Istari

Tales from a World of Slavery 3:

Punishing Brandon

"Dad, it's not really Brandon's fault," Greg's twelve-year-old son protested from the passenger seat beside him. "He was cleaning out the garage like you told him to, but I wanted to go out and play, so I made him come with me."

Greg van Doorn looked over at his cute sandy-haired boy as the lad stared up at him with his late mother's haunting blue eyes. Quinn had such delicate features, small button nose, soft pink lips and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose that spilled down onto his cheeks. One could certainly say he was pretty, but Greg tried not to ever think of him like that. He was his son after all. The boy continued to stare at his dad, awaiting his father's response.

Normally Greg could never say no to him, but this time he had to do what must be done, for Brandon's well being and that of his family. "I appreciate you being honest about this, Quinn, but that's beside the point. Brandon disobeyed me. Again. He's doing it more and more often. He's becoming willful, son, and we both know that spells trouble."

"But, I sorta ordered him to come with me," Quinn continued. "Brandon has to obey me, right? I'm his master too, right?"

"You are. But you are also a child, no matter how bright you are. I am the father and the master in this house. When I tell Brandon to do something, I expect it to be done. Quickly and correctly. The garage was still a mess when I got home and I find the slave boy playing in the back yard with you. Sporting an erection, I might add. You know Brandon is not allowed to have erections, and Brandon knows it too. Why did you remove his cock-cage?"

Quinn fell silent and lowered his head.

"Answer me, son."

"He, um, he asked me to. So I did."

"That's an even bigger part of the problem. He knows we love him, and he loves us, and I believe he's starting to think he can get his own way. Especially with you. He certainly did yesterday, didn't he?"

"I'm real sorry, dad. You should punish me, not Brandon. He's a good slave. He's, he's my best friend."

"I know that, Quinn, but something must be done about his behavior lately. We've never been that strict with him, and I've allowed you to treat him more like a big brother than a slave ever since we got him, but he's taking too many liberties with you. You're twelve now and he's nearly fourteen, but you are a master and he is a slave. It is time the two of you started to behave accordingly. He never should have asked you to take off his cock-cage in the first place, and you, most definitely, should have refused and spanked him for being so impudent."

"But don't you feel sorry for him, dad? I mean, having his dick all locked up like that, all the time. I mean we've kept it in that little cock-cage since he was nine. I feel bad for him. I mean, I love getting hard and I love it when he sucks me off," Quinn stared at his dad accusingly, wise beyond his twelve years. "And I know you do too. Why can't he have just a little fun too?"

"Because he is a slave, Quinn. Brandon is a part of our family, and I do love him, just as much as you do. But there are rules he has to live by. And there are rules that, as his masters, we have to live by too."

"Rules we make up, dad," Quinn continued. "I don't think it's fair."

Greg laid his hand firmly on his son's leg, just at the hem of his shorts. The boy's thigh was silky smooth and hairless and nicely tanned. "You are pushing it, Quinn. I might just take you up on your offer and punish you too if you keep going."

Greg assumed calling his son's bluff would silence him, but the brave, bright twelve-year-old sat up in his seat as tall as a four-foot-ten-inch [1.45 m] boy could make himself and looked right at his father. "Fine. Punish me. Punish me with Brandon. I messed up too. Worse really. He was my responsibility while you were at work. Punish us both."

They were just pulling in to the local Slave Processing and Discipline Center when Greg's son uttered these shocking words. Free boys do not get punished the way slave boys do, certainly not in public, certainly not at a Discipline Center.

"We'll talk about this when we get home, Quinn. We need to get Brandon out of the trailer. His punishment is scheduled for 2pm."

"Punish us both, dad," Quinn muttered under his breath as he got out of the car and made his way back to the small slave trailer hitched to the back. It was little more than a sturdy cage on road-worthy wheels.

Brandon, their fourteen-year-old slave boy, was naked and heavily chained inside it. His wrists and ankles were shackled and then further chained to one another, right wrist to left ankle and vice-versa, ensuring he was completely immobilized and extraordinarily uncomfortable. His thick iron punishment collar was locked around his slender neck. He was gagged at the moment with a thick bit that was causing him to drool uncontrollably. He rested his sensitive hazel eyes upon his two masters as Greg unlocked the door to the cage. It was obvious the boy had been crying, a lot, but he quickly regained his composure and sniffled and lay there quietly waiting for his masters to release him from his bondage.

It was easier for Quinn with his small size to reach in there and release the chains, and over the years he'd become quite adept at it. Once he had Brandon's arms and legs free he stood back so the slave boy could crawl out of the cage on his own.

In spite of his recent discipline problems, Brandon was a well-trained and generally agreeable young slave boy. He immediately stood at attention and clasped his hands behind his head. He stood five-feet-six-inches [1.65 cm] high, making him more than half-a-foot [15 cm] taller than Quinn, but the two boys were of similar build, both of them lithe and lean and nicely muscled. In fact, they could almost be brothers. Brandon's hair was sandy-colored too, just like Quinn's and he had a similar dusting of freckles across his cute little nose. Brandon of course was noticeably thinner, since as a slave he naturally received less food than his free counterpart, but he was all wiry young teen muscle nonetheless. Nothing scrawny about this well-built young teenager. Nothing pissed Greg off more than seeing an out of shape slave boy, either overweight or underweight, or an out of shape free boy for that matter. He made sure that both Brandon and Quinn remained in top physical condition for their respective size and age. Brandon had adorably tight abdominal muscles that were starting to develop into a sexy little six-pack. Quinn was much the same.

Brandon's single most amazing feature was surely to be found in his hazel eyes. It was not to be wondered that Quinn had such a difficult time saying no to him. Greg often had a hard time with that as well. There was a haunting calm to them, a depth and sensitivity, and a cunning intelligence that Greg knew could easily get out of hand if he did not start to reign the young slave boy in a bit more tightly.

Greg inspected Brandon for any bruises he may have gotten while being transported in the cage, but he seemed to be fine. The fourteen-year-old boy was virtually hairless. He had a light dusting of hair on his lower legs, but that was really just little-boy fuzz which he'd had ever since the Van Doorn's owned him. His cock, which was presently locked into a tiny metal cage, was on the small side for a young teen, barely two soft inches [5 cm] long and uncut. Many owners had their slave boys circumcised, but Greg preferred keeping Brandon intact as nature made him. He allowed Brandon to keep a small patch of blond pubic hair above his little slave cock. The boy was required to keep it trimmed himself. If it ever grew too thick for Greg's liking, the young slave knew he would lose it permanently. He had a nice plump pair of balls dangling low in a soft pink hairless sack.

Greg removed Brandon's gag and inspected his teeth. The boy wore braces. Many people had told Greg it was a ridiculous expense to waste on a slave boy, what do they need with perfectly straight teeth after all, but Brandon's teeth had in fact been so crooked that they really would have marred his otherwise exceptional appearance. So the family had been correcting that one little flaw since he was twelve years old. They would be coming off in another year or so.

Unlike Quinn's long shoulder length cut, Greg kept Brandon's sandy hair on the short side, parted in the middle. A classic slave-boy haircut which made him appear to be even younger than his scant fourteen years. Satisfied that the boy had brushed his teeth and used mouthwash as instructed, Greg gagged him again.

Brandon did not utter a single word during that brief moment when the gag was out of his mouth. Standing order in the Van Doorn household was that the slave boy never spoke unless he was spoken to directly, and even then his answers were to be as short and monosyllabic as possible. Brandon in fact would sometimes go weeks without saying a single word.

