the more extreme torturing skills that I would never allow you to practise on my income earning assets… but…"

"But Father, he is not ours… he belongs to the government!" Oliver interrupts.

Lord Howden chuckles.

"It's time you learned that it's people like us who are the government in these remote colonies, my boy!"

"I suppose so, Father" Oliver replies, "So does that mean we can do what we like with him?"

"Well, not entirely… There are fine lines… We couldn't use him in the Club, for instance, as our own peers would feel we were taking advantage of our position to make private profit out of public property… and that just wouldn't do at all!"

"But, as you know, as a member of the Council governing this island, I have responsibility for Government Works… and if, for instance, a slave in my Department were to be seriously injured, or maimed… or even die… while undergoing training or correction no one would even notice… much less would anyone care!"

"It would be a great pity to kill or maim such a beautiful creature, Father!"

"Yes, yes, perhaps," replies Lord Howden, "But to return to what I was about to say when you interrupted me… You reminded me earlier of the promise I made you when you were eight years old that I would take your virginity one day when you were old enough… when you had your first ejaculation. And now that you have ejaculated semen for the first time… though admittedly rather more sparsely than I had in mind… it is time to honour that promise."

"Oh thank you, Father, I have fallen asleep so many times dreaming of having your great big penis instead of just your fingers buried all the way inside me."

"Yes, but I fear this has come upon us quite suddenly and we have made no preparation at all for it. If I were to fuck you now I am afraid I would injure your dear bumhole very severely and I could not bear that. So my plan is to have this slave boy stretch your bumhole for me with that big instrument of his."

Oliver looks outraged:

"Father! You would have a slave boy… a vile Irish hard labour government slave at that… violate me like one of your common little whore boys!"

"Well, yes, Oliver! It would save you so much pain and… it must be said… bring me a great deal of pleasure in the process. I am quite aroused already at the thought of that muscular brute rogering your beautiful arse!"

"But Father, I so want you to take my virginity… I don't want to lose it to a slave boy! I would be no better than Seamus, losing his virginity to that common stable boy, Dermott!"

"My boy, you will learn there are far worse things than being skillfully rogered by a strong and experienced young boy with a beautiful cock, whether slave, stable boy or noble," Lord Howden chuckled.

"Father, please! Please don't let this brute violate me! Please fuck me yourself. I don't mind if it hurts!"

"Oliver, I have made my decision… do not resist me further or I will have to discipline you again!"

Fear flashes over Oliver's face.

"Yes, Father!" he says obediently and then flushes with embarrassment as he looked across at Brendan and realizes that the slave boy has seen his fear.

Lord Howden explains expansively:

"In any case, Oliver, it doesn't count as losing your virginity when a slave takes your cherry… any more than fucking yourself with a cucumber or your fingers would count as losing your virginity."

Oliver brightens:

"Oh Father, of course… that makes so much sense… one forgets that a slave is actually livestock and not really human. That makes me feel so much better!"

"And, of course," Lord Howden adds, looking menacingly at Brendan "If you are still concerned about it after having him open your arse up, I will ensure that he never speaks about it to anyone!"

"By my honour, Lord, I would never speak of it to anyone!" says Brendan.

Oliver laughs out loud.

" By his honour he says, Father! Is that not quaint!"

"Yes indeed, my boy, as if anything a slave says can be relied upon!" Lord Howden replies.

"Nevertheless, to quell such dangerous notions in a slave boy… and also to punish him for speaking out unbidden… we will give him a sound thrashing before he starts with your instruction!"

"Thank you, Father, can I start?" Oliver says cheerfully as he fetches the cane from where he had tossed it on the floor earlier before plunging his cock into Seamus.

Brendan is quickly strapped onto the punishment bench. Brendan knows better than to protest. He knows quite well that the punishment is much more about giving Lord Howden and Oliver sexual pleasure than it is about "correcting" his behaviour.

Over the next half hour Lord Howden and his son take turns laying leisurely batches of five sizzling strokes each over the hard brown globes of Brendan's muscled buttocks.

An old hand at enduring whippings and not wishing to humiliate himself in front of the young English aristocrat, Brendan grits his teeth and allows nothing more than a grunt to escape his lips with each searing stroke. Only his whitened knuckles, tight closed eyes, the knotted muscles in his back and buttocks and the beads of sweat glistening all over his body reveal the extent of his pain.

Under his belly, Brendan's cock is rock hard and tingling even before he is strapped to the bench. By the tenth stroke Brendan is humping the smooth wood beneath him with the quick small movements that is all his restraints allow him. No longer gritting his teeth, his mouth hangs open, his lips slack, his eyes glazed and he breathes in shallow grunting jerks.

After the thirtieth stroke Lord Howden decides that Brendan has had enough and he stands back just as Brendan climaxes. Brendan croons his pleasure huskily as his pulsing cock squirts jet after jet of slippery hot cum between his belly and the wooden surface of the bench that he is lying on.

Lord Howden had assumed that Brendan's jerky pelvic movements were a vain attempt to escape the bite of the cane, but he now realizes that the boy had actually been fucking the bench because he had been aroused by his whipping.

"By all that is wonderful!" he guffaws, "The tyke enjoys being whipped!"

Lord Howden bends down and unbuckles Brendan's one wrist. Then he prods Brendan in the ribs with the cane:

"Unstrap yourself and get up!" he orders.

Brendan painfully unstraps first his other wrist and then, with some difficulty, his legs. Oliver watches his agonized struggles with amusement, now and again delivering a sharp rap of the cane to Brendan's shoulders to hurry him along.

"Hurry up, slave! Don't keep your betters waiting!" he snarls.

Brendan hastily fumbles the last buckle loose and jumps up, yelping as the cane bites into his meaty shoulders once more.

"Now, Oliver, put down the cane" Lord Howden instructs, "For the next few hours this boy must instruct you, and to that end, he must have mastery over your body and not the other way round."

To Brendan he adds:

"My son is now yours to instruct. You have mastery over his body, including the right to chastise him reasonably, if necessary. You will not go too far in that… remembering always that I still have mastery over your body"

"Yes Lord!" Brendan replies, his cock rising at once at the prospect of fucking young Oliver's virginal arse.

He looks at Oliver.

