Istari

Tales from a World of Slavery 4:

Educating Quinn

I. Lessons

Another of the facility's young steward slaves approached Greg before he left the viewing area of the discipline room where Brandon and Quinn had just received their punishments. This one was younger than the strapping teen who had escorted him here earlier. The boy was small and slim, and could not have been more than eleven years old. Like his older counterpart his hair was shaven to a short stubble. His green eyes were lively and indicated the presence of a playful personality. The boy wore the same gray jock-strap, and bore the same tattoos the older steward had worn, clearly the standard uniform of the slave boys here. He was small even for eleven and unmistakably pre-pubescent. The front of his jock held an adorably tiny bulge.

He bowed clumsily and in a high soft voice he spoke. "Sir, your slaves are back in the holding pen, sir, and they will be processed for release and brought out to shipping dock eleven. I will escort you there, sir, if you will follow me out to the car-park, please, sir."

"Lead the way, young man," Greg said as he followed the little boy out of the room and down the long impersonal corridors of the government facility. Wearing nothing but a jock-strap, the young slave's cute little butt was on display to Greg's increasingly hungry eyes. Two small little cheeks, perfectly flawless and yet to be marked by whips or canes. The boy's somewhat awkward gait indicated he was still getting used to the latex plug seated firmly in his rectum.

'He must be a new one,' Greg thought to himself as the little slave shuffled along ahead of him, his ankles shackled and joined by a short length of chain.

Greg followed the boy outside. The place was considerably quieter here in the late afternoon than it had been on their arrival. Only a few cars remained in the visitors' lot. The little steward seemed impressed by the Van Doorn family's luxury sedan. He dutifully directed Greg to the shipping and receiving docks then bowed again and scurried back into the building as fast as his chained ankles could carry him.

As Greg started the car a nagging worry came to his mind. He'd hoped that he would have seen John by now, or that John himself, as the facility administrator, would have personally arranged to return the boys to him in a more private setting. Now here he was retrieving them both as common chattel. Common chattel is exactly what Brandon was, at least legally speaking. But with Quinn involved, things were a little more complicated than they otherwise should have been. Greg assumed John would be there when he got to the loading dock, but when he arrived there only several guards of the Slave Processing and Discipline Center were present with numerous naked boys crammed into a small holding cage. Greg's heart sank. Something was wrong. Without John, the charade of Quinn as a slave would have to continue.

"Picking up, sir?" one of the guards asked as Greg pulled into one of the loading spaces.

"Yes," Greg replied, swallowing hard. He presented the guard with two sets of papers. The first the legitimate documents of enslavement for Brandon, the second the ones forged by John to allow Quinn to share Brandon's punishment. Greg suppressed a growing fear. If Quinn's documents were discovered to be fakes, it could lead to all sorts of terrible consequences. Where the hell was John?

The guard examined both sets of papers. The silence that followed was almost more than Greg could stand. "One moment, please, sir," the guard said, clearly giving Quinn's papers a second glance. "You're missing a judicial signature here, sir. Highly unusual, but it does happen from time to time. I'll need to clear this with administration before I can release this boy to you."

Greg feigned surprise and concern and nodded curtly. The guard went back to his desk and picked up the phone. In the meantime, Greg scanned the holding cage looking for his boys. Brandon's tall stature and blonde hair made him easy to pick out of a crowd of sweaty miserable naked slave boys. And there, pressed next to him, looking bewildered, confused and exhausted was Quinn.

A few moments later the guard hung up the phone and called for the release of the two slaves held under intake number '2409'.

The cage was opened, the twelve boys held within it were roughly sorted and shuffled around until the correct ones were identified and pulled out. Brandon and Quinn were each given a jolt from the guards' cattle-prods and shuffled forward chained together by the collars around their slender necks. Both of the naked boys had large bit-gags in their mouths and red-rimmed eyes, but neither of them was crying at the moment. Upon seeing his father, Quinn started to tremble and tear up and moved as if to rush toward him, clearly in need of a hug and ready for his little performance as a slave boy to end. Greg glared at him and shook his head, hoping the boy would get the point and that the guards would interpret the silent message as disapproval for a misbehaving slave. Quinn was a bright boy and quickly resumed his quiet place next to Brandon.

"Sir, if you would simply make a visual confirmation for us that these boys are your slaves, and that they have been punished according to your desires, we can release them to your custody immediately."

Greg made quick work of the inspection. He noted, with some sympathy, the three angry red welts across Brandon's butt. They would heal, but leave the boy permanently marked. He cupped his hand and rested it gently against the fourteen-year-old's behind. Brandon hissed and whimpered, but aside from that he made no further sound or motion. He was a well-trained boy and kept his agony and shame to himself. Greg next turned his attention to his son. Twelve-year-old Quinn's butt was a dark shade of crimson and would bruise to a deep purple before the day was over, but there would be no lasting testament to his ordeal in the punishment room. He couldn't help but notice that Quinn's ample penis was presently swollen in a futile attempt to erect itself within the cock-cage. This was not the first time Greg had spotted this phenomenon.

"These are my boys," he said to the guard as he was handed the official release papers.

"You really should have this one branded, sir," the guard said, pointing to Quinn. Brandon had been marked on his left buttocks with the Van Doorn seal on the day of his enslavement at the age of eight.

Greg gave Quinn a long dark look. "Yes, I should. He's still relatively new and I'm not sure if I'll be holding on to him or not."

"Sensible. Still it is always wise to mark your property. Are you satisfied with the services you received here today?"

"Absolutely. Thank you."

The guards escorted Greg and the two slave boys out to his car and waited while Greg unlocked the small transport cage. The shackles, the collar around Quinn's neck, and the chain that connected the boys together were all removed as property of the county. Quinn's eyes flashed a moment of hope, but his spirits quickly sank when his father produced one of Brandon's spare leather collars from the back seat of the car and placed it around Quinn's slender neck. He stared long into his son's eyes. Quinn trembled and let out a soft moan as his penis continued to strain within the tight confines of the cock-cage. Greg yanked the collar tight, causing the twelve-year-old to yelp. He gave the boy a little slap on the cheek before buckling the slave collar and attaching the padlock.

There was only one ball-gag for two boys. The one Brandon always wore while being transported in the cage. Greg gave the fourteen-year-old slave explicit orders not to speak and inserted the gag into Quinn's mouth. The look of dismay and confusion on the twelve-year-old's face was adorably arousing.

Greg was now presented with the problem of how to fit both boys into the cage of the slave trailer. As Greg was visualizing the best way to cram two naked boys into the small cramped space, the guard presented to Greg the keys to the chastity device Quinn was still wearing.

"If you want to keep it, we can add it to your bill. We can always credit your account if you wish to return it later."

Having noticed Quinn's ongoing reaction to the cock-cage, Greg made the decision to hold on to the devious little device and keep his son's penis locked up for a while longer.

Greg opened the cage door and the guard helped him push both boys into the cage. Quinn was put in first, Brandon was then shoved in beside him. After they were packed tightly into the small cage, on their hands and knees and side by side, Greg shackled Brandon's left ankle to Quinn's right. He smiled at the sight of two well-punished little butts and hairless dangling ball-sacks. Before closing the door, he gave them both a quick swift swat on their already aching rear ends.

Greg checked his watch as he made his way to the car. 4pm. Traffic would be starting to pick-up on the main highways, so he made the decision to drive through town and then take the back roads to the family estate. This meant that his son would be paraded down the street in public view, chained as a slave to another slave in a slave trailer. Greg's thoughts were only that this would further teach Quinn a lesson. He did not consider the deeper consequences of presenting Quinn to the world at large as a slave boy.

On the bumpy ride back to the Van Doorn family estate, both boys yelped and groaned as they were jarred around inside the cage. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the two boys felt and shared every bump, twist and turn of the ride back home. Quinn had assumed he'd be dressed and sitting beside his father in the front seat again. Now here he was in a slave transport cage, naked, chained, his cock locked up, and with Brandon's ball-gag stuck in his mouth. As each mile passed, he hoped his father would stop the car, let him out of the cage, take that thing off his dick, give him back his clothes and let him sidle back into the passenger seat. But it didn't happen. The boy's mind was racing as he craned his neck and saw that the car had made the turn onto the long drive that led up the main house.

The Van Doorn's had been in the area for many generations, their family name carried a certain influence, and the family's winery, two centuries old, was one of the most renowned in the valley. In the decades since the reinstitution of slavery, the family fortunes had grown even greater. Why pay workers to pick grapes, when dozens of young boys in chains can do the job far more cheaply.

As the car pulled up to the house, Quinn sighed and relaxed for the first time since the ride began. He was still worried and wondering when his dad was going to take off the collar and chains. He was aching and tired and all he wanted to do was get a warm bath and then crawl into his soft bed. At the same time, he was a bright and sensitive boy. He'd asked for this and now, for the first time in his life, he was beginning to understand what it was like for Brandon. He looked over at the older boy, but Brandon's eyes were focused on the floor of the trailer. In fact Brandon had not made eye contact with him since they'd been taken from the punishment room.