Greg made the slave boy bend over so that he could inspect the butt-plug nestled snuggly in the fourteen-year-old's rectum. Brandon had been plugged since his first day as a slave, but today he was enduring the pain and frustrating stimulation of his 'punishment plug', a large bulbous latex prong that forced his little ring to stretch wide. This was only the second time this year he'd had it inside him. Greg pressed on the end of the plug, causing Brandon to groan into his bit. A glob of pre-cum oozed out of the boy's small cock. His master ignored this and patted him firmly on the butt.

Quinn handed Brandon's leash to his father and Greg attached it to the boy's iron collar. He looked the naked slave boy in the eye. He could see the fear and shame dancing there behind Brandon's beautiful hazel orbs.

"Boy, you know why you are being punished today, don't you?"

Brandon slowly nodded his head that he did.

"Your behavior lately is starting to trouble me. You need to be reminded of your place. We are going to start being a lot stricter with you back home. Aren't we, Quinn?" Greg asked his son with a warning glare.

Quinn nodded his head but Greg could see that the boy was thinking about something else. He returned his attention to his naked slave boy. "I've arranged for you to experience one of the discipline machines today."

Brandon began to tremble. He'd never been attached to one of these machines himself, but Greg had brought him here once when he was ten and made him watch other boys enduring the hours of endless torment these efficient devices provide. Greg remembered Brandon's little hand grabbing his wrist and the feel of the boy's naked trembling body as he pressed up against him for comfort while the boys on the machines screamed and cried and begged for mercy.

Greg remembered telling him 'I will never do this to you, as long as you behave yourself.'

That little experience made Brandon quite docile for the next several years, but now that his hormones are starting to flow, and he was showing the first signs of adolescent disobedience, it was time for the boy to experience them first hand.

"I want you to remember that Quinn and I both love you. This is for your own good, Brandon. Learn from what happens today and we never need to come back."

Brandon sniffled and nodded sadly and slowly. It occurred to Greg that just bringing him here again, just the threat of the kind of punishment meted out to misbehaving slaveboys in a place like this would probably be enough correct his recent slide into willfulness, but he wanted the lesson to stick. Greg wanted the boy to remember this day for the rest of his life. Greg did love him. But Brandon was a slave, and that sometimes meant one had to be cruel to be kind. Brandon would be a better and more manageable slave for having experienced this torment today, and that would make his life, and that of his masters, considerably more pleasant.

Greg hugged the boy to him and told him he forgave him for his recent mistakes. Brandon managed to give his master a smile as tears filled his young eyes. Greg took hold of the boy's leash and was about to pull him along into the building when he felt a tugging at his sleeve.

"Dad. Stop a minute." It was Quinn, and as Greg watched he saw his twelve-year-old son pulling off his shirt. "I was serious. You have to punish me too."

"Quinn 3;"

"No, dad. I mean it. If 3; if I'm ever going to really be his master I gotta know what its like for him."

Greg's shirtless boy stood in front of him now with resolve in his eyes. Once a twelve-year-old makes his mind up about something, there's really no changing it. And, the truth was, the boy had a point. One Greg himself did not necessarily agree with, but a point nonetheless. This wasn't the first time Quinn had demanded to be punished alongside Brandon for some boyish trouble they'd both gotten into. Greg finally decided to relent.

"Alright, Quinn. If this is something you really need to do, then I'll let you do it."

Quinn did not smile. He knew what he was asking for. He knew it was going to be embarrassing and painful. He just looked up at his dad with those soft sensitive blue eyes of his. "Thanks, dad."

"I know the administrator here. I'm sure I can convince him to let you do this. Put your shirt back on for now. I don't want anyone out here thinking you're a slave too."

Brandon was locked away in a cramped holding pen with about twenty other slave boys his own age awaiting punishment. Quinn and Greg sat in the administrator's office. Greg had gone to college with him and knew him to be a good man, one who ran a clean and efficient operation here, not like some of the nightmarish facilities in other parts of the state. Not a single boy slave had died under his supervision, a flawless track record. He sat back in his chair and gazed at Quinn with a mixture of pride and disbelief, much the same way Greg was looking at Quinn lately himself. Quinn seemed to be swallowed up by the large chair on which he sat. His feet couldn't reach the floor, and so he swung them freely and adorably the way only a boy can.

"Well, this is certainly a singular request. You know, young man, that free boys are generally not allowed to be disciplined publicly."

"Maybe they should be, sir," Quinn replied respectfully. "I know some boys who've done some really bad stuff and they just keep getting away with it. All Brandon did was play Frisbee with me and now he has to be punished. It's not fair."

"No one said life was fair, son," the administrator, John, said softly. He really did not seem at all like the type who would running a place like this, perhaps that is why it had such a good reputation. "Brandon is an orphan, right?"

Quinn and Greg both nodded. Greg and his late wife had actually been good friends with Brandon's parents. Taking the boy in as a slave after his parents' tragic deaths seemed like the right thing to do.

"Was it fair that his parents died? No," John continued. "Was it fair that he was made a slave? No. But that is just the way it is. Brandon is a slave. Nothing can change that. Some boys are just destined for that life and he was one of them."

Quinn shrugged his shoulders. At home he and his dad never really talked about the circumstances of Brandon's enslavement. Greg allowed Brandon to keep a single picture of his parents in the tiny room in which he slept, but that was the only memento of his life as a free boy that he was permitted.

"Slaves who misbehave," John went on, "even the generally good ones like Brandon, need to be punished and reminded of their place."

"I guess," Quinn replied, still not convinced.

"I am more interested in your assertion that you would be a better master if you experienced a slave punishment for yourself. That is actually a very reasonable and intelligent thing to say. And that is the only reason I am going to permit you to do it."

Quinn was silent for a moment, not quite sure he heard correctly. "So 3; so you'll let me do it?"

"If your father consents to it."

"Dad? Please, I need to know what its like for him."

Greg put his arm around his gentle sensitive son, so poorly cast in the role of master, a role Greg knew deep in his heart that Quinn could never truly embrace. "If it is that important to you, then yes, I'll let you do it."

Twelve-year-old Quinn smiled, but his blue eyes remained serious.

John looked at them both and shook his head. "Brave little man you have there, Greg. I can arrange a minimal discipline session for him 3;"

"Um, sir, um, no, sir," Quinn interrupted, trying to be as polite as possible. "I want the same punishment Brandon is getting."

John's eyes widened as did Greg's.

"Son, that's not possible," Greg stated firmly. "They're putting Brandon on one of the machines."

"I know. I want to be on one with him. Please, dad," Quinn's last words were spoken in a delicate whisper.

"Can that be arranged, John?" Greg asked, hoping he would say no.

"It is unheard of, but I don't see why not as long as no one knows he's a free boy. We've let him go this far. If he really wants to know what his slave boy is going to feel, then putting Quinn on the machine too is the only way."

"Alright then. I have your guarantee he won't experience any permanent injury."

"Absolutely."

"Well, let's do it then."

John nodded and stood up. "In order for me to make this happen, as it is strictly illegal, I will need everyone in this building to think that Quinn is a slave."

Quinn sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

"That means you have to remove all your clothes, boy. Just take everything off and leave them here."

"Okay," Quinn replied meekly, standing up and pulling off his shirt again.