"Please would the Master lie on his belly on the bed?" he asks hesitantly.

Oliver looks at Brendan contemptuously, but before he can answer, Lord Howden thunders at Brendan:

"For heaven's sake, boy, he is not the master now… you are! You call him Oliver, and you tell him what to do… you don't ask him!"

"Yes Lord!" Brendan replies. Picking up the cane, he says to Oliver:

"Get on the bed and lie on your belly, Oliver!"

Oliver looks alarmed but folds his arms across his chest.

"I will get on the bed when I am good and…" he starts saying and then yelps as Brendan slashes the cane hard across his thigh.

"I will not tell you again!" says Brendan.

His face red with anger, Oliver looks at his father for support. But Lord Howden's stiffening cock signals to Oliver that he is aroused by the spectacle of the muscular, sun-browned young slave boy exercising domination over his pale-skinned young aristocrat son.

Oliver swallows his pride and lies belly down on the bed.

Brendan pulls Oliver's legs apart and then gets onto the bed himself and kneels between Oliver's legs.

"Spread your bum cheeks apart for me!" he orders Oliver "I want to see your bumhole."

"Spread them yourself!" Oliver replies.

Brendan immediately slaps one of Oliver's smooth white buttocks hard with his strong, work-calloused hand.

Oliver yelps in hurt surprise but still does not comply.

Brendan hits Oliver's other arse cheek. Oliver yelps again in pain and anger.

"I will hit you until you do as I say!" Brendan says.

A few more ringing slaps later and Oliver reluctantly reaches behind him with both hands and spreads his buttocks apart to expose a perfect pink rosebud of a bumhole. That's what Liam's and mine looked like a year ago, Brendan thinks, feeling a sudden flush of superiority and manly pride in his own brown and well-used hole.

Brendan reaches out a forefinger and starts stroking and pushing against the pink pucker. Oliver purrs with pleasure until Brendan's hard finger becomes more insistent and tries to force entry. Instead of loosening up, Oliver's anus contracts even harder to keep out the intruder.

Brendan makes Oliver turn over onto his back, lift his legs and pull his knees all the way back to his shoulders, leaving his bumhole wide open for exploration. He tries once more to insert a finger into Oliver's hole. Oliver's anus remains tightly shut.

"Try to relax your bumhole, Oliver," Brendan says encouragingly, "Make like you're trying to have a shit"

Brendan spits a great glob of foamy white spittle onto Oliver's bumhole and tries to coax his pucker to open with a gently massaging finger while he takes Oliver's slack penis between the fingers of his other hand and begins massaging the fat slack tube.

As his cock hardens to Brendan's stimulation, Oliver tries the trick Brendan has suggested and tries to press an imaginary wad of crap out of his bumhole. It works miraculously and Brendan's finger slips in quickly up to the second knuckle. With a little more effort Brendan manages to twist and wriggle his finger all the way in. Brendan feels the tight grip of Oliver's anal ring slowly relax on his finger and he starts fucking it in and out of Oliver's hole, slowly at first and then ever more quickly.

By now, Oliver's fat, white, blue-veined cock is rock hard and quivering… and remains so without any further attention from Brendan. Oliver's breath is coming in erratic gasps and jerks and his blue eyes are glazed with lust. His bumhole relaxes further and Brendan manages to get a second and then a third finger inserted.

Brendan judges the time is right to replace the fingers with his own by now prodigiously long and hard manhood. He moves forward on his knees and pushes his swollen purple dickhead, as large as a plum, against the back of his fingers, spits generously on his cock and Oliver's hole and then thrusts his cock firmly forward at the same moment that he withdraws his fingers, so that Oliver's bum ring has no time to contract.

Despite this preparation, Brendan struggles to get his cock past Oliver's still tight anus. He reaches out with both hands and grips Oliver's shoulders for greater purchase as he rams his cock against Oliver's unyielding anus several times. Oliver grunts with pain and surprise at each assault and he desperately tries to relax his sphincter further, straining and groaning as he tries to press out an imaginary putty.

Then suddenly, on the fourth attempt, Oliver's sphincter finally yields and Brendan's cock breaks through, sliding in almost half of Brendan's ten inches [25 cm]. Oliver stiffens for a second and then he screams as the most excruciating pain shoots through his body, radiating in agonizing waves from an anus that feels as if it has been ripped apart. Oliver writhes and jerks under Brendan as he tries to pull himself off Brendan's cock, but Brendan is much stronger and he holds Oliver firmly impaled on his swollen fuckpole.

Brendan waits until Oliver stops struggling and then begins to fuck him slowly but firmly. The movement wrests another scream of agony from Oliver, followed by racking sobs of anguish and pain. Brendan looks enquiringly at Lord Howden, who interrupts his masturbation to motion him impatiently to fuck Oliver harder. Brendan is happy to oblige and Oliver screams even louder as Brendan's cock pistons all the way in and out the English boy's virgin fuck channel. When Oliver starts begging Brendan to stop in between the heaving sobs, Brendan leans his weight on one hand and uses the other to slap Oliver hard across the cheek.

"Shut up!" says Brendan.

Oliver is so shocked by this that he actually stops yelling, grits his teeth and tries to bear the pain with as much dignity as he can.

Soon Brendan feels Oliver's body start to relax as his sphincter adjusts to accommodate Brendan's big cock and the pain gradually fades. Not long after that Oliver's grunts and groans turn to moans of pleasure.

Finally, Brendan reaches a tumultuous climax and he shoots his wad deep inside Oliver.

As the ecstatic spasming comes to an end, Brendan instinctively lowers his upper body to lie on top of Oliver and his wide mouth closes over Oliver's, his broad tongue slipping between Oliver's open lips and exploring Oliver's tongue.

Oliver's eyes widen momentarily. He has never been kissed like this by a boy before. Indeed he has never been kissed this way by anyone before. But he quickly realizes that he likes it and he responds in kind.

Lord Howden, realising that the boys have advanced from having sex to making love, quickly intervenes. He picks up the cane and gives Brendan a sharp rap across the buttocks.

"Enough!" he orders, "Make way for me!"

Brendan yelps and tries to withdraw but his swollen cockhead catches on Oliver's sphincter, which stretches alarmingly into something resembling a tube before Brendan manages to pull free.