As Greg got out of the car, he noticed his overseer James Milstead bringing four teenaged boys back from the vineyards. They were all between thirteen and fifteen years of age, all naked, all with thin lean wiry bodies bronzed by exposure to the sun. The boys were chained together by their necks and ankles. They were dirty and sweaty, their legs, arms and hands scraped and cut from working since dawn amongst the vines. Their young cocks were caged in just the way Brandon and Quinn's were.

"Come on, you filthy beasts, double time," the overseer cracked a whip several times, hitting the boys' backs or thighs. He brought the team of boys up swiftly and called them to a halt in front of Greg, their master.

"Afternoon, James," Greg said as he stepped from the car.

The young slave boys are panting and gasping for breath, their eyes cast to the ground as their masters speak. Over the years, Greg has learned to leave the daily running of the estate to James. He neither knew, nor cared if any of these boys had names. He recognized two of them as having been on the estate since they were nine or ten years old, the other two might be new purchases, or trades from another estate. Overseers are always exchanging livestock.

"Good afternoon, Greg," James replied. "Hot one today". He and Greg have known each other since childhood, James' family being in the employ of the Van Doorns since their grandfathers' day.

"Good for the malbec," Greg observed, as he turned his face to the gentle wind blowing down into the valley.

"Absolutely. Need help with Brandon?" James eyes moved to the cage and instantly widened when he saw a second boy inside. "Did you buy another boy while you were in town?"

"Not exactly."

With the four slave boys still standing at attention under the blistering summer sun, Greg led James back to the trailer and unlocked the door. "Help me back them out, will you?"

"Sure thing, boss."

The boys were sweaty and sore and miserable and standing on wobbly tired legs. Quinn kept his head bowed, hoping that perhaps James Milstead wouldn't notice him. Suddenly brought to his feet after the rough jostling ride, the twelve-year-old promptly lost control of his bladder and peed onto the cobblestone driveway wetting James' shoes as well. He pressed his chin even closer to his chest.

"Just like all filthy slave beasts," James laughed, having seen this behavior many times before. "We'll beat that sort of thing out of him." Only then did he realize exactly who this particular filthy beast was. "Quinn?" James gasped, unable to contain his surprise.

Quinn nodded slowly and sniffled. At that moment the boy wished there was a hole he could jump into and disappear. He'd never felt more embarrassed than right now, pissing on the driveway in front of Brandon, James and worst, his dad. Just like James said. Just like a filthy slave beast. But even Brandon had never done this!

"What's going on, Greg?" James asked, shocked and dumbfounded at what his eyes were seeing. "Nothing you need to worry about, Jim. Family business. Teaching the boy a lesson. His idea, actually."

James stared at Quinn for a moment. Surrounded by naked boys every day, he'd long fantasized about seeing Quinn van Doorn naked, and here he was right in front of him. Tight athletic little body, big cock and balls for a boy of twelve. Just the kind of boy James Milstead particularly enjoyed using and abusing. How many times had he seen the boy running around the estate and thought 'If only he was a slave?' and now, at least for all appearances, he was.

"Do me a favor," Greg continued, "take Brandon and Quinn into the stables with the other boys and clean them up. Send them up to the house when you're done."

"As you wish, boss." He gave Brandon a quick swat on his freshly caned butt. The slave boy kept his head bowed and made no sign of protest, but the blistering pain back there was terrible and he sniffled and blinked a few tears out of his eyes. James was privately delighted. He was seldom given the chance to 'handle' young Brandon, and in his opinion the boy had gotten a bit uppity lately. As the Van Doorn family house-boy he was rarely seen out in the vineyards or slave stables. Occasionally he'd be sent out for a whipping or a day of hard labor to remind him of his place, both of which James was only too happy to provide. And now fate had delivered the young teenaged slave, along with his young master, into the overseer's hands. It was doubly delightful. The naked and collared Quinn was adorably vulnerable and unquestionably sexy. The massive erection in James Milstead's jeans was obvious even to the relatively innocent twelve-year-old Quinn, who was presently staring at it with rather worried and awestruck eyes.

"Hey, don't worry, son," James said, tussling Quinn's sweaty unkempt blonde hair and placing a strong hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll save this monster for one of these filthy animals here," he pointed at the four young naked teens standing chained together by their collars. 'Pity though,' James thought to himself, but free boys were strictly off-limits, especially the sons of one's employer.

Milstead ordered Brandon and Quinn to stand behind the four other boys, and chained them by their collars to the line, Brandon first, then Quinn, still gagged, bringing up the rear.

Quinn had been in the stables many times. As the next heir to the family industry, he was already learning the skills he'd need to one day run the vineyard. An occasional visit to the stables was a natural part of his ongoing education. He'd always liked James, though in recent months he'd grown aware of the many long odd looks he'd get from the overseer, particularly on warm summer days when the boy would be shirtless, in cut-off shorts, and barefoot.

This visit to the stables though was going to be very different. He was still naked, still collared, still gagged, his penis still locked within its tiny metal cage. Degraded, exhausted, dirty. He looked just like the other boys chained in front of him. He was a slave. He locked his eyes on Brandon's butt as they walked, focusing on the three livid marks left by the cane. Boyish curiosity made him want to reach out and touch them, and he did.

Brandon hissed and yelped, and jumped forward, nearly knocking himself into the boy in front of him, and yanking Quinn forward in the process.

"No horseplay!" James shouted at Brandon, swatting him hard on the back of the head. "Move those lazy legs."

Inside the slave stables, Quinn could see that the remainder of the boys owned by his father had already been locked into their stalls for the night, all of them plugged, gagged and locked into various chastity devices. Quinn had never bothered to learn any of their names. It really wasn't important after all. Each boy had a number tattooed on his chest and on the front of his right thigh. That was the only means by which they were identified. As they marched past the line of stalls, Quinn turned his head left and right, looking into the occupied stalls at the naked boys chained inside.

The youngest boy was probably ten, the oldest around fifteen. All of them were essentially identical with their heads clean-shaven, their bodies completely hairless. Large heavy-gauge steel rings pierced their septums. Thick steel collars were around their necks. All of them were slender, lean, well-muscled creatures. They were livestock, but they represented a substantial investment for the estate. As such, James ensured they were well fed and healthy. A vet was called out every two weeks to examine them all and make sure they were still fit for hard labor. Sickly slave boys are bad for business, and those who couldn't put in a full day's work were either put down or quickly liquidated.

Some of the boys clearly recognized Quinn but their haunted eyes showed no real emotion and only the slightest hint of familiarity. They were treated like animals every waking moment, every sense of their humanity had been methodically stripped away, and so there was no surprise or sympathy or empathy to be shared or shown for Quinn van Doorn as he entered their world of slavery. He did not know their names, and it was just as likely they did not know his.

James ordered the marching line of boys to stop in the center of the stables. His own teenaged son Nathan was currently hosing out one of the empty stalls. They'd just sold off one of the lazier less useful boys to a nearby medical research facility.

"Nate, get over here and hose these beasts down," James said.

"Yes, sir," Nate replied in a soft broken adolescent tenor. The boy was thirteen, with long auburn hair and icy blue eyes. He was presently shirtless and wearing only a pair of tattered well worn blue jeans. He was tall for his age and somewhat gangly, thin and long and exceptionally fit. He worked hard here, just as hard as the slaveboys actually. He no longer went to school. The vineyards would be his life, as they had been his father's and his grandfather's. He dragged the heavy hose behind him and aimed up at the first of the sweaty dirty naked boys. Washing them down was one of his routine daily chores and at first he didn't notice anything unusual. Only after the first four boys were left sputtering and shivering and dripping did he come to the last two in the line. He stopped and stared for a moment, then looked at his father in confusion.

"None of our business, boy. Just hose him down like the rest of 'em."

"Yes, sir," Nate replied. He and Quinn had known each other all their lives. They had literally grown up together, but it could not be said that they were great friends. Quinn was the owner's son, heir to the estate and Nate's future employer. Even when they'd been little, there was always this gap of class and quality between the two boys. Nate's dad had made this very clear from the time his son was five years old. Families like the van Doorns don't socialize with the hired help. The boys would ride their bikes together, or go fishing in one of the many streams that ran through the property, but Nate always kept his father's advice close to heart. And so he always kept himself a bit aloof and distant in spite of Quinn's many attempts to strike up a deeper friendship.

Nate felt no particular joy, nor any particular sympathy, when he turned the hose on twelve-year-old Quinn and washed him down just as he had done the other slaves. At least not at first. Quinn shrieked into his gag as the frigid water hit him. Nate smiled and giggled, finding it amusing. As he continued to spray Quinn down with the hose, Nate became aware that he was starting to get hard down there. Very hard. He'd grown up around naked slave boys, but somehow seeing Quinn nude and chained and degraded like this was very different and making him feel very funny between his legs. Nate turned the hose on full blast now and aimed it right at Quinn's middle.