Quinn had a nice little chest, with perfect dime-sized nipples and soft rounded shoulders that hadn't really started to broaden yet. His tummy was flat and just starting to show the signs of muscular definition. He flicked his long sandy hair out of his eyes and bent over to take off his shoes and socks. Two cute little boyfeet were now on display, padding softly on the tile floor of the administrator's office.

Greg loved boys and he was in no way blind to how perfectly beautiful and sexy his twelve-year-old son was. The realization that Quinn was about to be naked in front of him and one of his oldest friends was quite a turn on. Greg was not ashamed of the erection growing in his pants. His son was gorgeous. He expected Quinn would get that reaction from lots of men.

Quinn pulled off his shorts, leaving him in just a tight pair of white boxer-briefs. They hugged his slim hips and shapely thighs and perfect little butt and there was a pronounced and surprisingly sizable bulge in front where his boyish treasures were snuggly tucked away.

"Guess I gotta lose these too, huh?" Quinn asked shyly in his reedy pre-teen boy voice.

"Yes, young man. Slaves must be naked here."

Quinn was by no means surprised by this. They kept Brandon naked all the time. Even when they took him out in public the most he ever had on was a tiny leather pouch covering his caged genitals. Aside from that, the boy had not worn a stitch of clothing, with the exception of some occasional erotic costumes, since he became the family's slave when he was eight.

Quinn lowered his boxer-briefs and then stood there silently with his arms at his sides. He made no attempt to cover himself. The boy had adorable tan lines, his torso and legs so golden brown, his middle a pearlescent creamy white.

It has already been stated that Quinn and Brandon could be brothers, and this was certainly true as Greg gazed at his twelve-year-old son's handsome nude body. He was in many ways just a younger smaller version of their fourteen-year-old slave boy. One area that was immediately and obviously different was between his legs. While Brandon had a rather small and inoffensive two-inch [5 cm] slave-cock, Quinn was a remarkably well-hung boy. His uncut penis was quite thick and just over three inches [7½ cm] long and quickly hardening before his father's eyes. In short order the boy was sporting a steel-hard five inch [12½ cm] boner, standing at a perfect forty-five degree angle and bouncing in time with his heartbeat. His balls were every bit as big as Brandon's, if not yet hanging quite as low. Quinn had a few sparse hairs barely visible above his healthy boy boner. Other than that, his slim lean twelve-year-old body was utterly hairless.

He blushed fiercely as his cock bobbed up and down.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Perfectly natural," John said.

Greg smiled at his son. Proud of how big his cock was and the ease and confidence with which he stripped naked in front of them. Quinn was gentle and sensitive, but he was no coward.

John rose from his desk and pulled a pair of steel handcuffs from the top drawer. He walked toward Quinn and told the boy to put his hands behind his back.

Quinn immediately complied and Greg watched, his cock harder than ever, as his young son's small hands were cuffed behind him.

"Quinn, I'm going to call for one of the guards. They are going to put a collar around your neck and take you down to the holding pens." John then turned to the boy's father. "Greg, would you like us to lock up Quinn's cock for his punishment?"

Greg left that up to Quinn. "What do you say, son? You said you want to experience what it's like for Brandon. Do you want to have a cage around your dick so you can't get hard?"

Quinn really thought about that one. His expression was grim. Finally he raised his eyes to his dad. "Yeah. Yeah I want to know how that feels too."

"Very well," John said. "Now a warning, young man. Listen closely. Once you leave this room, you will be treated just like a slave. So I suggest you behave yourself and do everything the guards tell you. No one here knows you're a free boy except for me and your dad. You will not be allowed to leave here until your punishment session is over. Once you are down in the pens there is no going back, and nothing your father or I can do to help you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"You will be receiving the same punishment that your father has selected for your slave boy. You will be given a number and placed in a holding cell with other slave boys your age. When your number is called you will be put on one of the punishment machines. There are going to be three parts to Brandon's punishment and you will experience all three of them too. First your insides will be flushed out with a series of punishment enemas."

Quinn paled and looked over at his dad. They had given Brandon punishment enemas before, and Quinn sometimes even supervised them, but he himself had never actually had one.

John continued describing the ordeal that awaited the two boys, one slave, one free, both about to experience the same depths of pain and humiliation. "Next a plug will be inserted into your butt and you will receive a spanking. Your father has requested a level 3 for Brandon, which is quite severe. You will not be sitting down for a while, I can guarantee you that much. The spanking will be followed up by three lashings with a cane. As those are intended to leave permanent scars on Brandon's butt, we will substitute a paddle for you so that you will not be permanently marked."

Quinn swallowed hard but did not back down from his decision to share in Brandon's punishment.

"Lastly, you will receive an intensive and thorough prostatic milking. Do you know what that is?"

"No, sir," the boy replied.

Greg had only recently begun milking Brandon, and always out of the view of his impressionable and easily upset young son. At this point in his life, Quinn did not even know what a prostate was, or that he had one inside him.

John smiled indulgently at the boy's cute ignorance of his own anatomy. "Are you capable of ejaculation?" he asked.

"You mean, like, can I shoot stuff out of my dick?"

John and Greg both smiled. "Yes, Quinn."

"I can," the boy answered, "but not much."

"Have you masturbated recently?"

Quinn blushed and whispered his answer to John. Greg didn't hear what he said.

"Well, you should still have enough in those nice little balls of yours to make things interesting for you."

There was a knock at the door.

"That would be the guard. Any questions?"

Quinn looked over at his dad.

"Last chance, sport," Greg said. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," the boy replied softly. "Can I 3; can I go at the same time Brandon does? I think it would help him if I was with him."

Greg looked over at John and indicated he thought that was a good idea.

"We can arrange that, Quinn. You'll both be punished together."

"Good. Thanks. I guess I'm ready."

"Come here, Quinn," Greg said. His naked son hurried over to him with his hard boy-cock wagging from side to side. Greg stood up and drew the boy into his arms, hugging him tightly, wishing he did not have to let the boy go.

"I still think you're making a big mistake, but I understand why you need to do this. I am very proud of you. Be brave. I'll see you, and Brandon, in a few hours."

John opened the door. Two guards came in. One of them had a small iron collar in his hands.

"Front and center, slave," he shouted to Quinn who quickly broke his father's embrace and scurried over to them. The collar was locked around his slender neck and a thick heavy chain was attached to it. Greg watched as the guard led his naked twelve-year-old son away on the chain and down to the holding pens. The boy's cock was still hard.

"Remarkable boy you've got there, Greg," John said to him. "You can watch the procedure from the observation room. I'll push your boys ahead in the cue so they don't have to wait down there all day."

"Thanks."

Quinn found himself standing in front of one of the three holding pens on the lower level. It was a cramped single room enclosed on three sides by thick cinderblock walls. The front wall was comprised of thick steel bars, which ran from floor to ceiling. The only door to the pen was in this wall, made of solid steel and secured with an electronic lock. Inside the pen, there were twenty naked boys, all close to Quinn's age. They were forced to stand in these tight quarters, with barely enough room to move. It was hot, and the bodies of the young boys all glistened with sweat. Each of them had a number written across his chest in black grease-pen. There were no benches here. There were no beds. There was a single bucket in the corner that served as the toilet. They boys were all collared, their hands cuffed behind them, their ankles shackled and chained. Quite a few of the boys had their thighs restrained as well. Several of them were gagged, and the majority of the boys had their cocks locked up in various devices designed to ensure that they did not play with themselves, or each other.