Immediately Lord Howden takes Brendan's place and rams his even bigger cock all the way into his son's arse. Oliver places his feet on his father's chest and tries to push him away as the pain in his arse spikes once more. Lord Howden grabs Oliver's upper thighs and holds himself inside Oliver while the pain subsides. This time the pain fades quickly and in a very short while Lord Howden is rogering Oliver's eager ass with all his strength and energy.

Finally their Lordships are sated and they dress before calling for the guards to take Brendan back to the dungeon.

While the guards are fastening the heavy iron shackles around Brendan's wrists and ankles Oliver says to his father, all the while running his eyes over Brendan's magnificent body:

"Can't we take him home with us, Father, just for a while… perhaps there is more that this slave could teach me?"

"Well," Lord Howden chuckles, "So you enjoyed having his big cock up your arse?"

Oliver blushes: "I did enjoy it, Father, but I also want to pleasure myself in his arse."

Lord Howden smiles at his son.

"He can't come with us now as he has not yet been released to the Superintendent. That will happen only after he has received his court-ordered flogging tomorrow," he says.

"Ooh! The fifty lashes with the cat! May I please watch that tomorrow, Father?" Oliver pleads.

"Yes, I think it will be educational for you. We are far from England and must maintain our rule here with an iron fist. A bloodied back does wonders for keeping the lower orders in check, whether slave or peasant, and it will do them good to see that the children of their betters have the steel necessary to rule."

"Thank you, Father, I look forward to it!" Oliver enthuses.

"After his flogging he will be allowed a day to recover before being sent to do hard labour on one of the Government Works" says Lord Howden. "I will have Lawson put this room at your disposal for a day or two and you can roger this boy… or have him roger you… for a day or two before he is transferred."

"Thank you, Father!" says Oliver

Brendan feels a clutch of fear, tinged with a sense of excited anticipation, as he contemplates the prospect of being publicly flogged on the morrow.

Then he notices the bulges and the spreading wet patches in the trouser fronts of both the guards and he realises with a tingle of anticipation that the night is far from over for him…

Chapter 18

It is mid-morning and the people of Bridgetown have braved the scorching Caribbean sun as they gather in the town square to enjoy the weekly spectacle of justice being meted out to those who have fallen foul of the law… mostly either slaves or the poorest of Barbadian society.

The square is cobble paved and bounded on all four sides by commercial and government buildings in the typical colonial style of the day. The Lodge, which is the only hotel in Bridgetown, and Lord Howden's very popular boy brothel, the Ganymede Club, are on opposite sides of the square. They are double-storey buildings and each has a wide second-floor veranda the whole length of the building and fronting onto the square below.

In the middle of the square is a slightly raised platform in the centre of which is a gibbet used occasionally for hanging criminals, pirates, runaway slaves and the like. The gibbet also doubles as a whipping post, its most frequent use. On one side of the platform there is a set of three pillories with the customary holes to hold the prisoner's neck and wrists. On the other side is a wooden block for beheadings and, next to it, an iron brazier filled with brightly burning coals. Several branding irons stand up from the coals like pins in a pin cushion.

The entertainment starts early with a few petty thieves having their cheeks branded and the usual rash of drunks, beggars and defaulting debtors being put into the pillories for the crowd to pelt with rotting vegetables. The main event of the morning, a slave hanging, is scheduled for a little later. But there seems to be a great deal of interest just now in Brendan's impending flogging.

Brendan is not the first Irish slave to be flogged in the square, but he is the youngest. This has perhaps combined with the particular circumstances of his "crime" to attract a greater crowd than normal to witness his punishment this morning. And, it has to be said, rumours of Brendan's great physical beauty … not to mention his exceptionally well-developed breeding-tackle … have probably also played a part in generating public interest. Who could resist the vicarious thrill of watching the flogging of a beautiful naked boy?

No doubt, too, some have turned out to see how the Constable's newly modified whipping post will work. The Constable is something of an amateur engineer and inventor when he is not carrying out his official duties. He is especially creative when it comes to inventing new machines, instruments or methods of torture, or adapting existing ones to cause more excruciating pain. He has boasted to his friends that his modifications to the existing whipping post will greatly enhance the pain of the flogging.

"You see …" he says, "The prisoner must hold up a heavy cross-bar at the full extent of his arms. The cross-bar is connected by a rope and pulley mechanism to a shackle that is clamped around his testicles. If he lowers the bar, or lets go of it, the weight of the cross-bar will be transferred to his testicles, which will be pulled sharply upward until the bar is lifted again."

"So the pain that the prisoner will experience will be at least doubled … for while his back is being shredded by the Cat, every muscle in his body will be strained to breaking point as a result of having to hold the heavy cross-bar up."

The upper verandas of both the Lodge and the Ganymede Club are filled with the wealthy and the powerful in Barbadian society, enjoying refreshments and pleasant company as they watch the entertainment. The lower classes milling about in the square below buy their refreshments at the several beer and gin tables set up for the occasion by local tavern keepers.

At the Ganymede Club Lord Howden and his son Oliver lean against the rail as they wait for Brendan to be brought to the whipping post. Behind them naked slave boys of every colour and nationality pad about the wooden floorboards of the veranda on their bare feet, serving drinks in between being groped and fingered by the patrons.

Brendan has the unwelcome honour of being the first to put the newly modified whipping post to the test. As the naked sun-browned slave boy with the shock of dirty blonde hair is led through the jostling crowd in shackles and leg-irons, many rough hands reach out to grab at him, to slap playfully at his buttocks or to grope at his enticingly large cock and balls. No one seems to mind that his whole body is filthy from sweating, writhing and rolling around in piss and cum on the unwashed dungeon floor the whole night, while being fucked in relay by the entire night watch and others. Just for fun, once the guards had had their go, a few of the biggest Negro slaves in the dungeon were let loose on him. Even Brendan's elastic, fuck-tough young arse tore a little under the violent, sex-starved assault of their positively gigantic tools. His raw and painful bumhole is still dribbling their cum mixed with light smears of his own blood down the inside of his muscular thighs as he shuffles bow-legged in front of his custodians, his movement impeded by the heavy iron chain shackled to his ankles.