"That's enough, Nathan," James Milstead stepped in. "What have I told you about wasting water?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Nate made much quicker work of hosing Brandon down, all under his father's critical eyes. James noticed that his son was sporting an obvious and very large erection. He was of course proud that his thirteen-year-old was already hung like a man, but that was all the more reason to start keeping a tighter reign on him. James' big cock had gotten him into trouble and the result, predictably, was Nathan. He did not want his young son making the same mistakes.

'Gonna have to get a cock-cage for him,' he thought to himself, the idea making his own erection strain even harder inside his pants.

"Put these four back in their stalls," James ordered once Nate had finished with the hose, "then give the whole place a good flooding. Smells like piss in here today."

Of course the stables always smelled like piss, but that was his father's way of telling him he was unhappy with his performance and that some extra labor would help set him straight again.

"I'll take these two back up to the house."

James and his son worked together to remove the chains connecting all the naked shivering boys together. They left Quinn and Brandon chained by their collars. James was just about to lead the two boys back to the main house when he heard a high-pitched voice from behind.

"Quinn!? Jeezus-fuckin'-christ, it's true! My dad said he saw you 3; Dude, what's going on?!"

James could see the immediate look of dismay in Quinn's blue eyes and turned to find the lithe young dark-haired form of Joey Ridgeway standing at the entrance to the stables.

Joey was Quinn's schoolmate and best friend. He was twelve, like Quinn, but of a very different personality. Where Quinn was quiet, thoughtful, empathetic and sensitive, Joey was outgoing, daring, brash and bold to the point of arrogance. He dominated their friendship; often goading Quinn into doing things he knew were wrong or he really didn't want to do. There was a danger and wickedness about Joey that Quinn found inexplicably compelling. Greg had tried to limit Joey's influence on his son, but to no avail. Quinn had chosen this troublesome and often foul-mouthed boy as his best friend and that was the end of it.

Joey's presence right now though was the last thing Quinn wanted. If word of this got out around school, and with Joey's big mouth it surely would, life for Quinn was going to be a living hell!

Joseph Thomas Ridgeway III. His father owned Ridgeway Farms just down the road from the Van Doorn Vineyards. It was an enormous operation. The Ridgeway family had been buying up smaller farm operations since the days of Joey's granddad, and now they were the single largest private landowners in the state. Ridgeway Farms was also one of the largest private slave-holders around. Joey's dad presently owned over one hundred slave boys, and Joey himself, at the tender age of twelve was already an expert at handling, training and breaking the young human chattel that kept the family business thriving. Still not able to believe his eyes, he strode confidently forward into the Van Doorn stables to get a closer look.

Quinn looked up at James in desperation, but James knew his place as a mere employee. Until Greg van Doorn ordered this charade to end, it would have to continue. Quinn lowered his gaze to find Joey starting right at him with a wicked little smirk on his lips.

"It really is you, isn't it, Quinn?" Joey asked as he stood in front of his friend. Joey was a little bit bigger, a little bit stronger, a little bit taller, and Quinn adopted the submissive posture he always seemed to Joey's presence. With the ball-gag still in his mouth, he could not answer Joey's question. He merely nodded and tried to look away.

"I mean look at you!" Joey's voice squeaked. "Shit man, you are butt naked! And you got a slave collar. Damn, you've even got one of those cages around your wiener. My dad said he saw your dad driving you back through town in the slave trailer, said your butt was all red from bein' punished. Let me see it."

Quinn tried to prevent Joey from getting a look at his rear end, but Joey locked his hands on Quinn's shoulders, hissed at him to keep still, and peered around behind his friend's back. Sure enough, there was the black and blue bruising of a well-disciplined behind. It was a well accepted fact that only errant slave boys got punished in this manner.

"Yep, just like dad said." He swiftly turned his gaze to James Milstead. "Take his gag off so I can talk to him."

James was not accustomed to taking orders from twelve-year-old boys, but there was such a commanding look in Joseph Ridgeway's dark eyes that he felt compelled to do what the boy wanted. He loosened the strap that held the gag in Quinn's mouth and let it fall upon the boy's chest. Quinn's jaw was sore, but it didn't prevent him from speaking. His voice was hoarse from screaming his head off during his earlier punishment.

"It's not what you think, Joey," he said plaintively, his blue eyes begging his friend to just be cool for once and drop it.

"Well what is it then?" Joey replied. He pulled his cell-phone out of his pocket and started snapping pictures of Quinn naked, collared and chained.

"Stop that!" Quinn shouted trying to reach out and grab the phone.

"Hey, watch it!" Joey slapped Quinn's hands away. "Slaves don't talk to their betters that way. You should know that! Marc and Liam are gonna love seeing you like this." He took several more pictures, even kneeling down to get a close-up of the metal cage encasing Quinn's penis.

"Please, Joey. Don't."

Seeing Quinn so distressed, James, always loyal to the family that employed him, tried to intervene. "Why don't you run along home, Joey?"

Joey just glared at the Van Doorn's overseer and continued his inquisition undeterred.

"Tell me what happened," Joey demanded. "What did you do? It must'a been really bad! I mean, why would your dad make you into a slave?"

"He didn't! Honest," Quinn whined, getting close to tears now. "I was just fooling around."

Joey laughed. "No one fools around like that. You're a slave. Anyone can see that just by lookin' at you."

"I'm not!"

"You are. And slaves that lie get whipped, at least on our farm they do." He turned his eyes to Brandon. He knew Brandon just as well as he knew Quinn, as they were almost always together.

"Did he get punished with you at the training center today?"

Brandon cast his eyes to his feet.

"Answer me, slave!" Joey demanded.

"Yes, sir. Master Quinn was punished with me today."

"And did his dad make him ride back home in the slave trailer with you?"

"Yes, sir. Master van Doorn made Master Quinn ride in the trailer with me."

"Now look at him. What does he look like to you?"

Again Brandon hesitated.

"Do as you're told, boy!" twelve-year-old Joey shouted, his voice breaking.

Brandon turned and looked at Quinn, from head to toe, the answer was obvious. In a barely audible whisper, he answered. "He looks like a slave, sir."

"That's right, he does, 'cause that's what he is." Joey looked again at Quinn and his lips sneered. "I don't know what you did, and I guess you're too much of a shit to tell me the truth, but I don't waste my time with slave boys, so we're through. I'm gonna tell everyone what happened today."

He snapped a few more pictures with his phone then turned and walked back to where his bike was waiting propped against the door of the stables. James walked after him, leaving Brandon and Quinn standing alone.

"Sorry," Brandon said. "I had to answer him."

"I know. I think I'm in trouble, Brandon."

"Yeah."

The two boys watched as James spoke with Joey. They could not hear what was being said, but it was clear that Joey was getting angry. He looked back at them, shook his head, flipped Quinn his middle finger, then climbed on to his bike and sped off down the driveway.

"Well that was a disaster," James said as he returned to them. He gazed at them both, looking so much alike, and shook his head sadly. "You two have really made a mess of things today, especially you Quinn. Allowing yourself to be punished like a common slave. What where you thinking anyway?" He didn't give Quinn a chance to answer. No answer would have possibly been good enough. He took the ball-gag and forced it back into the twelve-year-old's mouth, strapping it tightly in place. Keeping the boys chained together he marched them back up to the house.

Quinn and Brandon stood side by side in the living room as Greg paced back and forth in front of them. James had relayed the story of Joey's appearance and his reaction to seeing Quinn as a slave.

"I told you this was a bad idea, Quinn," he said. "Why do I always let you have your way?"

"I'm sorry, dad," Quinn replied, finally freed of his ball-gag. "I just, I just wanted to know what it felt like."

Greg pointed at Brandon. "Well you could have just asked Brandon."

"That isn't the same."

Greg sighed and shook his head. "So Joey's dad saw you in the trailer?"

"Yeah, that's what he said. That's why he came over to see."

"And he took pictures of you?"

Quinn blushed a deep red and lowered his head. "Yeah. All of me."

The family shame should those pictures get out was something the elder Van Doorn could not bear to consider. As it was, that nagging worry at the back of Greg's brain was growing stronger. Joseph Ridgeway II, Joey's father, was not exactly a family friend. He'd made several attempts in the last year to buy large portions of the Van Doorn vineyards and had been none to pleased at Greg's continued refusals to negotiate. Greg did not consider him an enemy or a rival, but he was keenly aware that Ridgeway could and probably would cause them trouble over this little fiasco.

Greg's concern turned to anger. He stared at his naked son. "You're gonna stay that way all weekend, and you're going to sleep in Brandon's cage tonight."

Quinn swallowed hard and nodded slowly, accepting his fate and the fact that with his behavior today it was a punishment well deserved. One thing was really driving him crazy though. He stared down at his caged genitals. "Can you 3; can you take this thing off my dick?"