Quinn himself was now wearing just such a device, a cock-cage almost identical to the one Brandon always wore. A large and rather heavy padlock held it in place at the base of his virtually hairless genitals. His twelve-year-old cock was swollen and throbbing insistently inside its tiny prison. This particular cage had an additional ring of small spikes that surrounded the base of Quinn's cock, providing a constant and painful reminder that he was not permitted to have an erection. It was a dizzying, agonizing and frustrating feeling as his young cock pressed against the bars of the cage, and the spikes dug into the smooth flesh of his boyhood. Quinn winced and tried to think of math problems or anything that might make his cock go soft again.

'3 x 3 is 9. 3 x 4 is 12. 3 x 5 is 15 3; '

A small pair of shackles were selected for him by the guards and secured around the boy's slender ankles. The chain between them was scarcely one foot [30 cm] long. The irons were heavy on his feet, and Quinn suddenly felt sympathy for all the times they'd put Brandon in shackles and chains. Quinn had often found it amusing, watching Brandon hobble and shuffle along in his chains. Now it was no laughing matter at all.

The door to the holding pen was opened by the guards, and Quinn was roughly pushed inside. Naturally the boy was utterly unaccustomed to walking in irons. Immediately he stumbled in the shackles and fell hard to the cold concrete floor, landing on his side and bruising his shoulder. There came the sound of boyish laughter from some of the other slaves. Quinn lay there on his stomach for a moment, not sure how he was going to get up with his hands bound behind his back and his feet chained so closely together. The twelve-year-old managed to scramble to his knees. He kept is head down, not daring to look at the other boys. He was a sheltered and rather innocent lad, and being confined with all these naked slaveboys was rather frightening.

Suddenly he felt a gentle hand on his arm, awkwardly helping to pull him back to his feet. He raised his head and his eyes lit up and watered as he saw a familiar face.

It was Brandon.

The fourteen-year-old slave had managed to work his cuffed hands into a painful position that would allow him to help his young master to his feet. The cuffs dug into the boy's wrists in the process, bruising them rather badly. Brandon winced, but held Quinn by the arm until the smaller boy had regained his balance.

"Hi, Brandon," Quinn said quietly. "Thanks for helping me up."

Brandon could not answer. He still had the bit in his mouth, strapped tightly in place behind his head, but the surprise in his eyes required no words. He noticed that the number written in grease-pen across his young master's bare chest was the same one they'd scrawled across his own. Brandon gave the younger boy a questioning look.

"I wasn't kidding, Brandon," Quinn explained. "I'm going to be punished with you. They're gonna do us together."

Brandon shook his head vehemently. The young teen was sure that his little master had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into.

"I know what they're going to do to you, and they're gonna have to do the same stuff to me. It's the only way to be fair. This is all my fault anyway. I should have let you finish your chores first. I guess I'm not a very good master."

Brandon just stared at Quinn for a moment then turned his eyes away, not wanting his young master to see the anger in them, nor the tears that were starting to form. This was the last thing the young slave ever wanted. Quinn had no business being here. It was just going to make things even harder.

"Don't 3; don't cry, Brandon," Quinn said, misinterpreting Brandon's tears. "I'm sorry. It'll all be over soon and we can go home."

But 'home' for the fourteen-year-old slave did not hold the same meaning it did for young Quinn. He was loyal to his two masters, the elder and the boy, and they were, at some level, his only family. He knew they loved him.

But did he love them?

Certainly he did. Yet always with the distance and stigma of his enslavement hanging heavily on his teenaged heart. Brandon felt more like the family pet than anything else, and there was always a hint of resentment that he would never be accepted or treated as anything more than a valued piece of property. He was careful not to ever let it show. He had learned early on that slave boys should be grateful for whatever they are given.

Quinn stuck to Brandon like glue for the rest of the time they spent in the holding pen. He kept his head down and didn't say much else. Often, as the hot sweaty naked boys jostled about, one of them would accidentally bump into him. Brandon would instantly push the other slave boy away, defending his master from some perceived threat. Quinn noted that Brandon seemed be the oldest boy in this pen, and thus all the other kids, mostly Quinn's age or younger tended to steer clear of him. Some of the boys were really strong and muscular though, despite their young age, and Quinn felt a bit intimidated by them. These were slave boys who worked on farms or in factories, sent here for discipline and obedience training so they could be worked even harder by their masters. Boys like this were generally considered to be little more than animals and were usually treated as such.

One such eleven-year-old moved close to Quinn, curious about the new boy who seemed so oddly out of place. This boy stood barely four feet [1.20 m] tall but he was exceptionally well built, with powerful muscles, strong thighs, a chiseled torso and deeply tanned skin. His body was completely hairless. His head had been shaved and there was a large tattoo on the right side of his scalp with the words 'Kratzer Farm Cooperative' beneath the big company logo. The boy's cock and balls were small little things, encased in a clear plastic pod that ensured he could not have an erection or even touch himself. Quinn looked for a padlock, like the one on the cage currently around his own penis, but found none. He did see that there was a tube sticking out of the end of the boy's cock, fed through a small opening in the pod. Innocent of such things, Quinn wondered what that tube was for and how the boy managed to pee with it in there.

The eleven-year-old farm slave was apparently getting too close for Brandon's liking, and he aggressively positioned himself between the muscular little boy and his foolish young master. The eleven-year-old slave got the message immediately and backed away. Quinn stared after him for a moment and then looked up at Brandon.

"I think he just wanted to be friends," Quinn said quietly.

Brandon frowned in his bit and shook his head. There were no friends here. Only slaves.

Quinn lost track of time rather quickly inside the slave pen. There were no windows, no clock, no way at all for the boy to judge how long he'd been down here. Thirty minutes in fact passed when the guards began calling out numbers corresponding to those written on the boys' chests. They took two boys at a time to meet whatever disciplinary fate awaited them. The first two slave boys to be taken away were a tall skinny thirteen-year-old with an almost man-sized cock swinging freely between his legs, and the little eleven-year-old farm slave. Quinn watched as a chain was attached between their collars and the two boys were led together to the cargo lift that would transport them upstairs to the discipline halls.

"Hope this one's enjoyed his last day with his balls," one of the guards said, smacking the lanky thirteen-year-old on the back of the head. At the request of his owner, the boy was to be castrated immediately after his punishment was over. The young teen was already crying.

Several minutes later, another number was called over the loudspeaker. '2409'.

Brandon nudged his young master. Quinn looked down at his chest and saw that this was the number he and Brandon had both been given.

"That's us," Quinn said anxiously, his heart racing and his legs starting to tremble. Brandon was scared too, but doing a better job of hiding it.

Together the two boys, master and slave, made their way to the door to the holding pen. It was buzzed open. The boys were pulled out by the guards and linked together by a heavy chain between their collars. A bit gag similar to the one already in Brandon's mouth was chosen for Quinn and strapped harshly in place.

"Bite down, you stupid fuck!" the guard shouted at Quinn. "Shit, you slave boys get dumber by the day!"

This was first time in his life the twelve-year-old had ever experienced a gag. Back home he gagged Brandon several times a day, often for hours and hours at a time, usually just for fun. He'd never known how incredibly uncomfortable it was. Quinn began drooling almost immediately. Brandon had been drooling like this ever since the bit first went in earlier that morning.

"Move it, slaves! Into the lift!" a guard shouted.