Lord Howden smiles as he notices the stiffening bulge in his young son's crotch. Oliver catches his eye as he does so and smiles up at his father.

"I do so want him, Father!" he says, wistfully.

"Patience, my boy, it will be a day or two before he is transferred to the Government slave barracks. I will arrange for the boy to be at your disposal in the Barracoon until he goes."

"Thank you, Father, but I mean that I want to have him as my own!" says Oliver.

"Yes, I wouldn't mind owning him myself, but …" Lord Howden replies.

"I know it's impossible, Father … I'm just saying …" says Oliver.

"Why don't you go and take some pleasure with the O'Leary boys?" Lord Howden asks, thinking to distract his son, "You don't really have to stay and watch Brendan's whipping."

"No, I want see him flogged, Father … and I hear the Constable has modified the whipping post to enhance the torture … I want to observe the effect!" says Oliver.

"And anyway," he sighs, "I had the Garrison Farrier geld the O'Leary brothers this morning before breakfast … so they won't be much fun to anyone for a few days!"

Oliver chuckles at the recollection of the O'Leary boys' shrieks of agony as the farrier's red-hot knife sliced off their manhood forever.

"My goodness, Father, how they screamed!" he muses.

"Oh, is that what all the hullabaloo was about this morning? I thought it was one of the guests getting his penny's worth out of his rent," Lord Howden replies distractedly as he watches Brendan's progress through the crowd.

"I take it the good sergeant accepted the usual payment in kind?" Lord Howden asks.

"Yes, Father, he gave each one a good hard rogering just before gelding him!" Oliver replies.

"Well, at least they had some pleasure before the pain," Lord Howden chuckles.

"I am not sure it was much pleasure for them, Father … Sergeant McTavish is as well-equipped as any of his stallions! It was probably quite as painful!" Oliver giggles.

Oliver's eyes are also fixed on Brendan now.

"I would never geld that boy, Father, if I owned him," he murmurs.

"Yes, you could breed every bitch on the island with that pair of testicles!" his father agrees.

"I suppose so, Father, but I would keep him all to myself," Oliver says and then blushes.

Lord Howden looks searchingly at his son and then takes another hard look at Brendan. He realises that Oliver has a case of puppy love for the slave boy who took his virginity. Hardly surprising, he supposes … hopefully he will get over it soon.

The Constable's deputies walk slowly to let the crowd have their fun with Brendan, but finally they reach the raised platform where the whipping post stands and Brendan finds himself facing the thick oaken post while the Constable's deputies prepare him to receive his flogging.

As he stands in front of the post he sees a short horizontal cross-piece, quite as thick as the post, at about the height of his shoulders. It has been made heavier with thick bands of flat iron that have been bolted onto it. It appears to be connected to a long iron rail that runs the whole length of the vertical whipping post. It has a ringbolt on top of it. A length of rope runs from the ringbolt to a pulley at the top of the post and then back down again through more pulleys to a small ring shackle that hangs against the post above his head.

After his shackles and leg-irons have been removed, one of the Constable's deputies orders Brendan to take the weight of the cross-bar and push up against it. It moves easily and the man removes the pin that had been holding it in place.

"Push it up the rail as far as you can go!" the deputy orders.

Brendan obeys, pushing the heavy bar up the rail the full extent of his arms.

"Higher!" the deputy instructs him, "Get up onto your toes and push as hard as you can!"

Once again Brendan obeys.

The deputy inserts the retaining pin once more.

"You may let go now, but stay up on your toes," he says.

Brendan obeys.

Now the deputy grabs the ring shackle and pulls it down until the rope is taut. He measures the rope against Brendan's body and finds that the ring shackle hangs halfway down Brendan's thigh. He loosens the fastening and adjusts the position of the ring shackle until it hangs against Brendan's balls.

Satisfied, he lets Brendan drop the cross-bar to its original position and inserts the pin again. He turns Brendan round to face the crowd. While the catcalls, whistles and lewd banter from the good-natured crowd continue, the Constable steps up onto the platform and reads out the Magistrate's order.

Then Brendan is turned around and made to face the whipping post once more. This time Brendan's wrists are shackled to the cross.

"Up on your toes and push up on the cross-bar!" the Constable orders.

As Brendan does so, a Constable's deputy pulls down hard on the rope and tries to clamp the ring shackle around the base of Brendan's cock and balls, where his thick iron cock-ring has been fitted. It is too small to fit over the cock-ring, so the deputy forces it shut on the outside of the cock ring, making Brendan gasp with pain as it squeezes his big balls tightly into his ball sac. Luckily his cock is not yet hard, although it has begun to swell somewhat …both in response to the deputy's manipulation of his fuck tackle and in anticipation of the whipping he is about to receive.

"Now take the weight of the cross bar!" the Constable orders, "Be careful not to drop it or you will be in danger of losing your balls!"

Brendan strains to push up against the bar and the deputy pulls out the pin. Now the bar is under Brendan's control and he realizes what the Constable means. He can feel every movement of the cross-bar transmitted through the taut rope to his balls. He adjusts his footing to steady himself and the slight dip that this necessitates translates into a sharp tug against his balls that makes him gasp with pain.

Behind him the deputy has removed his shirt and taken a long Cat O'Nine Tails out of a barrel of brine. The Constable and his other deputies depart the platform to get out of the way of the Cat.

The crowd falls silent as the deputy shakes out the nine knotted strands of whipcord and takes up position to commence the flogging. He takes a moment to admire the physical beauty of his victim's body. Every muscle in the boy's back, buttocks and legs stands out knotted and hard as Brendan strains to keep the heavy cross-bar up. The deputy feels his cock stiffening in his trousers. It does not embarrass him. He knows most of the men in the square are experiencing the same stirrings right now.

Brendan, of course, is concentrating too hard on keeping his balance on the tips of his toes to pay too much attention to the deputy's movements behind him. So he is taken somewhat by surprise as the first of his fifty lashes hisses through the air and cracks across his back. He cries out in shock and pain as the knotted, salty wet strands scorch a broad fiery trail across the bunched muscles of his shoulders. His body jerks violently against the whipping post and he almost loses his footing, eliciting another strangled yelp from the tortured boy as his balls take the strain. True to form his prodigious cock springs to life at the same time that the shock and pain courses through his body and within seconds the swollen purple plum that surmounts his thick shaft is bobbing eagerly against his navel, to the delight and entertainment of the crowd.