"No. You taking off Brandon's cock-cage was how all this got started in the first place. You're going to spend the night with your penis locked up. You're going to have one of his butt-plugs in you too. You want to know what it's like for him; well you're going to find out. Brandon, go to your room and bring me your nighttime plug."

Brandon nodded and ran down the hall to the small closet-sized room in which he slept. He crawled into his cage and grabbed the plug he wore to bed every night. He was back in front of his master moments later, offering up the plug as he'd done every night since we was eight years old.

"Bend over, Quinn."

Quinn sniffled but knew from the tone of his dad's voice that begging and arguing would do him no good. He turned his backside to his father and bent over, grabbing his ankles and waiting for the inevitable. He trembled as he looked between his hairless legs and saw his father putting a small amount of lube on the large bulbous plug. Quinn had put Brandon's plug in and pulled it out of him many times over the years, right here in the living room, but now he was the one being plugged. The shame and humiliation of being collared and naked in his own house was beyond belief, and yet his young cock was throbbing painfully inside its cage.

"Hold his shoulders for me, Brandon. Keep him still. And Quinn, I don't want to hear a peep out of you when I put it in."

"No, sir. I'll be quiet, sir."

Greg smacked his son hard on his already bruised and aching butt. "That was more than a peep. Keep quiet or I'll put the ball-gag back in. You've run your little mouth too much today already. You'll obey the same rules Brandon does about speaking out of turn."

Quinn sniffled again, but said nothing. He gasped when he felt the tip of the enormous latex plug pressing at his rectum. Brandon tightened his grip on his young master's shoulders.

"Spread your legs wider," Greg ordered.

"Don't fight it," Brandon whispered into his young master's ear, risking further punishment for himself.

Quinn obeyed both sets of orders and felt the gigantic invader sliding into him, filling him up in a very uncomfortable and yet very arousing way. His young penis immediately tried to harden inside the cock-cage and a large glob of pre-cum oozed out of him. Greg smacked him again, just lightly this time.

"Don't be dripping all over the floor. You're just as bad as Brandon."

Properly plugged now, Quinn was allowed to stand up.

"Walk around a bit until you get used to it," Greg told him.

Quinn obeyed, immediately realizing that every single step he took caused the plug to press on some magic spot inside him. His cock responded by leaking some more and trying in vain, again and again to get hard, constrained within the cruel confines of his chastity cage.

'This must be what Brandon feels every day,' the twelve-year-old thought as he staggered awkwardly around the living room. 'No wonder he begged me to take his cage off! I'm gonna go nuts if dad doesn't let me outta this thing soon!'

Once Greg was satisfied that his son had gotten the hang of walking around with the huge plug up his butt, and wasn't at risk of having a sloppy spontaneous orgasm, he sent Quinn off to clean the kitchen and the bathrooms, normally one of Brandon's daily chores. Left alone now with his master, Brandon kept his eyes on the floor and stood perfectly still and silent. Greg ran his hands over the fourteen-year-old's small imprisoned cock, up along his taut muscular abdomen, and swirled his fingers around the boy's nipples.

Brandon shivered and blushed and closed his eyes.

Greg worked his strong hands over the boy's shoulders and down his back, pausing before reaching the boy's battered rear-end.

"It's not that bad," Greg said to him. "The cane will leave a few scars, but you needed a reminder of your place, didn't you?"

"Yes, master," Brandon replied softly.

Greg pulled the boy closer. He could hear the boy's rapid anxious breathing. He gently guided Brandon's left hand to the hardness in his pants. Brandon looked up at him shyly as he touched his master's powerful erection. The boy had never been comfortable with the sexual aspects of being a slave, but he never resisted or refused.

"Pleasure me, boy."

"Yes, master." Brandon unbuttoned Greg's jeans, lowered the zipper and released his master's fat drooling cock. The boy dropped to his knees and took his master into his mouth, fighting the urge to gag. Despite years of forced practice and experience, Brandon remained awkward and sloppy at this particular skill, but in Greg's eyes it made him all the more adorable as the slender young teen struggled with the large throbbing manhood filling his throat.

Greg ran his fingers through Brandon's shaggy sandy hair, and found himself imagining it was Quinn there on his knees in front of him. It took him only a few moments to erupt into Brandon's mouth. The fourteen-year-old gulped and choked and swallowed as fast as he could. He faced severe punishment if he ever spilled a drop of his master's seed.

"Good boy," Greg said as he pulled Brandon back to his feet. "Now run along and give Quinn a hand with the chores. He's doing your job for you. Afterwards you can feed yourselves. Quinn can share your slave chow with you. Make sure he eats from your doggie dish on the floor."

Brandon wiped his cum-moistened lips with the back of his hand, returned to his feet and scurried off to find Quinn, always happy and relieved when his latest oral service to his master was over.

Later that evening, Greg sat in the kitchen and watched as the two naked boys on their hands and knees crowded over the dog dish, sharing a double portion of cold sloppy slave chow. Greg always fed Brandon with the vitamin and protein enriched 'vegan' formula, which kept the boy thin, lithe and lean. Brandon was used to its foul smell and fouler taste, but Quinn was not. He coughed and sputtered and sat up on his knees and gave his father a pleading look, one the boy knew from past experience would normally get him off the hook.

Greg sternly shook his head. "Not this time, boy. If it is good enough for Brandon seven days a week, it is good enough for you tonight. Now get your face down in that bowl and don't let me see it again until you've eaten your share."

"Yes, sir," Quinn answered softly, blushing red, his throat gagging at the smell but his tummy growling with that insatiable hunger only young boys can know.

Greg sat back idly, took a sip of wine and watched the boys eat on all fours as their caged cocks and balls dangled adorably between their slim hairless legs. Brandon's little slave cock was flaccid. Quinn's was swollen in yet another painful attempt to get hard. Greg stretched out his right leg and gently kicked at Quinn's balls with his bare foot. The boy groaned.

"Come on. I want to hear you slurping that stuff up."

Quinn pressed his face deeper into the nasty gruel and began lapping it up with increased, if forced, enthusiasm.

When they'd finished, Quinn remained on his knees, with his hands behind his head, and watched as Brandon again sucked Greg's cock to a loud and powerful orgasm.

As promised, Quinn slept in Brandon's tiny room that night, locked inside Brandon's cage. Brandon spent the night chained on the floor in front of his master's bed, silently crying himself to sleep after a hard rough fucking, his master's copious seed slowly oozing out of his sore and ravaged butt.

II. Consequences

"Good morning, John," the Van Doorn's overseer said, offering a friendly wave. After the events of yesterday, James was not entirely surprised to see him here. There was an unpleasant knot in his stomach, but it was not his place, nor his business to stick his nose in where it did not belong.

"Morning, James. I assume I'll find Greg at home."

James nodded, noticing the troubled expression on John Thompson's face. Greg and John were good friends, but it was obvious this was not going to be a social visit.

"Head on up, John. Somehow I think he'll be expecting you."

John's expression darkened. He clutched his briefcase a little more tightly and quickly headed past James and the two little slave boys tethered to the cart. James just shook his head, cracked his riding crop across the boys' butts and drove them out toward the steep hillside plantings. He knew the slave laws in this county, and throughout the state for that matter. It was a major part of job to know them. He certainly knew them better than Greg. And he knew that the conversation shortly to be happening up at the house was not likely to be a pleasant one.

"We've got a big problem, Greg," John said as he opened his briefcase and pulled out his notebook computer. He and Greg were currently in the Van Doorn office, John seated at Greg's desk, Greg standing at the window looking out over his family vineyards.

"I sort of thought we might," Van Doorn replied.

"So you know."

"I know Ridgeway saw Quinn in the slave trailer yesterday."

"That's just the start of it. Joseph Ridgeway has some powerful connections and he knows that Quinn was punished at the Processing Center yesterday. He's already demanded a copy of the registry documents."

"The ones we forged."

"Precisely. The ones without an official judicial signature. I can't stall him. Once he gets hold of them, he'll know they're illegal, and then we are all going down."

Greg turned from the window. "Why weren't you there yesterday afternoon when I picked them up? We could have ended the charade right there on the loading dock."

"I know, and I'm sorry. We had a malfunction in one of the punishment rooms. A slave boy nearly died. All I could do for you when I got the call from the loading dock was give a verbal approval to release the boys to you. I figured I could just, you know, misplace the paperwork later on and no one would ever know you and Quinn were there. How was I supposed to know you'd take the boys on a nice slow joy ride through town. For god's sake, Greg, the ramp to the highway is right off our main parking lot!"

"I know. Quinn wanted to know what its like, so I decided to show him."

"I really wish you hadn't done that. Ridgeway is not going to let this go."

"So what are we looking at here, John?"

John Thompson gazed up from his computer, where the forged documents were currently displayed. "A major scandal, Greg. The end of your vineyards to be sure; and quite possibly prison time for both of us."

"What can we do?"