Quinn was still having a hard time getting used to walking in shackles. He stumbled awkwardly as the guards pushed them into the lift. Brandon, with years of practice having his feet shackled and chained moved with somewhat greater ease. He looked over at his young master and shook his head. He didn't really understand what was going on, or why Quinn had insisted on being punished too. A slave since he was eight years old, Brandon neither expected nor received any gestures of outright sympathy from his masters, and so Quinn's actions formed a puzzle that his young brain simply could not register. He was quite sure he didn't want to share his punishment with Quinn. The one thing that had made this bearable for the young slave was the assumption that he would endure his punishment alone in isolation, or at worst with another slaveboy he did not know and would never see again. There would be lots of people watching him of course, but they would all be behind glass. Now it was looking like his young master was actually going to be in the punishment room with him. Seeing him cry. Hearing him scream and beg. The thought had yet to enter his mind that Quinn would be crying and screaming and begging every bit as loudly as he was.

"Mr. Van Doorn, sir," a young teenaged slave wearing only a gray jockstrap and a pair of black work-boots said to Greg, "your slave boys have been assigned to room nine. If you'll proceed to the end of the hall, sir."

The boy was perhaps a few months older than Brandon and clearly the slave property of the county. He was slim and well built and his body was completely hairless, either naturally or through artificial means. His blond hair was buzzed close to his scalp. The seal of the county government was on the band of his jockstrap, and the word 'SLAVE' was permanently tattooed in black letters across his smooth but nicely muscled chest and also down the side of his right leg. The bulge hidden beneath the pouch of the jockstrap indicated he was a quite well hung youngster.

The county owned an ever-increasing number of slave boys, all kept in this same basic uniform. They were employed mostly on road maintenance, public sanitation and grounds-keeping. Clearly several of them were also being used as stewards during punishment days here at the Processing and Discipline Center.

The boy was handsome and polite and Greg gave him a little smile as he passed him by, making sure to look back to catch a glimpse of the young teen's fine little bare butt, hugged so tantalizingly by the straps of the jock. The end of a standard government-issue latex butt-plug was clearly visible between the cute young teen's adorable globes. The stripes from a recent whipping were still visible on his back. This would likely have been Brandon's fate, had the Van Doorns not taken him in after the death of his parents.

Greg flashed the pass the administrator had given him and was buzzed through the secured door into observation area of room nine. As the owner of the two boys about to be punished in this room, Greg had the front row all to himself. He looked through the glass, taking in his first glimpse of the machines. There were two of them. Both identical. One for each boy.

The main body of each machine was a sturdy metal rectangular frame mounted to a mesh steel platform, which was raised several inches off the floor. Fixed restraints for the boy's ankles and wrists were mounted to this base at the four corners. These restraints were on tracks that could be moved forward and back and side to side to accommodate boys of all sizes from ages eight to sixteen. In the very center of the base platform there was a wide leather belt currently hanging from the horizontal supports of the metal frame. This was clearly intended go around the boy's torso, further immobilizing him. A series of chains and straps hung from various other points on the frame, including two sets of chains at the front of the machine that would attach to the boy's slave collar, ensuring the young slave could not move his head during his punishment.

Attached to the right side of the frame there was a complex robotic arm with a variety of articulated appendages, similar to the robotic assembly machines used in the manufacture of automobiles. It was capable of moving freely through three dimensions, and capable of performing tasks of extreme dexterity and precision. Once activated, it would carry out its assignment without mercy or remorse. It would efficiently torture a boy for minutes or hours depending upon the program it was running. It would not stop. It would not relent. It was immune to the boy's cries of pain and terror.

Greg noticed a large number of hoses, tubes and pipes, all of varying thickness connected to this robotic arm. Some of them were obviously part of the complex hydraulic system that powered the arm, others however had a far more sinister appearance and purpose.

Directly above the frame there was a large shower nozzle dangling down on from a thick black hose. Beneath the steel mesh platform on which the boy would be mounted, the tile floor had a series of large grated drains. All of this to wash away any bodily fluids that might spill from the boy while he was being punished.

The entire room was tiled in white, floor to ceiling, giving it a sterile clinical appearance. There was only one entrance, directly opposite the observation area. As the minutes ticked by, Greg was joined by several other onlookers. None of them knew the family or had any connection to them whatsoever. They were merely curious, or bringing their own sons or slaves here to show them what can happen to boys who misbehave. Greg felt rather self-conscious sitting there alone in the front row, but it was his right as Brandon's owner. Everyone would just assume he owned Quinn as well and he would do nothing to dispel that misconception.

At precisely 2pm, the overhead lights in the punishment room brightened, just as the lights in the observation area dimmed. The door to the room slid open on a track, and Greg watched as the boys were marched in under guard, still chained together by their collars. Aside from the number on his chest, young Brandon looked exactly has he had when Greg had put him in the transport cage that morning. It was Quinn who caught naturally consumed his father's attention. His twelve-year-old son was shackled, collared, and gagged, with his ample cock locked up in a small tightly confining cage. There was a number on his chest as well. Quinn looked every bit the slave boy. Aside from the fact that Brandon was taller, there really was no distinguishing between the two of them.

It was clear that Quinn was growing increasingly terrified. Fear had caused his cock to swell inside the chastity-cage. It was obvious that the young boy would have been sporting a full erection had it not been locked down. Brandon's small slave-cock remained flaccid within its small cage.

Several of the onlookers complimented Greg on how handsome and fit his two young slave boys were and what an appealing and handsome pair they made.

"Are they brothers?" one man asked. He had brought his own nine-year-old slave boy here to let him see what might lie in store for him if he ever misbehaved. The little fellow was a cute lad of Southeast Asian descent. He was naked with a silver collar around his neck and a matching silver ring nestled snuggly at the base of his tiny brown genitals. Those were the boy's only adornments.

"Uhm, yes. Yes, they are," Greg replied, seeing how that could easily be anyone's mistaken assumption.

"Looks like the younger one has a bigger cock," the man observed with a chuckle. "They certainly make an interesting pair. Bet you have lots of fun with those two little animals."

For a moment Greg felt a bit of private anger at this stranger talking about his son, and Brandon for the matter, as if they were nothing more than pieces of meat. But that was generally how boy slaves were evaluated and considered, and it was imperative that the illusion of Quinn's enslavement be maintained.

Greg gave the man an indulgent smile and knowing wink and hoped that would be enough. The stranger's implication that Greg was using the two boys for sex was a completely natural one, and at least in Brandon's case it was the truth. The fourteen-year-old had become an expert little cocksucker and Greg had been fucking the boy several times a week at minimum ever since Brandon was ten. He was well aware that Quinn was experimenting with Brandon too, but father and son had never discussed these things openly.

'I wonder if Quinn is fucking him too?' Greg thought to himself. 'With a nice big cock like that he certainly could.'

Quinn could not mask his fear as he and Brandon were separated and made to stand on small platforms in front of the punishment frames. His sensitive blue eyes darted about up and down, left and right as he studied the scary-looking machine to which he would soon be attached. Over the next few seconds a series of medical scanners and electronic eyes measured his height, his weight, his body mass and his current vital signs. All of this data was fed into the artificial intelligence system that controlled the robotic arms of the machine. Brandon bore a considerably more stoic expression as he stood there on his own platform. He looked around more slowly, more deliberately, finally resting his eyes on his master Greg. His expression bore no malice. The boy was incapable of such wickedness, but neither was there any sign of contrition. He lowered his head quickly and never looked up again.

Quinn knew his father was there watching, but avoided looking at him for fear he might give himself away as a free boy.