Contrary to popular belief, the Cat is designed to inflict maximum pain without actually cutting the skin open. The "tails" are made of thin lengths of whipcord and actually need to be knotted at intervals and wetted to do their work. Even so, the "tails" hardly ever do more than raise thin welts and lacerations upon the sturdy, thick-skinned backs of most of its lower class victims. The pain, of course, is excruciating, but recovery is quick. You want your sailors, soldiers and servants to return to productive effort as quickly as possible, after all.

After the first shock Brendan is better prepared for the lashes that follow. Although his back feels like it is being stroked with a thousand red-hot pokers, he manages to strangle the screams of pain that well up from his chest and threaten to escape his lips.

As usual, he finds it helpful to try to concentrate his mind on the extremely pleasurable sensations radiating warmly through his body from the tip of his now rock-hard cock. Pre-cum dribbles generously from his gaping piss-slit, from where it drops down in long silvery strands onto his toes and the cobbles of the whipping platform.

The deputy lays the strokes on methodically, starting from Brendan's shoulders and working his way down to the point where his hard round butt cheeks meet his brawny thighs before starting over. Despite the pleasure his cock is giving him, each fiery stroke wrenches a gasp and a long low moan of pain from Brendan's throat. The deputy counts off ten seconds between each stroke, while another deputy calls out the number and marks the strokes off in groups of five on a slate.

Soon, even as Brendan is pushing up against the heavy cross-bar to relieve the pressure on his balls, he finds himself involuntarily trying to hump his throbbing cock against the post, something most of the men in the crowd find greatly arousing to watch.

Shortly after the twentieth stroke, Brendan stops humping the whipping post as his body stiffens momentarily and then spasms uncontrollably as he goes into climax. White cum erupts volcanically from his pulsing cockhead, jetting up between his belly and the whipping post before dribbling down in great slippery hot globs to splash on his feet and the cobbles.

The deputy stops lashing Brendan until the last throbbing spasm has shuddered through his body; more for the deputy's own entertainment and the entertainment of the crowd than out of any consideration for Brendan.

Brendan involuntarily relaxes in the pleasurable after-glow of his ejaculation, dropping down on his heels without thinking. The cross-bar plummets down its rail as Brendan drops and the rope connected to Brendan's balls yanks them violently upward a proportionate distance. Caught by surprise, Brendan shrieks with pain and immediately pushes the cross-bar skyward again.

When the flogging resumes seconds later, Brendan has nothing to take his mind off his suffering any longer. His whole consciousness is now taken up by the searing pain across the whole surface of his whip-welted back and arse, the excruciating agony in his balls and the intense burning ache in the muscles of his shoulders, back, buttocks and calves as he strains to keep the heavy cross-bar aloft.

By the time that the deputy calls out stroke 35, the Cat's "tails" have overlaid Brendan's back and buttocks twice, leaving behind more than three hundred razor thin welts.

As the deputy starts the third layer of lashes once again at Brendan's shoulders, the knotted "tails" scour across his welted skin, tearing nicks in the existing raised weals that start to ooze tiny droplets of blood.

The agony is unbearable. After five strokes Brendan can bear it no longer. He throws his head back and screams in pain.

On the veranda of the Ganymede Club a gentleman slaps his thigh delightedly and turns to his companion.

"That's five sovereigns you owe me, James … I knew he could not make it all the way to fifty without screaming!"

James, whose erected cock is protruding through his unbuttoned fly and is being vigorously sucked by a ten year old Hispanic boy, fumbles a purse out of his pocket and hands it to his friend.

"Help yourself, Edgar, I am busy just now!" he says breathlessly.

Soon Brendan is sobbing and moaning continuously. Every ten seconds by the deputy's count the Cat hisses through the air and cracks viciously across the trembling muscles of Brendan's back, instantly drawing another shrill scream from the depths of Brendan's lungs.

Finally, the last stroke is delivered and the deputy drops the Cat back into its barrel of brine. Slowly, the deputy puts his shirt back on, buttoning it up carefully and methodically tucking in its tails while Brendan stands on his leathery toes, sobbing, his whole body trembling violently in pain, shock and muscular exhaustion as he keeps pushing up against the heavy cross-bar to stop it wrenching his balls off.

Then the deputy nods to his assistant, who quickly steps onto the platform and undoes the shackle clamped around Brendan's cock and balls. Brendan gratefully lowers his aching body onto his heels, bringing the cross-bar down to be secured to the rail by the deputy.

When, finally, Brendan is relieved of the weight of the cross-bar, his rubbery legs drop him involuntarily to his knees.

The Constable's deputies leave Brendan on his knees for a while as they busy themselves with other preparations.

Then two of the deputies take hold of an arm each and raise Brendan shakily to his feet. They virtually carry him over to the execution block and lie him over it, one taking hold of his ankles and the other his wrists. Brendan is too sore and exhausted to pay much attention to what is happening to him. So it is a complete surprise when a third deputy pulls a branding iron out of the brazier next to the execution block and uses it to brand the Government monogram onto the smooth tanned skin of his perfectly rounded right buttock.

The pain of the red-hot branding iron applied to his recently whipped buttocks explodes in Brendan's head. A white light seems to blind him momentarily and the pain is so sudden and intense that he cannot even scream. His body jerks and spasms in shock and he struggles to break free. But the deputies hold him tightly until he stops struggling.

"Well," chuckles Lord Howden, "He will be sleeping on his belly for a while!"

"I doubt he'll be getting any sleep at all in the slave barracks," one of his guests guffaws, "Fetching young white boy like that among all those huge Negras!"

"Yes … the Bum Boy of the slave barracks! What a waste! That Morton is an idiot! Pity you couldn't get him for the Club, Howden!" says another.

One of the deputies orders Brendan to get up. He struggles to stand up but his rubbery legs give way underneath him and he falls to his knees. A deputy orders him to get up and when he does not, starts flailing Brendan's shoulders with a long yellow cane. Brendan manages to drag himself upright and stands swaying as the shackles are locked once more around his wrists and ankles.