"I can get a judge to sign these documents." John pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase, but made no further explanation as to what they contained. "That would make everything that happened yesterday perfectly legal, and it would stop any action against you by Joseph Ridgeway. But there will be consequences. Big ones. I think you should bring Quinn in here. He's a part of this too."

Greg nodded and went to fetch his son. When he returned with the boy, Quinn was still naked, collared, plugged and wearing his chastity device. The dark circles under his eyes indicated he'd not slept well in Brandon's cage. Brandon was with his two masters, trailing along obediently behind them, his eyes at his feet.

"Ironic he still looks like a slave," John said as he gazed at Quinn, "because he may well have to be one forever."

Quinn's blue eyes flashed. He stared first at John and then his dad in confusion, his mouth agape.

"What's he talking about, dad?"

John interjected, "I'm talking about a very serious crime, young man, in which you have played a major part. You do know impersonating a slave is illegal, don't you?"

"Kinda."

"And that it is against the law for a free-born boy to be punished at a designated slave discipline center?"

"I guess."

"Well it is. As is falsifying any documents pertaining to the enslavement of minor males. You're dad and I are guilty of the third one, Quinn. You are guilty of the first two. Brandon is complicit in all of them. Do you know the punishment for a minor slave boy found complicit in a crime of any kind?"

"No."

"Death by hanging."

Quinn began to tremble and gazed over at Brandon, tears quickly filling his eyes.

"You mean they're gonna 3; they're gonna kill him? Just 'cause I was pretending to be a slave?"

"If we don't do something, and fast, that's exactly what will happen. If we'd been able to keep this private, we wouldn't have any problems, but sadly you've been seen Quinn, in public, as a slave, by certain people who will not let this go. Your father would end up being sentenced to a minimum twenty years in prison. Brandon, in accordance with county law, will be publicly tortured for three days then hanged. And Quinn, you with your dad in jail, would be made a ward of the state and charged as a juvenile for all the crimes you managed to commit yesterday without even trying. You'd likely end up a slave until your eighteenth birthday."

Quinn and Greg stared at each other for a long moment, tears welling in the boy's young eyes, sympathy filling those of his father.

"I'm sorry, dad. I didn't mean to cause all this trouble."

"I know, son," Greg replied, gently running his hands over the twelve-year-old's bare shoulders. Brandon stood behind them both and sniffled softly.

Quinn turned to John Thompson and stood as tall as his four-foot-six-inch [1.37 m] frame would allow. "I don't want them to kill Brandon, sir. And I don't want my dad to go to jail."

"I don't want that either, Quinn," John answered, "but that means you have a choice to make. I can have the documents from your punishment legally ratified, but that means you'll be a slave. For real."

Quinn swallowed hard and slowly nodded his head. "I understand, sir."

"I don't think you do. Now listen closely, Quinn. There are only four reasons a pre-teen freeman can be made a slave.

• First. Parents can enslave their children through a slave agency putting them up for sale to the highest bidder at an auction. The term of slavery is for life.
• Second. The state can confiscate children and enslave them to pay off their parent's indebtedness. The length of slavery is determined by the amount of monies owed.
• Third. Children can be enslaved as a ward of the state, a County Owned Slave, if they become an orphan. Enslavement only to the age of majority.
• Fourth: Children can be enslaved as a penal slave for criminal misconduct. Length of slavery determined by the severity of the crime.

Quinn, how would you qualify yourself? I mean, of the four categories of enslavement, which one do you think best applies to you?"

Quinn thought for a long moment, and finally answered in a small and frightened voice. "The last one, sir. The penal slave."

"And when Joseph Ridgeway saw you being transported through the streets, naked and caged in a slave trailer behind your father's car, what category of enslavement would he assume was being applied to you?"

Again a long pause, and a heart-wrenching whimper of terror, before the boy repeated his sad answer. "The last one, sir. The penal slave."

"Precisely," John replied. "You're a bright boy. Now that we've determined that the penal category of slavery applies to you, now let us determine what penal classification would fit you best. There are three classes of a penal slave for minor males.

• Class A. A male child arrested, tried and convicted of a criminal act. Custody of the child is forfeited by the parents. The child can be sold or retained by the state to serve out the sentence. Length of sentence is dependent on the severity of the crime.
• Class B. A male child committed by the parents for a criminal act to be tried and convicted of the criminal act. Custody of the child is forfeited by the parents. The child would be sold or retained by the state to serve out the sentence. Length of sentence is dependent on the severity of the crime.
• Class C. A male child committed by the parents for a personal criminal act (within the family) the severity of which would invoke lifetime slavery at hard labor. The ownership of the slave would be retained by the parents but monitored regularly by the state.

Again Quinn thought hard. "Can you 3; can you tell them to me again, please?"

"Certainly." John ran through the penal slave classifications once again, more slowly this time.

Quinn took a deep breath and looked John directly in the eye when he finally answered. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his shoulders sagged as the enormity of the words coming out of his mouth struck him. "The last category, sir. Class C. Committed for a personal crime, the lifer."

"And when your friend Joey Ridgeway saw you in the stables yesterday, being hosed down with the rest of the livestock, what conclusion would you say he'd make? I mean, what class of slave would he assume you to be?"

"Class C, sir. The lifer," Quinn repeated his answer. For the second time in less than a day, the boy lost control of his bladder and peed on the floor, only a small squirt this time, but the sight and sound of it was still utterly humiliating."

"Clean that up for him, Brandon," Greg ordered softly.

Brandon immediately dropped to his knees, pressed his face to the floor and licked up his young master's piss.

John continued without further comment. "I agree that Class C suits the circumstances best, and at the very least will allow you to remain here at the vineyards."

"Is this the only way, John?" Greg asked. His emotions were torn and confused. Of course he could not bear the thought of his son, the heir to the respected Van Doorn Vineyards being reduced to subhuman status as a slave, and yet the thought of it was causing an uncomfortable swelling within in his jeans.

"The only way that keeps you and me out of prison, your name on the vineyard, and a rope off of Brandon's pretty little neck. You know where this conversation is headed, Greg. There's not a lot of wiggle room for us here. Honestly, there are no free choices to be made but acceptance of circumstances beyond our control."

Greg nodded and stood behind his son, holding firmly onto his shoulders. Quinn could feel his father's massive erection pressing into the small of his back.

"What's the next step, John?"

"We have to move fast if we're going to pull this off. I'm expecting Ridgeway in my office later this afternoon, with a state slave inspector. To that end I've brought with me the original documents from Quinn and Brandon's punishment, and a set of papers that have been dated the morning of your boys' punishment at the Slave Processing and Discipline Center."

John pushed these additional documents forward for Greg's inspection.

"These papers are for the commitment of Quinn van Doorn, twelve-year-old son of Greg van Doorn, to be enslaved as a penal slave for life with special circumstances, a criminal penalty for crimes planned or perpetrated. In this case planned, as a personal criminal act against the family. These documents inform the state that twelve year-old Quinn van Doorn, a free-born boy was planning on running away and absconding with fourteen year-old Brandon van Doorn, a category three orphaned slave and bonded property of Van Doorn Vineyards. The severity of this crime invokes lifetime slavery at hard labor. In addition to the enslavement documents, I have a copy of Quinn's confession of his planned crime that he will need to sign."

"But that's a lie, sir!" Quinn said. "We were never going to do anything like that."

"Of course not, boy. But we need some plausible explanation, don't we? Some way to get around the fact that you were impersonating a slave and that your father and I allowed it. If these documents show that you were already being committed to slavery before you arrived at the center, all of the inconvenient discrepancies just disappear."

Greg studied the papers for a moment, then pushed them back toward his friend. "John, I just can't do this. I can't sign away my son into slavery; I would rather see him run away as the pretense you have suggested for his enslavement."

John shook his head. "That would be incredibly stupid Greg. In this situation, you stand somewhere between being a father and a master considering both boys. You in-turn would be charged with failure to control your son and your slave. You would be imprisoned for life for jeopardizing public safety. Your son would be given to the state and enslaved for life but not before he is castrated and hobbled so he can never run away again and Brandon would still end up being hanged. Every possible solution but this one ends up with you in jail, Brandon in an unmarked grave and Quinn as a slave. You can still avoid the first two by signing the papers, but Quinn's fate is sealed either way. I'm sorry."

"This is a deal with the devil, John."

"Maybe, but there is no other way. If Quinn's day of learning had been confined to what had transpired at the Slave Processing and Discipline Center, we wouldn't be having this conversation at all. But the moment he was seen in public, as a slave, on more than one occasion I might add, the situation was taken out of my hands."

Finally it was Quinn himself who ended the debate. The boy took the papers and pushed them back across the desk toward his father. "Mr. Thompson is right, dad. There's no other way out of this. It's all my fault. I screwed things up so bad. I'm so sorry." The naked boy hung his head and whimpered, then he took a deep breath and locked his icy blue eyes on his father. "You can't go to jail, and we can't let them kill Brandon. I'll 3; I'll be a slave. I get to stay here, right, Mr. Thompson?"