With all of their physical data fed into the computer, the boys were forced onto their hands and knees and made to crawl into the bondage frames. Their wrists and ankles were quickly locked in place. The guards were experienced and well-trained and swiftly had the boys anchored to their respective punishment frames. Quinn closed his eyes as he felt the leather belt being tightened around his torso and adjusted to that he was pulled slightly upward against the frame. His collar was secured next. Quinn was completely immobilized. He could move his shoulders a bit and wiggle his fingers and toes and that was the limit of the movement he would be allowed during the duration of his punishment. Brandon was bound in identical fashion. Unable to turn their heads, the boys could not look at each other. Their only view was down at the steel mesh platform on which they waited on all fours for their punishment to begin. If he bent his head down as far as the chains would allow, Quinn could manage to see between his legs. His caged-cock was dangling there. It was still painfully swollen, and there was a little dribble of pre-cum hanging from the end of it. Quinn had often seen Brandon's cock in this condition but had never considered how cruel it was to lock up a boy's penis like this to keep him from getting hard.

With the boys secured, the guards departed. The door slid closed. The entire session was now pre-programmed. There was an operator in a central control center who could bring a stop to the program in an emergency, but such events rarely ever occurred. An articulate but clearly artificial voice spoke to the boys over the loudspeaker. The witnesses in the observation area could hear it as well.

'Van Doorn, Brandon. Slave. Fourteen years of age. Van Doorn, Quinn. Slave. Twelve years of age. You are here to be punished. You will not be released from the frames until your punishment is concluded. You will be shown no mercy. What follows is for your own good. Learn from your suffering and become a better servant to your masters. Your punishment begins when the timer reaches zero.'

In the floor, beneath the steel mesh, both boys could see a small digital timer counting down from sixty seconds. As it did so, they could hear but not see the movement of the robotic arms as it positioned itself for the first part of their punishment. The clocks quickly counted down to zero.

'Stage one. Punishment Enemas.'

Brandon let out a sharp high-pitched scream and bucked wildly against his bonds as the precision gripper on the robotic arm closed around his butt-plug and pulled it out of him in a swift single mechanical motion. Having not been plugged, Quinn was lucky enough to be spared this first taste of pain.

Greg watched from behind the glass as the two robotic arms swung into motion, closing their grippers on pre-selected enema nozzles already attached to the ends of thick black hoses. Brandon's nozzle was considerably larger and longer than the one Quinn was about to receive, but Quinn's experience was by no means going to be easy. A secondary arm applied a small amount of lubricant to the boys' exposed rectums and then the nozzles were quickly inserted.

Brandon moaned plaintively. He was used to having things stuck in his butt, so this was nothing terribly new. Quinn on the other hand shrieked in terror, clamping down hard on the rubber bit in his mouth, as the enema nozzle was forced all the way inside him in a single relentless motion. The twelve-year-old started crying immediately and his young cock attempted to grow even harder than it already was, pressing against the bars of the cock-cage, the spiked ring digging deeply into the shaft of Quinn's boyhood.

Once the nozzles were inside the boys' butts, they began to inflate to ensure that they would not come back out. Bigger and bigger they got, causing more and more pressure on the boys' immature prostates. Quinn and Brandon both felt like they were going to be ripped in half and both of them now sported cocks that were leaking continuous streams of pre-cum. Quinn was sobbing now. Brandon had tears in his eyes too, but was determined not to cry out. The only dignity a naked slave boy has is in not showing his emotions, in being strong and brave and bearing his suffering in silence.

The nozzles firmly seated, the hoses now dangling from the boys' butts, the first enema began. Ice cold and soapy. Meant to be torturous and painful. When the water first started to flow, Quinn didn't feel much of anything at all. He gasped and instinctively clenched his butt, but otherwise had no reaction. As his bowels began to fill however, the twelve-year-old started feeling more and more pressure, more and more discomfort. His body temperature began to drop and he started to shiver. Then the first of the cramps hit. It did not take long with the soapy solution inside him. He grunted into his bit and then let out a loud scream as one cramp after another racked his eighty-five pound [40 kg] body.

And the water kept flowing. Filling both boys' guts full to bursting. When it finally stopped, Quinn and Brandon both had distended bellies and were moaning and whining into their bits. The hoses fell free with automated quick-releases, leaving the inflated nozzles in the boys' butts, forcing them to hold the huge soapy enemas inside. The digital clocks lit up again and started counting down from five minutes. Quinn had never experienced so much agony in all his young life. Brandon was struggling now as well. Tears were streaming freely from his soft hazel eyes.

Greg could hear the boys moaning and sobbing whining over the speakers.

When the timer hit zero, the robotic arms swung in and pulled out the plugs. From overhead the shower system started up immediately, blasting tepid water over the boys' backs. Brandon, experienced with enemas, managed to keep his water in for a few seconds after the nozzle came out. Quinn lost control instantly. A flood of dark brown fluid poured out of his butt, carried away down the drains by the powerful stream of water raining down from overhead. Three, four, five times his bowels released, each one accompanied by a grunt and anguished groan from the twelve-year-old boy. Brandon was now loosing his bowels too. The water continued to hose them down until all of their waste had been washed away. Then, the nozzles were reinserted, the hoses re-attached and another round of enemas began.

The boys experienced three more enemas each, all of them just as large and cold and soapy as the first one. They were both sobbing crying wrecks by the end of it. Brandon had given up any pretense of bravery and silence and was whining and shrieking every bit as loudly as Quinn.

One last blast from the showers and the naked boys were left dripping wet and shivering and awaiting the second phase of their punishment, which commenced immediately.

'Stage two. Spanking.'

Before the actual spanking began, the robotic arms each swung around to a small storage rack and selected two identical butt-plugs for the two sobbing boys. Made of latex and cock-shaped and very thick even at the point where they tapered down for the boys' little rings to clench around them. Quinn's was pink in color, though he could not see it. Brandon's was the more traditional black. Plugged continually since he was eight years old, and regularly fucked by his elder master, Brandon's only reaction as the large punishment plug was forced inside him was to let out a soft high-pitched whimper. His cock was presently straining inside its tiny little cage.

Quinn, as a free boy, had never had anything up his butt before. His very first butt-plugging was accompanied by heart-wrenching screams from the twelve-year-old. Quinn's father had to look away, unable to watch his naked son writhing and struggling against his bonds, trying not to focus on the boy's pitiable cries. He focused his attentions instead on Brandon. He did not feel quite the same sense of guilt and sorrow for Brandon's ordeal. The boy was a slave and in serious need of preventative correction. A full-fledged teenager now, Brandon would likely start to get himself into trouble if proper discipline was not administered on a regular basis from this time forward. Greg knew that Brandon was a good boy, that any misdeeds or misbehavior would merely be the results of puberty and raging adolescent hormones, but that did not excuse them, especially not in a slave. While his son continued screaming as the machine relentlessly forced the plug into his tight virgin boy-hole, Greg watched as Brandon accepted his plug with only a mild trembling. He noted how hard the slave boy's little cock was inside its cage and how profusely it was dripping. The big plug slid right in and Brandon's sphincter closed around it, a nice snug fit. The plug was indeed thicker than any Brandon was used to, forcing his little ring to remain stretched uncomfortably.

The artificial intelligence running the entire program had come to a momentary impasse with Quinn. It was quite obvious that so huge a plug was never going to go into so small a boy, especially one who was completely virginal. After a brief moment, but an eternity for a computer, the arm swung round, set the first butt-plug down and selected a second one, smaller and somewhat lesser in thickness, and also pink in color. This one went it with relative ease, although poor Quinn was still shouting and bucking wildly against the restraints. Brandon was used to being plugged and on some occasions even found it pleasurable. Quinn had no such thoughts of pleasure, at least at first, as the plug expanded his little poop-hole beyond its natural elasticity. The pain was terrible. Tearing him open. The pressure on his inside-parts was overwhelming. He felt a burning sensation way up there inside him and then a strange tingling deep in his ripe twelve-year-old balls that did not go away.