A deputy ties a choking noose in the end of a rope and drops it over Brendan's head, pulling it tight around the boy's neck. He uses the rope like a dog's leash to drag Brendan, hobbling, shuffling and whimpering, off the platform and back through the crowd to the Slave Barracoon.

At the Barracoon Brendan is handed over to the guards, who lead him straight down to the dungeon and lock him, still shackled, in his cell. There is no bedding, or even straw, and Brendan lies down on his belly on the cold stone floor as he contemplates the miserable future that awaits him. Utterly exhausted, he falls asleep despite the fiery pain that throbs on his back and buttocks.

Hours later, Brendan is woken by the clanging of his cell door being unlocked and thrown back. By now the pain has faded greatly and he is feeling almost refreshed by the longest sleep he has had in a long while.

The guards remove Brendan's shackles and lead him up to the slave wash house where he is ordered into a tub of lukewarm water. Brendan kneels in the tub, unable to sit on his painfully welted and branded bottom. He is made to wash himself thoroughly under the eye of the wash house attendant.

Brendan knows that no one bothers to bathe slaves who are going out to do manual labour on public works projects, so he assumes that he is being prepared to spend time with someone of importance before he is transferred to the Government slave barracks.

The attendant helps by soaping and washing Brendan's welted and lacerated back and his branded arse as gently as he knows how.

"You'd think they could at least wait until a boy's wounds has healed before they goes lustin" after "is arse," he says conversationally, as he inserts a soapy finger into Brendan's bumhole and pumps it in and out rapidly by way of cleaning out Brendan's channel preparatory to applying a series of enemas.

Brendan does not reply, his mind wholly preoccupied with the fire that seems to be raging on his back and his arse, though he does not miss the irony of the fact that the attendant's own cock is tenting the front of his trousers even as he speaks.

Now the attendant fills the leather bladder of the enema instrument with soapy water and inserts the brass nozzle into Brendan's anus before squeezing the bladder to fill Brendan's channel with the water.

"You know the drill … hold it in until I give the word" he instructs Brendan as he pulls the nozzle out.

Brendan holds the soapy water inside him until the attendant gives him a nod. Then he squats over the side of the bath and drops the brown and soapy mix into a waiting bucket.

They repeat this exercise until the water that Brendan drops into the bucket is clear.

Brendan loves having enemas, not only because the pleasurable intrusion makes his cock tingle, but because it leaves him with a deep, satisfying feeling of cleanness.

Now the attendant shaves off the few soft pubic hairs that have started sprouting at the base of Brendan's now rampant cock since he was last shaved a week ago. The attendant's hand closes momentarily around Brendan's shaft as he pushes it out of the way of the razor. Almost involuntarily, Brendan's pelvis begins pumping his cock into the man's hand.

The man looks at Brendan sharply and then smiles.

"Steady on, Mate, I'm just shaving you, not wanking you."

Brendan grins sheepishly.

"Sorry, it's just habit," he says.

"Normally, I wouldn't mind giving you a stiff go" says the attendant, "but it's more than me job's worth just now … you better save yourself for his little lordship's pleasure"

Brendan looks quizzically at the attendant.

"You know … Lord Howden's brat!" the attendant answers the unspoken question.

Brendan's belly lurches just a little… with fear, certainly, but the fear is tinged with pleasurable anticipation. From what he has observed, Oliver is a cruel boy with a really mean streak and time in his company can only spell more pain for Brendan. But he also remembers the warm, sweet pleasure of Oliver's tight virgin anus and the eagerness with which it had swallowed his shaft once it had become accustomed to the intrusion.

His ablutions over, a guard arrives to escort Brendan to the upstairs bedroom that is by now familiar to Brendan. Brendan holds out his wrists to be shackled but the guard shakes his head.

"His little Lordship doesn't want you shackled" he says, beckoning Brendan to follow.

Brendan pads after the guard across the sandy courtyard and up the stairs to the guest bedroom kept for the convenience and use of the wealthier patrons of the slave market. The guard knocks on the closed door and Oliver's voice answers peremptorily:

"Enter!"

Brendan's heart lurches at the sound of Oliver's voice and his stomach knots in fear. The guard opens the door and motions Brendan to enter with a sideways toss of his head.

Brendan enters and stands still with his hands by his side as the door closes behind him. Oliver stands by the side of the bed. He has already started undressing and is clad just now only in a white silk shirt hanging down to just below his buttocks.

Brendan darts a quick look left and right and sees that they are alone.

"Yes," says Oliver, noticing Brendan's furtive glances, "It is just you and I."

Oliver suddenly blushes brightly, taking himself by surprise. Strange, unfamiliar emotions have been welling up inside him every time he thinks of the magnificently made boy who took his virginity yesterday. This morning he had felt a strange affinity with Brendan, empathy almost, while Brendan had been flogged at the whipping post, even as he had found it sexually arousing.

"Yes Lord," Brendan murmurs, dropping his gaze to Oliver's pretty white feet and running them slowly up his well-formed calves and thighs. He notices, with a pleasurable tingle, how Oliver's slowly filling cock is lifting the hem of his shirt as it rises, and Brendan's own big brown sausage starts hardening in response.

Oliver moves up close to Brendan and closes a hand around Brendan's swelling shaft. Within a couple of seconds Brendan's cock is rock hard and pulsing in Oliver's tight grip.

As Brendan stands with his legs apart and his big hands by his sides, Oliver lets his cock go and steps up close to him. In a moment Oliver leans into Brendan with his arms around Brendan's waist. Brendan is a head taller than Oliver, so Oliver rises onto his toes and nuzzles his cheek into Brendan's thick neck.

Momentarily surprised, Brendan instinctively wraps his strong arms protectively around the younger boy's back.

They stand together like this for a while. Oliver's eyes are closed as he consciously savours the feel of Brendan's hard-muscled young body against his own. He presses his belly against Brendan's big swollen cock and hugs Brendan tightly with a sense of excited longing that that he has never felt before. He says nothing and he does nothing. It is as if he has handed over to Brendan the initiative that is Oliver's as the master and as Brendan's social superior.

Although his limited education does not give him the words for it, Brendan instinctively recognizes Oliver's coy but desperate embrace as a kind of surrender … Oliver is subconsciously offering his body to Brendan in submission: Oliver the master wants Brendan the slave to dominate him sexually.