John nodded. "I'll make sure you remain the property of your father. It's the least I can do for you."

With his heart pounding, and an erection throbbing painfully in his jeans, Greg van Doorn began the irreversible process of enslaving his twelve-year-old son, signing and initialing each page of the papers that would enslave Quinn for life.

John continued explaining the chain of events that was about to transpire. "I will put these signed papers in the files at the Slave Processing and Discipline Center, and have yesterday's punishment registry officially notarized. This will satisfy Joseph Ridgeway. But Greg, you better start believing what you're signing. Give him one last hug now, because after this day you have no son and Quinn has no father. Quinn will be a penal slave boy, condemned to hard labor. You will be receiving monthly visits from the state slave inspection office to ensure his sentence is being carried out. As a slave, you of course can use his body in any manner you choose, but the rules are quite clear. Fourteen hours a day of hard labor until his thirteenth birthday after which the requirement increases to eighteen hours a day. You cannot keep him here in the house like you do Brandon. He is livestock now, and you had best get used to treating him as such. If the state determines you are not enforcing the boy's sentence, they will take him from you, and further charges may be filed against you and the vineyards."

Greg nodded that he understood and continued signing his beautiful beloved son's life away. John stood up from the desk and set the document containing Quinn's 'confession' in front of the twelve-year-old boy.

"Step forward, Quinn. I need your signature here at the 'x'."

Quinn obeyed and took the pen into his trembling left hand. "Right here, sir?"

"Yes. Quinn you have to realize that your life as you knew it is over. You are now a penal slave, and you of all people, growing up on this slave plantation, know the difference between free boys and slave boys. All freemen are to be addressed with reverence as 'sir', even your former schoolmates."

Quinn swallowed hard. Joey. His former best-friend was surely to become his worst enemy now.

"Yes, sir. I understand. I will be a good slave, sir."

John shook his head. Quinn, despite his brief hours spent as a slave, still had no real idea what awaited him as a condemned penal slave boy. John turned his attention to Greg. He felt a certain regret that such a tragedy should befall a lifelong friend, and a good family, but there was little room for sympathy at this point.

"Tomorrow morning you will have Quinn report to the Slave Processing and Discipline Center for the start of his slave modifications. Please have him outfitted properly with all the proper chains, shackles and collar. The Center will modify the locks to make these his permanent attire for life. As a Class C penal lifer, full chains and movement restriction are required. I'm sure you are familiar with what will be necessary."

Greg was indeed familiar. His beautiful young son would shortly be placed in slave irons, permanently shackled and chained, from his collar to his wrists to his ankles. The total weight of his irons and chains to be no less than one quarter of the boy's current body weight.

John continued. "Quinn will have to undergo all the basic slave modifications required for all penal slaves. First will be the permanent removal of Quinn's hair from head to toe. He will then be tightly circumcised, branded, pierced and tattooed in accordance with county law. The brand will be your property brand for the plantation and vineyards, 'GVDP'. The tattoo will be the state required 'SLAVE' in black letters across the boy's chest and down the side of his right leg as well as a tattooed bar code with his slave number on the back of his neck. A GPS locator will be surgically inserted into his thigh for satellite tracking. As a lifer condemned to hard labor, he will also need to be fitted with a permanent muzzle and large-gauge rings through his nipples, septum and perineum. These modifications can be quite traumatic and will require the boy to be held in one of our solitary confinement cells for a few days until he's healed and healthy enough to be returned to you. Once he is back your custody he can begin his new life of hard labor immediately."

By now Quinn was shaking and openly weeping.

"There is one last procedure required by law," John explained, "but as he's only twelve years old it will have to be deferred. Once he turns thirteen he will have his vocal chords severed and his eardrums punctured. Penal slave boys are no longer human beings, thus they are not allowed to produce or hear human speech. He will still be able to hear, but he will learn to respond only to the tone of his overseer's voice and lash of the whip."

Hearing this, Quinn went pale and started to sweat, and urinated yet again onto the floor. Brandon again obediently dropped to his hands and knees and started to clean it up with his tongue.

"Forgive me if I'm intruding, Greg," John said, "but I believe the new slave boy should be responsible for cleaning up his own mess."

Greg's cock hardened instantly at the vision of his naked son on his hands and knees, his little tongue licking up his own piss. "You're right. Brandon! On your feet. Quinn, get down there and clean that up. And if you pee on my floor again, I'll give you some real man-piss to swallow, got it?"

Quinn's eyes widened. His father had never talked to him like this before, or Brandon for that matter. His cock swelled instantly inside its cage and he dropped slowly to his knees, staring at his father in shock.

"Don't make me repeat myself, boy."

Quinn pressed his face to the hardwood floor and began licking up his own urine. The taste was not as bad as he would have imagined, but the humiliation was overwhelming. His imprisoned cock throbbed and his young mind raced to process all these new and confusing and arousing feelings.

Once the boy was back on his feet, John produced a catalogue of various slave equipment and accessories. "My records show you don't currently have any penal slaves on your plantation, so Quinn will be your first. You should select a muzzle and his rings for him now. That will make things faster when we process him this afternoon. I would recommend this combination," he pointed to a picture of a naked boy about Quinn's age wearing a stainless-steel muzzle which covered the entire lower half of his face, a large three inch [7½ cm] diameter silver ring pierced his septum, and there were matching rings in the boy's nipples. "Even though he will be incapable of speech, he can still make noises. The muzzle is designed to keep him quiet and serve as a reminder of his penal status. The muzzle I'm recommending for him is the Boy-Tech Industries Model S-10. It's also known as the 'Silencer'. There is a built-in cock-gag, and a funnel attachment so the boy can be fed his slave gruel without the need to ever remove the muzzle. A real time saver."

Quinn wiped his eyes and his runny nose with the back of his hand and stared at the naked boy in the picture. He imagined himself looking like that, completely bald and hairless, with a muzzle covering his mouth, a huge ring in his nose and matching rings in his nipples. His misbehaving cock again tried to spring an erection within its tiny cock-cage. "You mean I'll 3; I'll have to wear that 3; like, forever."

"That's correct, boy," John said, emphasizing the word 'boy' with derision.

"What 3; what happened to his junk, dad?" Quinn asked, pointing to the boy's middle and staring up at his father in worry and confusion. A closer look at the slave boy in the picture revealed that he'd had his genitals completely removed. There was only a smooth hairless empty space where the boy's cock and balls should have been. Quinn had never seen anything like this before. His stomach was starting to twist into an uncomfortable knot. "They're not gonna do that to me, are they?" the boy asked, his voice squeaking.

Ignoring the boy's obvious distress, John went into further detail.

"Greg, you'll notice the boy has been nullified. Full removal of the penis and testicles. A common procedure for penal slave boys, but it is not required. Your other option for Quinn is permanent enforced chastity. We will replace his cock-cage with an even smaller and more constricting one, and in place of the padlock it will be permanently welded. I should warn you now that cock-cages for penal slaves are quite severe."

John flipped the pages to show a collection of the devices in question. All of them were shockingly small, intended to keep the boy's penis bent downward at a sharp angle and covered all along their interior surfaces with sharp steel spikes. More than a few of them were also designed with weighted metal bands or splitters for the boy's ball sack.

"The intent, obviously, is to prevent the boy from having erections, and to provide immediate corrective measures when they do."

Quinn shivered involuntarily when he saw these wicked devices, and even as his young heart raced with fear, his young cock strained even harder within its cage and a drop of pre-cum dribbled out of it.

"The state slave inspector will determine when he's outgrown it and needs to be placed into a larger one. I'd personally recommend you have the boy nullified. It really is far less cruel, but as his owner the choice is yours."

Greg stared at his son and fixed his gaze on the twelve-year-old's imprisoned genitals.

Impressively large for a boy of twelve and so very arousing locked away within the tight confines of the chastity cage. Quinn's eyes pleaded silently. The boy was going to be a penal slave, nothing could change that, but Greg could not bring himself to allow such an extreme and irreversible procedure.

"I think we'll go with the chastity option."

John shrugged indifferently. "That's your choice. You can always change your mind later. Just a few more things you should be aware of before I go. Quinn will no longer be allowed in the house. He is a criminal and committed to hard labor. He will be kept in your stables with the rest of your field slaves when he's not at work. You must not have any interaction with him that would be considered of a 'fatherly' nature. He is essentially a beast of burden now and must be handled accordingly. You should have as little direct interaction with him as possible."

Quinn looked up at his dad with watering eyes. You could see his little heart breaking at the prospect of what was about to happen.

"I'll give James full control over him," Greg said.

Quinn's mouth opened, but the boy could not find the words.

"That's probably wise," John replied.

Greg turned his attention to Brandon. The boy was still on his knees. "Brandon. Take Quinn out to the stables and ask James to place him in full irons and chains. Explain to him that Quinn is now a penal slave. He'll know what to do. Let him know I'll be taking Quinn back to the discipline center first thing in the morning."

"Yes, master." Brandon looked at Quinn now and reached out to take his hand.