Quinn began to pant. Sweat was pouring down his lightly freckled face. He was aware that his cock was swelling harder and harder, constrained and unable to erect itself by the cage locked around it. It hurt, but it was also turning him on. The harder his penis got, the more it pressed against the bars of the cock-cage, the more the nasty spikes dug in to the base of his smooth young penile shaft, the harder his penis wanted to get. He was hurting and humiliated, but he was hornier than he had ever been in his twelve years.

Brandon was horny too, but he always was, never with any hope of getting relief. Only his regular milkings at the hands of his master, and an occasional nocturnal emission (for which he was always punished) gave him even the slightest respite from his constant need to cum. His cock and balls were small for a boy his age, but they were those of a healthy fourteen-year-old boy. They were constantly full and constantly aching to be drained.

Once both boys were plugged, the robotic arm swung around yet again and selected the next implements of their punishment. Two identical aluminum paddles with holes drilled in them to correct for wind resistance. The machine was capable of generating a spanking force and speed of superhuman quality.

There was no timer this time to give the boys warning. The only indication that the spanking was about to start was the ominous pressurizing of the system's hydraulics. The specialized spanking arm on each machine moved effortlessly into place behind the helpless and exposed rear ends of the two naked boys.

An experienced slave, Brandon had an instinctual sense of what was about to happen. He closed his hazel eyes tightly and stiffened his body for the first blow. He made a loud grunting noise for Quinn's benefit, hoping his young master would take the hint.

Quinn, innocent in such things sadly did not. The first blow fell on both of their smooth and perfect young rumps in precise synchrony. Brandon let out a low grunt and tightened his muscles even further. The force of the blow actually pushed him forward in the frame, only for a moment before the restraints pulled him back. Quinn shouted himself nearly hoarse on the first blow. Lights flashed in front of his tightly clenched eyes. The pain shot through his middle and practically up his spine.

"Nnnnnooooo!" he shouted again into his bit, but what everyone heard was simply a pitiable cry that more resembled the sound an animal might make.

From the observation area, Greg sat back in his chair and forced himself to relax. The spanking was going to be severe, and it would end with Brandon receiving three strikes with a cane that would scar his butt permanently, leaving a lifelong reminder of the price of disobedience, however harmless it may have been. Greg had agonized over that decision. Brandon was a good kid and good little slave, most of the time, but he felt the need to send a message the boy would not forget. He was reaching a dangerous age, and his ability to manipulate Quinn without even thinking or trying was troublesome. Greg knew Brandon wasn't doing it on purpose, but he was almost two years older than Quinn, and the natural pecking order of young boys meant that Quinn, a master, often deferred to his teenaged slave boy. Older slave boys can often lead their younger masters into trouble. Before that could happen, Brandon needed a serious and lasting reminder of his place in the Van Doorn house. It was best for all of them this way, and especially for young Quinn, who would probably never have the strength to truly be Brandon's master.

That had been Greg's reasoning, and it had seemed sound, until Quinn had boldly insisted on sharing Brandon's punishment and experiencing a slave boy's existence for himself. Now, as Greg watched the two boys, he had the discomforting thought that it might well have been two slave boys suffering in that cold sterile room, rather than Brandon and his son.

Through the viewing window the spanking continued. Brandon and Quinn were both yelling and yelping with each blow, then whining and moaning plaintively as they waited for the next one to fall. Both boys felt as if their butts were on fire. Brandon's was already a dark shade of purple. Quinn's, paler of skin, was a blazing crimson. Bruises were already beginning to appear on the boys' butts. Every third or forth blow was targeted specifically at their butt-plugs or at their dangling hairless ball-sacks. These blows were lighter, but no less painful, striking the boys on their most tender parts.

"Aaaaiiiggh!" Quinn shrieked as his balls were hit again.

"Gggghhhh!" Brandon growled, his voice skipping an octave as his swinging ball-sack received the same treatment.

The spanking lasted for another twenty minutes. By the end of it the boys were both senseless, choking on their tears, snot dripping from their noses, drool dribbling from their mouths, both with a long string of pre-cum clearly visible hanging from their caged cocks. Racked with sobs, they both took heaving breaths. Quinn was exhausted. Were it not for the leather belt around his torso, he would not have been able to support his own weight. Brandon was nearing the end of his strength too. Unfortunately for them both, the finale of this portion of their punishment still lie ahead. For Quinn it meant three additional strokes with a solid wooden paddle, delivered with great force. For Brandon, it meant the cane. Three strokes. And three permanent scars on his teenaged butt to remind him of the price of disobedience.

The boys were given a few moments rest while the articulated arms of the machines selected the proper implements for their respective tortures, and the computer calculated the maximum safe force to be applied to each boys' backside.

Another five second countdown appeared on the digital timers. Brandon braced himself. He'd never been caned before. Master Greg and Master Quinn often used a riding crop on his butt and thighs, and he innocently assumed it would feel just the same.

Quinn had already learned a quick lesson from last time and stiffened his body in anticipation of the final three blows. He managed to turn his head just enough to see Brandon out of the corner of his eye. The young slave was looking straight down at the floor, his eyes tightly closed, already biting down hard on his bit. Quinn decided to mimic the older boy and bit down hard just as the ominous sound of the hydraulics kicked in.

'Here it comes,' Quinn thought.

His butt was already so sore and warm and tingly and bruised and almost numb that the first strike of the paddle barely registered for the first few seconds. What did register was the whishing sound of the cane hitting Brandon's butt and Brandon's shrill gut-wrenching wail immediately after.

Quinn had never heard Brandon make a sound like that before. It was terrible. And then the pain from his own paddling hit him full force, shooting up his spine and driving him forward in his restraints.

Several seconds passed. The machines hissed again as they repressurized for the second stroke. This time the impact of the paddle was felt by Quinn immediately. His butt was inflamed now and the force of the blow actually took his breath away for a moment.

Brandon let out another pathetic screeching wail, his voice breaking awkwardly, as the cane slashed across his cute little fourteen-year-old butt. He had never felt so much pain, so quickly, so deeply, so perfectly administered, in all his life. The slave boy was sure there was no way he could take another one. He began to beg and shout through his bit gag, but the sounds he made were unintelligible. He could barely see for the tears clouding his eyes.

Again there was a brief reprieve while the system reset itself for the final strokes. Quinn was wiggling and writhing in his bonds, straining to break free, so much so that the computer had to remind him to be still. It did so by sending a short mild burst of electricity through the frame the bound him. The artificial voice of the computer sounded over the speaker system.

'Van Doorn, Quinn. Slave. Twelve years of age. You will be still. You will receive two additional strokes for moving.'

A vengeful computer. What an incredibly clever idea. Quinn shrieked and pissed himself when the jolt of electricity hit him and he was till peeing uncontrollably when the third stroke landed simultaneously on both boys' bruised and battered butts. Quinn shouted and moaned. Brandon, overwhelmed by the pain of his final blow, blacked out for a moment.

'Van Doorn, Quinn. Slave. Twelve years of age. You have urinated without permission. You will receive two additional strokes for urinating.'