As the realisation sets in Brendan slides his hands down Oliver's back and over his buttocks to grab hold of the tails of Oliver's shirt, pulling it up and over his head to leave the young aristocrat completely naked and vulnerable before him.

Brendan steps back and looks over the beautiful twelve year old's smooth well-proportioned body hungrily, his natural animal lust rapidly displacing the fear and uncertainty that had lain at the pit of his stomach like a lump of coal until now.

Oliver's satiny unblemished skin glows with the health of good diet and his good muscle tone testifies to the regular pursuit of athletic sports and games which is the privilege of the leisured class. His milky white, blue-veined cock stands hard and proud, pulsing visibly with each beat of his pounding heart. He also stands wide-legged and with his hands by his side, his beseeching eyes betraying his yearning as he waits for Brendan to make the first move.

Brendan steps forward and places his big strong hands on either side of Oliver's waist. He looks into Oliver's eyes and, when he perceives no objection, bends his knees slightly and lifts the younger boy effortlessly off the floor and lays him over his shoulder before carrying him to the bed.

Oliver giggles with nervous excitement and pleasure as Brendan drops him onto his back on the bed. Brendan hops onto the bed, spreads Oliver's legs apart and kneels between them. Oliver reaches out to grab Brendan's wrists and pulls him down on top of him. Oliver wraps his arms around Brendan's upper body and holds him tightly as his lips search out Brendan's. Soon the boys' hearts are pounding as their tongues explore each other's mouths, their rock-hard cocks pressed against each other's bellies.

After a while Oliver can wait no longer and he begs Brendan to enter him.

"Yes, Lord! Yes!" Brendan responds breathlessly.

He pushes himself back onto his knees, hooks a hand beneath each of Oliver's thighs and quickly lifts his legs up and back until Oliver's knees are pressing into his shoulders, exposing his moist pink anus, nestling in its own shallow depression, puckering invitingly as if for a kiss.

Oliver, the high born English aristocrat, surrenders his body and soul to the mastery of Brendan, the brute Irish slave boy, as he hooks an arm around the back of each knee and holds his legs back and spread, mutely begging to be fucked.

Oliver's eyes are mesmerised by Brendan's long thick meat pole and huge balls as they sway and bob over his boy pussy while Brendan eagerly prepares to assert mastery over Oliver's body once more.

Brendan scoops up some of the precum dribbling copiously from Oliver's quivering cock and slathers it around the swollen purple head of his own pulsing penis. He pushes his penis down to the horizontal and holds it against Oliver's pink pucker while his hips thrust the battering ram against the gate. Oliver draws his breath in sharply and his face pales with the pain but he grits his teeth and endures the agony as Brendan enters him roughly and pushes relentlessly until his whole penis is inside Oliver. Brendan waits a brief moment to allow Oliver to get used to the massive intrusion. He adjusts his own position on the bed preparatory to commencing the slow withdrawal and plunging thrust that has Oliver gasping and groaning alternatively with pain and pleasure.

Steadily Brendan increases the pace until his pelvis is slapping against Oliver's sweaty buttocks with the relentless rapidity of a machine and Oliver's moans have turned to staccato squeaks of breathless delight. Oliver achieves an ecstatic shuddering climax a full minute before Brendan does and his bobbing cock sprays repeated jets of hot cum over his own belly and chest. The orgasmic clutch of Oliver's anus on his slippery shaft pushes Brendan quickly over the top and within seconds the tip of his cock explodes with a body numbing volcano of ecstasy. Brendan bellows his delight as his body jerks and billows with spasms of pleasure, shooting his load deep inside Oliver before collapsing over him with his thick cock still buried deep in the boy's bum.

After a while Brendan rolls off Oliver, extracting his still swollen penis from his fuck chute with an audible slurping and plopping sound before taking the English boy in his arms and cuddling with him.

Oliver is now completely head over heels in love with the older Irish boy and nestles against him, enjoying the feel of Brendan's hard-muscled body against his own, embracing him and running his fingers gently over Brendan's still lacerated back and buttocks. As his fingers pass over the government monogram freshly branded into his right buttock Brendan winces slightly.

'I'm sorry! says Oliver with genuine concern 'I didn't mean to hurt you!

"It's nothing, Lord" Brendan hastens to reassure him, "It does not hurt so much any longer."

'Don't call me Lord', Oliver says, 'It doesn't seem right just now! Call me Oliver'

Brendan is silent a moment and then says:

"Oliver it shall be, then"

Oliver smiles and presses his body against his new found love.

"I love you, Brendan …. So much!" he says.

Brendan is silent a moment:

'Yes I know , he says finally.

"Do you love me, Brendan?"

Brendan is silent as he thinks how to answer. He does not love Oliver. He loves Rodney. But he has the sense to know that it would not be to his advantage to be honest here.

"Yes, Oliver," he finally answers.

Oliver nuzzles his cheek against Brendan's neck.

"Please make love to me again, Brendan," he pleads.

Brendan never needs a second invitation and his cock is still hard as it will remain all night.

The night slips by quickly as it always does when one is having fun. Again and again the two boys make love: Wild, passionate, animal rutting at first and then gradually more thoughtfully and lovingly, exploring each other's bodies, becoming ever more creative and curious until even their healthy young lusts are finally sated and they drift into a deep and happy sleep in each other's arms.

And that is how Mr Lawson finds them when he enters the room late the next morning to find out why the Howden heir has not yet stirred. He watches the two beautiful boys' entwined naked bodies for a long while, licking his suddenly dry lips and tweaking the tip of his instantly erected cock through the front of his trousers until a discreet cough behind him reminds him that there is a guard in the passage.

Mr Lawson wakes the boys. He observes his young lordship's passionate embrace of the slave boy, the lovelorn look in his eyes and the tender way he says Brendan's name. He is appalled to see Brendan hug Oliver and address him by his first name.

"How dare you, you insolent boy!" he barks as he slaps Brendan across the cheek, You must address his lordship as My Lord or Master!

Oliver's eyes flash as he turns to face Mr Lawson.

"Mr Lawson! You forget yourself! You will not strike Brendan in my presence again!" he snaps.