"No," Greg said. He went to his desk and produced a chain leash. He attached it to Quinn's collar. "He is a penal slave now. The lowest animal on this plantation. You will lead him out on a leash."

"Dad, please 3;" Quinn whispered.

Greg knelt down in front of the naked boy and locked his hands tightly around the twelve-year-old's slender arms. He looked into Quinn's watering eyes and spoke in a low whisper.

"You have to be brave now, Quinn. I'll always love you, but this is the only way."

"I'm scared, dad."

"I know. But its too late. Listen to James and do exactly as he tells you. You're a penal slave now. That means he has to be harsh with you. I can't let him show you mercy, and he won't. He'll be in charge of you now. I'm not allowed to interfere. All you can do is obey and endure."

Quinn sniffled and nodded his head.

Greg then stood up and handed Quinn's leash to Brandon.

"Please don't make do this, dad," Quinn begged one last time, his voice small and weak.

Greg's face showed a moment's hesitation, then hardened to a stern resolve. He slapped Quinn across the face. Not hard, but enough to serve as the boy's first reminder of his new place in life.

"No talking, boy. You will do only as you are told from now on and there is no reason for you to ever speak to me, or James, or Brandon, or anyone else for that matter. Not that you'll be able too once you get back from the Processing Center." Greg turned his gaze to Brandon again. "I believe I gave you an order, Brandon. Obey me, unless you'd like to go back to the Center tomorrow too. I'm sure John could arrange that."

"No, sir," Brandon replied. He took tighter hold of the end of Quinn's chain and tugged on it gently. How often, since they were small boys, had Quinn led him around like this? More times than Brandon could count. Now the roles were reversed. Brandon did not feel any satisfaction. Revenge was simply not in his gentle nature. Mostly he just felt sad. "Come on, Quinn, let's go."

Greg watched as Brandon led Quinn away on a chain. As the two naked boys left the room, their bare behinds still showing the results of yesterday's punishment, he adjusted the erection in his jeans and turned to the desk to finish signing the last of the papers.

Brandon pulled Quinn along behind him, through the house and out across the lawn toward the stables. Both boys were bewildered and confused, and Quinn was very frightened and trying his best not to let it show.

James Milstead was busy working a large well-greased dildo in and out of the ass of one the younger slave boys, a lad of about eleven years who was presently tied by his arms, legs, wrists and ankles over a punishment bench. The boy was sobbing and squealing and straining against his bonds as his ass was methodically violated. His little penis was pierced with a heavy stainless steel ring and it was currently being pulled sharply and painfully downward by a short chain attached to a mounting ring in the floor beneath him. Every time the little lad yelped or tensed or wiggled in his bonds, the chain would yank on his stretched little cock, making him yelp even louder.

"Stop that whining, boy," James sneered. "You're old enough for a full-sized butt-plug now and I've gotta get you loose. There are other ways for me to open your little hole for you. Wanna try them?"

"N 3; n 3; no! No, sir," the boy squeaked as tears streamed from his eyes. "I'll be good."

"You'd better." It was that moment, as he was ramming the dildo back in even deeper than before, that James looked up to see Brandon leading Quinn into the stables. Seeing Quinn being led around on a leash was certainly an arousing sight. James knew something was up, and that he was about to learn the result of John Thompson's visit.

"What can I do for you, boys?" he asked, standing up from the punishment bench and leaving the enormous dildo stuffed in the eleven-year-old slave boy's butt.

Brandon swallowed hard and stepped forward, pulling Quinn along with him.

"Sir," the boy said, bowing his head, "Master wants me to tell you that Quinn is to be placed in slave irons. Quinn is a penal slave now, sir. Master says you'll know what has to be done, sir."

James whistled and his eyes widened. "Well, that's a shock! A penal slave? I knew he was headed for trouble, but I wasn't expecting that." He laughed and took the leash from Brandon's trembling hand and yanked the poor naked twelve-year-old forward. "I always knew you'd come to a bad end, Quinn. Been telling your dad for years. I always knew. Anyway, I guess now that you're no longer a free boy you belong to me and my other filthy animals here and now you can get to know what my monster is capable of." He grabbed the huge and obvious bulge in his crotch.

Quinn's face went pale and his lower lip trembled as if he were about to start crying.

"But first, Nathan will clad our former young master in the finest attire that the Van Doorn stable has to offer," James said, being as sarcastic as possible. "Nate! Get your ass out here!"

"Yes, dad?" the boy appeared from one of the stalls where he'd been washing down one of the fourteen-year-old field slaves. As usual, Nathan was only slightly better clothed than the stark naked slave boys themselves. He was shirtless and barefoot and wearing only a pair of threadbare jogging shorts. He stopped and stared hard at Quinn. "What's up, dad?"

"We got ourselves a penal slave here, Nate," James said.

Nate seemed confused for a moment. "You mean 3; you mean him?" he pointed a dirty, sweaty slender arm at Quinn.

"That's right. Never you mind the why or the how, just get the boy weighed so we can put him in irons." He handed Quinn's leash to Nate.

With an exuberant feeling of superiority, the thirteen-year-old, beaming from ear to ear, pulled his former master on his leash. Nathan led a hard and rather monotonous life, so any little bit of excitement was always welcome. "Come on, boy, let's get you weighed". Pulling firmly on the leash, Nate dragged Quinn over to a platform scale at the opposite end of the stable.

Before Quinn was allowed to stand on the platform, his precise and accurate weight needed to be determined. Slave boys were taxed by the pound, and furthermore as a penal slave the weight of Quinn's irons was legally prescribed. Brandon was told to remove the new slave boy's collar and cock-cage. Brandon seemed hesitant and bewildered at first, when James placed the keys into the fourteen-year-old's left hand.

"He's a penal slave, Brandon," James explained with uncharacteristic gentleness, laying a strong kindly hand on the boy's shoulder. He'd always been rather fond of Brandon and felt a certain amount of sympathy for the boy who's only crime was being an orphan. "There will be nothing on this property lower than him. You are one of the older slaves here. You outrank him. Now do as you're told, slave."

Brandon looked at Quinn with sorrow and pity in his hazel eyes and unlocked the padlock from his spare leather collar that had circled Quinn's neck since leaving the Slave Processing and Discipline Center. Brandon then knelt before his former master and carefully removed the twelve-year-old's cock-cage. Quinn's thick three-inch-long [7½ cm] uncut penis had been imprisoned now for almost twenty-four hours and it hardened quickly to a steel-hard five-inch [12½ cm] boner. Quinn then bent over expecting to have his nighttime plug removed.

"Not a chance," James said, swatting Quinn hard on the butt and ordering Brandon to leave Quinn plugged. "The butt-plug doesn't weigh anything and besides I need to have that little virgin boy-hole stretched open to receive this monster later." Again James grabbed at the ominous erection in his jeans. "Okay, slave boy, up on the scale." Quinn shuddered but stepped onto the platform of the agricultural scale.

Nate went straight to work, putting the smaller cast iron weight onto the scale arm and moving the slide dial on the counter balance until it leveled out. Eighty-five pounds [40 kg].

"You're a light-weight, boy," James observed, running his hands up and down Quinn's lean smooth arms. Quinn was a fit and athletic boy, but clearly did not possess a body particularly made for the hard labor that awaited him. James figured that a fourth of the boy's current weight in chains and shackles should equal a minimum of twenty-one pounds [10 kg].

"Twenty-one [10], Nate," he ordered matter-of-factly. He then proceeded to cup the new slave boy's balls, hefting them and getting a sense of their surprising weight. The boy's sack was still smooth and hairless, but it was clear the orbs inside were more than ripe. Quinn's cock was still rock-hard and throbbing insistently, a dribble of pre-cum moistening the tip.

"Got a good set of balls on him, doesn't he?" James remarked to his son.

"Yes, sir," Nate replied as he dutifully chose the slave irons for his former master.

James pulled Quinn off the scale and smacked him hard on his butt several times. "That's for having an erection, you filthy pig slut. Hope you're enjoying it. I will probably be the last one you ever have."

Quinn bowed his head in shame and gazed at his erect penis, jutting up lewdly at a sharp angle. He was too young yet to understand why his penis kept getting hard at times like these, but James understood perfectly. He flicked the twelve-year-old's eager boner with his fingers and gave it one single teasing stroke.

"This has always been your destiny boy. I've always known you'd end up out here with me."

Quinn did not reply, but only pressed his chin deeper into his chest.

Nate meanwhile had returned with the heavy cumbersome chains and casually dropped them onto the scale platform with a loud crash. Weighing the restraints, and using the fruits of his limited formal education, Nate determined that the closest he could come to a fourth of Quinn's weight was twenty-five pounds [12 kg], but if he was to wear one of the heavier penal collars the weight would shoot up almost to thirty [14 kg]. The thirteen-year-old looked at the pile of chains with a puzzled expression, wondering what to do.

"I guess I could find some lighter ones, dad," the boy said, almost disappointed.