If he weren't in such miserable agony, Quinn would have been mad at this injustice. As it was he steeled himself for the four additional strokes he'd earned. The machine administered them in quick succession, and they were not quite as strong as the first three for risk of causing the boy permanent damage.

The machines hissed as the hydraulics temporarily shut down and the robotic punishment arms returned to their neutral positions.

Brandon was still unconscious when the showers started again, blasting the boys with a torrent of frigid water. He awoke with a terrified shout as the icy shower began to pour over his naked body. The water was so cold that when it came in contact with their bruised and battered butts it initiated a new round of anguish for them both. For an instant Brandon didn't know where he was or what was happening to him, then it all flooded back and he started to cry. He'd promised himself that no matter how bad things got, he would not cry like a little kid, but here he was sobbing and sniffling anyway. He finally gave into it and just let himself cry. There was really no point in trying to be brave. It would gain him nothing.

The shower ran for five minutes this time. The boys were shivering violently and sniffling and snuffling when the water finally cut off. The boys were given no further rest. The final phase of their punishment was set to begin.

'Stage three. Milking.'

Quinn of course did not yet know what that term meant, or what was in store for him. Brandon on the other hand did and it only made his tears fall that much harder.

Greg had just started milking the boy about a year ago, when Brandon first started growing hair above his little cock. Now, once every two weeks, Brandon would be chained to the floor down in the basement, on his hands and knees while Master Greg inserted a long stubby dildo into his butt and worked it in and out, in and out, slowly, methodically. Brandon would moan and sigh, feeling pleasure in spite of himself, at least at first. That insistent burning tingly sensation that he always endured to some degree thanks to his butt-plug, but when he was milked it was stronger, deeper, maddening and a just a little scary. Master would gently grasp the boy's caged genitals and tug on them insistently. Brandon's little slave cock was always stiff and painfully swollen inside its confining cage. It only took a few minutes for the boy to start leaking prodigious amounts of pre-cum. Getting Brandon to actually spill his teenaged seed without ejaculating however could sometimes take half an hour or more, resulting in a boy who was absolutely wrecked emotionally and physically. He had learned to endure this quietly, only a soft whimper here or there would escape his throat.

Greg was measured and methodical when he performed this task. Draining the young teen's balls on a regular basis was important to Brandon's health, but in no way were the boy's milkings meant to be pleasurable, and Greg took meticulous care to ensure that Brandon never had an accidental orgasm. Through trial and error, Greg had learned that two weeks seemed to be the optimal window between milkings, ensuring that the boy remained sexually frustrated at all times, but keeping unwanted nocturnal emissions to a bare minimum.

When Brandon's sperm finally began to dribble out of him it was always accompanied by a throaty boyish grunt. For a boy with rather small genitals, he was capable to producing an enormous quantity of fresh-smelling milky-white boy juice. Greg could normally get five or six dribbling pleasureless emissions from the boy before Brandon went completely dry. The last few were always somewhat painful for the young slave boy, causing his balls to ache. Brandon would then have his plug reinserted, be released from his chains and set about finishing his chores for the day. And in two weeks the ordeal would all happen again.

Now Brandon was facing another milking, this time by a machine. He had no clue exactly how it would be done, but he was certain it was going to awful.

And he was quite right.

He and Quinn both yelped when their punishment-sized butt-plugs were removed. Their empty boy-holes were immediately filled by two identical anal probes, Quinn's perhaps a bit smaller than Brandon's. The probes were articulated, allowing them to twist, bend, turn and expand inside the boy's bodies. Unlike the milkings given him by his master, this one was going to get right down to business. The probes immediately located the boys' prostates and began rapidly massaging them, poking them, prodding them. The probes began to spin and twist and started to move in and out of the twelve and fourteen-year-olds' well greased and well opened rectums. Having been fucked regularly since he was ten years old, Brandon was considerably looser than Quinn and felt no real pain as the probe violated him. Quinn on the other hand, with his tight virginal twelve-year-old anal ring, was screeching and straining against his restraints, every raping thrust of the probe causing flashes before his eyes and sending jolts of pain throughout his eighty-five pound [40 kg] body.

The machines were fast and efficient, as they were designed to be when carrying out this particular function. It was only a matter of minutes before the perpetually horny Brandon began grunting and groaning and spilling his adolescent seed onto the steel mesh of the platform. It came out of him in large creamy globs. There was not even a hint of an orgasm or even the slightest sense of pleasure. Brandon was sobbing fitfully now as his young balls were thoroughly and agonizingly drained.

Quinn, who had jerked off earlier that morning, was proving to be a bit more of a difficult subject for the machine. The milking probe continued whizzing and whirring and thrusting and prodding. It was relentless. Quinn began to feel an odd sensation deep inside him, almost like it was in his belly, but not really. Then he gasped in anguish as a small meager amount of his pre-teen spunk traveled slowly through his caged penis and oozed out of him.

'What the hell!!' Quinn thought as he looked between his legs and saw his boy-juice coming out of him. No cum. No fun. Nothing but that horrible churning and burning in his young balls. 'Is this what dad's doing to Brandon? No wonder he begged me to take his cock-cage off 3; oh, man, there's more coming out of me 3; ' Quinn let out a high-pitched squeal as yet another glob of boy-sperm trickled out his cock. This time it was very white and very thick and it felt to Quinn as it if had been forced out from way deep inside him. He started crying. The sensation was just too much for the brain of a twelve-year-old boy to process.

Ten minutes later and Brandon and Quinn had both been milked dry.

'Punishment session over.'

The machines stopped. The probes pulled out. The butt-plugs were immediately forced back in. Once again the showers started, washing away the seed the two boys had been forced to spill against their will. The door to the room opened, and the guards came in. The miserable, beaten, shivering boys were released from the restraints and made to stand up on their wobbly legs. Both of them were exhausted, with red eyes swollen from crying. Brandon was still dizzied by the pain shooting up from his caned backside. Quinn was still dazed by the emotional and physical anguish of being milked. Simply walking was difficult for them both, but the guards showed no sympathy.

The young slave and his young master were chained together by their collars once again and marched out of the room and back to the cramped stinking holding pens where they would be processed for release to their master.

Greg remained in the observation area for a few minutes as the rest of the witnesses filed out. He was trying to make sense of everything he'd seen and everything he'd felt as he watched his two boys, one his son, the other his slave, being punished. It was terrible and heartbreaking, but also arousing and tantalizing. Seeing them both when they were marched in, naked and chained together, bits in their mouths, cages encasing their young boy-cocks (Quinn's so much larger than Brandon's, even though he was younger), numbers scrawled in grease-pen across their chests, shackles at their feet. His son and his slave, so much alike. So much alike.

Hearing their boyish screams, hearing their young voices break as they went hoarse from yelling and begging, watching the boys' hairless naked bodies covered in sweat, or dripping with ice cold water from the showers, watching them heave and tremble and strain against their restraints, their fine young muscles pulling and flexing. Watching as their adorable little boy-toes curled when the plugs, probes and nozzles were shoved mercilessly up their butts. Watching as the boys were milked. Seeing young Quinn endure this for the first time in his life, his fresh young boy-cum coaxed so relentlessly and so unwillingly from his ripe twelve-year-old balls. Staring at the incredible amount of spunk that Brandon's small genitals had managed to produce.

He loved these boys, each in their own way, but this was simply the hottest thing he'd ever witnessed. The erection in his pants was throbbing. Brandon's mouth would be taking care of that as soon as they got home 3; or perhaps Quinn's? Now that was an interesting idea 3;