"But … But … Your Lordship!" Mr Lawson splutters.

Oliver ignores Mr Lawson and kisses Brendan again. Brendan returns the kiss. Their cocks harden while they embrace.

"Please fuck me again, Brendan," Oliver pleads, getting up onto the bed on all fours.

Brendan gets onto the bed and mounts his lover, winking at Mr Lawson as he does so.

Mr Lawson turns to go.

"Stay, Mr Lawson!" Oliver orders, "I want you to watch how my beautiful lover makes love to me!"

Burning with humiliation, jealousy and lust, Mr Lawson watches the boys fuck and suck each other to a stupendous climax. He cringes in fascinated horror as he watches the young English aristocrat slurp his own cum out of the slave boy's anus and then suck Brendan's cock clean.

Finally the two boys are done. While Brendan dresses Oliver, Oliver smirks at Mr Lawson.

"You appear to have enjoyed it as much as I have, Mr Lawson!" he says, pointing to the big wet patch on the front of Mr Lawson's trousers.

Brendan knows that Mr Lawson will take his present humiliation out of Brendan's hide when Oliver has gone, but he cannot stop himself grinning at Mr Lawson's embarrassment.

Oliver departs after hugging and kissing Brendan once more.

"Do not worry, Brendan" he says reassuringly as he departs, "I am going to speak to my father and ask him to get you out of here. You must come live with me!"

Brendan smiles, though he knows that nothing will come of it.

Mr Lawson orders Brendan taken down to the dungeon, where he arrives a little later and first fucks him hard before personally giving him twenty searing strokes across his back with a slave whip for "insolence"

The braided leather lash extracts screams of agony from Brendan from the very first stroke, and goes on to lay a latticework of thick purple welts over Brendan's muscled back that ooze droplets of bright red blood. In a few places the skin has been slit and blood wells in the thin furrows before trickling down his back and over his buttocks.

He leaves Brendan hanging in his chains, bleeding, sobbing and moaning in pain as he hurries to report to Lord Howden what he has observed.

Lord Howden is furious. He sends Mr Lawson to wait in the parlour while he summons Oliver to his study and demands an explanation. Oliver explains that he loves Brendan and asks his father to do what he can to secure his freedom so that Brendan can come and live with Oliver.

Lord Howden is nearly apoplectic.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, Oliver? What on earth makes you think I would ever do that?"

"But I love him dearly, Father! Did you not yourself have him take my virginity? Did you not encourage me to make love with him?" pleads Oliver.

"For goodness sake! Not to make love with him! To fuck him and use him for your own pleasure as you do with any of our other slave boys!" Lord Howden fumes.

"But he is not like the other slave boys, Father!"

"Oh stop this nonsense, Oliver, you have embarrassed me immensely! That Lawson of all people should have witnessed your degradation! Do you understand what this will cost me?"

"But Father, we are Howdens! You have always said that we do as we please … that we are not subject to the same rules as the common herd!"

Lord Howden looks at his son in silence for a moment.

"Yes, Oliver, we are not subject to the same rules as the common herd. But we are subject to the rules that govern our own exalted position in society if we wish to keep that position of power and authority."

Oliver stares at his father as this sinks in.

"You cannot hunt with the hounds and run with the hares, Oliver" Lord Howden adds, "you must choose who you wish to associate with"

"Can't you just banish the two of us to live on a remote island somewhere, Father, where we can be together for the rest of our lives and not have to worry about the hounds and the hares?"

"No, Oliver, don't be silly! You know I cannot do that!"

"You can, but you don't want to!" Oliver snaps over his shoulder as he turns to leave the room.

"Get back here, Oliver! I am not done with you!" Lord Howden yells.

Oliver stops and, after a pause, returns to face his father.

"You know I must punish you for this, Oliver" says Lord Howden.

Oliver says nothing but bows his head and bites his lip.

"You know what to do … strip off your clothes, fetch my riding whip and wait here for me while I speak to Mr Lawson!"

"Please … not the riding whip, Father!," Oliver pleads.

"Silence, Oliver, if you wish to behave like a slave, you must be whipped like a slave!"

"Yes Father," Oliver says contritely as the tears well up in his eyes.

Lord Howden sighs and goes to Mr Lawson in the parlour.

"The Irish boy is to be sent to the government quarry in the north of the island immediately! My son is never to see him again!" he tells Mr Lawson.

"Ah … my Lord … the boy was flogged and branded just yesterday … the regulations say …," Mr Lawson prevaricates, hoping to prolong Brendan's stay a while longer so that he can take his pleasures with the boy for another few days.

"Damn the regulations!" Lord Howden snaps, "He goes today!"

"Yes, my Lord! As your Lordship pleases!" Mr Lawson simpers and scurries off.

And so it happens that within the hour Brendan is trudging behind a mule-drawn cart on the road leading out of Bridgetown to the still wild northern part of the island where a granite quarry has been established to supply the building needs of the colony. His wrists have been shackled by a short length of chain to the tail of the cart, which is piled high with provisions for the quarry.

The fresh whip cuts on Brendan's back were hurriedly tended by bathing them in salt water … a treatment that was almost as painful as the whipping itself. The agony continues with the searing heat of the sun burning his back and his own salty sweat trickling into the still raw wounds.

It is only about 30 kilometres [20 miles] away, but it takes the slow-moving mule cart over three days' to reach the quarry. The dreariness of the long trudge is broken only by stops for a water or meal break and, of course, when they stop to sleep at night.

On the first day they pass the entrance to Morton Hall and Brendan sheds a tear for his lost love, his first Master, Rodney Morton. He keeps looking around in hope of catching a glimpse of Rodney, perhaps out riding the estate, but he sees no one he knows.

The driver is a horny young soldier who lusts after Brendan from the moment the young slave boy is placed in his charge. Quick to notice this, Brendan wastes no opportunity to let the soldier know that he is available and interested. By the second stop on the first morning the soldier takes the bait and no stop goes by after that without the soldier fucking Brendan's eager arse and wanking or sucking Brendan off in return. Both Brendan and the soldier begin to look forward to the next stop and it is not surprising that these become more frequent. At night they share the soldier's bedroll, though very little sleeping is done until past midnight.

In the middle of the morning on the fourth day they finally arrive at the quarry.