"Don't worry," Nate's father made the decision on the spot. "The law states that a fourth of his weight is only a minimum; that means we can go higher. Much higher. I want his knees hobbled as well, and he'll wear the heaviest collar we have. Put them on the pile, Nate."

Nate did so happily. In the final calculation it was determined that as a penal slave Quinn would bear thirty-seven pounds [17 kg] of steel added to his own weight.

James seemed satisfied. "That will break him in a hurry. Collar him."

"Yes, sir."

Quinn's collar was thick steel, with a single ring in the front for a tether or leash. The boy felt its substantial weight the moment it was placed around his slender neck. James turned the bolt to lock it, then sheared the end of the bolt off with a pair of industrial pliers. Quinn was now permanently collared. They then took the new penal slave over to the anvil where the boy would be put into his shackles and chains. Nate and Brandon were both required to help.

"Left wrist first," James said.

The two boys forced Quinn onto his knees and pulled his arm out over anvil. Pulling at the mass of chains and irons, James put the first shackle around Quinn's wrist.

"Don't move, slave," he growled. "I've shattered boys' forearms before."

Quinn's blue eyes flashed in fear. He tensed his body and kept perfectly still as the hammer came down hard, riveting the shackle permanently to his wrist. The same procedure was carried out for his right wrist, then the naked boy was made to lie down on the dirt, still sporting a throbbing erection, as Nate and Brandon pulled his left leg up onto the anvil. In this manner Quinn's ankles were shackled next.

"He's still got a boner, dad," Nate observed with a giggle and a smirk.

"I can see that, Nate. Dirty little beast. The slut was born for this." He looked down at Quinn in disgust and then over at Brandon. "I'd always said the wrong boy was wearing the slave collar in that house. Guess I was half right."

Quinn had his chains attached next. From his ankles to his wrists and in between them both, and lastly up to his collar. Quinn bent forward under their backbreaking weight. They were thick and heavy and designed to restrict the boy's movement as much as possible. Unlike the shackles, the chains could be removed or repositioned depending on whatever labor the boy was assigned. Last were the hobbles, old style irons that resembled manacles. They were closed tightly around the boy's legs, just above his knees and joined by only twelve inches [30 cm] of chain. They were finally locked with a key.

Quinn was now formally and permanently in heavy chain bondage, as regulations required for a penal slave boy under the age of fifteen. He sniffled miserably as he stared down at the length of his body already sagging under the weight of his chains.

James smacked Quinn's erection, causing the boy's five-inch [12½ cm] boner to wag back and forth. "Stand up straight, filth! I don't allow slackers in my stables!"

It took all of Quinn's twelve-year-old strength to stand straight under the profound weight of the chains.

"You'll get used to them," James said. "And you'd better lose that erection and do it quick."

James then led Quinn over to a punishing saw horse where Nate strapped the penal slave across it, anchoring his arms and legs and tightening a thick strap over and around Quinn's middle, binding him to the horse. James knelt beside the Quinn's head and reminded the boy that yesterday afternoon when visiting the stable he almost caused an accident when he and Brandon, in the company of four other slaves, fell against each other. At the time, Quinn's curiosity had made him reach out and touch the three livid marks left by the cane on Brandon's backside.

"I know you wanted to experience Brandon's punishment but you were cheated of the final blows because they could not give a free boy permanent scars. In honor of your new status as our first and only penal slave we can now give you what you missed and so sorely deserve. And I think Brandon is just the boy for the job."

James then selected a long heavy cane from the many hanging on the wall behind the punishment horse. He handed it to Brandon. "If he had been a better master, you never would have gotten those scars in the first place. Give him what he wants."

Brandon refused to take the cane. "If it pleases you, sir, I don't want to do that, sir."

"This is not a choice, boy," James said a bit more sternly. "You will give him three stokes and they had better be the hardest strokes you can do or I will use the cane on you to convince you otherwise, understand me, boy?"

Brandon's hazel eyes teared up, but he nodded his head slowly.

"None of that. In these stables, when a slave is asked a question he answers 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir'. Now let me ask again. Do you understand me, boy?

His voice breaking and squeaking with emotion, the fourteen-year-old replied "Sir, yes, sir!"

Then he quickly took the cane in hand and swishing it through the air with all his might landed a hard lash on Quinn's butt, forcing the twelve-year-old boy to let out a shrill gut-wrenching wail. A second stroke of the cane hissed through the air hitting Quinn's behind, laid perfectly parallel to the first cutting stroke. The scream from Quinn's mouth was horrendous as the new slave boy found himself gulping for air. With his eyes nearly blinded by tears, Brandon shouted "I hate you for making me do this, Quinn!" and finally let go of the last one, the hardest of all, angry and viscous, years of abuse and shame and humiliation all pouring into that single well-laid stroke.

The pain was so terrible that though Quinn opened his mouth to scream, no sound would come out of him. He was breathless for a moment, then took a huge loud rasping gasp of air to refill his lungs and finally shrieked like a banshee, thrashing his head from side to side.

All three stripes raised the skin to heavy welts, the last cut bleeding for the full length. Quinn was now crying uncontrollably, deep heaving sobs as he quivered in his restraints. Brandon couldn't control his emotions. He too started to cry. The fourteen-year-old threw the cane onto the ground and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands.

James turned to his son Nate. "Is the little animal's cock soft?"

Nate knelt down and could clearly see Quinn's penis dangling flaccid over his hairless balls. "Yep, sure is, dad. Brandon beat the boner right outta him!"

"Nice job, Brandon," James said as he traced the marks of the cane with his fingers; three permanent scars. "Nate, take Brandon over to the trough and give him some water. He needs to calm down." "Sure thing, dad," Nate said, extending his hand and helping Brandon to his feet. Brandon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and stared awestruck and horrified at his handiwork on Quinn's butt. Nate patted him good-naturedly on the back. "Dude, that last one was totally epic!"

With the boys occupied, James now relieved Quinn of his butt-plug, yanking it out in a single violent tug.

Quinn was exhausted beyond screaming, but he still managed a cute and pathetic whimper, which James found insanely arousing. He faced Quinn's restrained and trembling body and said, "This now goes in the front." He grabbed Quinn's head, forced the boy's mouth open and pushed the moist butt-plug it into Quinn's open mouth. "Better get used to having things shoved in there, boy. Use your tongue on it. That's good practice for you."

Quinn gagged as he tasted his own ass-juices for the first time. Tears rolled down his lightly freckled cheeks and snot dripped from his nose. He could not stop crying.

"I love that sound," James said. "Gonna give you even more to cry about, but we both know you're going to love it. This is what you were made for, slave."

James shucked down his jeans, lined up behind Quinn and grabbed the twelve-year-old's cute ass cheeks searching for his virgin hole. He rammed a finger in there deep, causing Quinn to moan and whimper louder than before.

"I'm gonna fuck you blind, pig."

James stroked his already leaking cock and pressed it to the boy's tiny pink hairless opening. Quinn clenched his fists and his eyes and instinctively took in a deep breath.

"Stop!" a voice from the entrance to the stable yelled out.

Quinn recognized the voice of his dad and turned his head as best he could toward the entrance. For a moment his eyes lit up in hope that this was all still just part of their little charade, but the expression on his father's face immediately caused the boy's heart to sink. It was the look he'd only seen in his father's eyes when Greg was getting ready to give Brandon a good hard fuck.

James stared up at his employer with a guilty expression on his face. "Sorry, boss, I guess I got carried away."

"Nonsense," Greg van Doorn replied, stepping forward and walking slowly around the punishment bench, running his finger's along Quinn's trembling sweaty back and examining the livid welts on the twelve-year-old's butt. "He's your responsibility now, and you can use his little ass as often as you want. I just want to be his first!"

James smiled and backed off as Greg took his place. His erection was only slightly smaller than the overseer's monster cock and without hesitation he forced it into Quinn's virgin rectum, sliding it in slowly and steadily and with no hint of mercy. The boy gasped and moaned and writhed in his bonds as his father relentlessly impaled him on the same cock that made him twelve years earlier.

"Mmm, yeah, so tight. Just like I always knew you'd be."

Greg reached down between the boy's legs to feel the pre-teen's cock lengthening and slowly hardening.

James saw this and yelled at Quinn. "You little slut! How dare you get an erection when your Master is fucking you! Get that thing soft right now!"

Greg just smiled, enjoying the feeling of Quinn's hard throbbing five-inch [12½ cm] boner in his hand. He let it go and played with the boy's dangling balls for a moment before ramming himself into Quinn's ass at full force.

Quinn screamed.

Greg sighed and groaned.

He fucked the boy hard and rough for a good ten minutes. By now Nate and Brandon had returned to watch Quinn being brutally raped by the man who until just an hour ago had been his father. Brandon's cock was swelling painfully inside its little cage. Having no such restraints, Nate's dick was plainly and clearly hard in his threadbare shorts and he adjusted it absent-mindedly.

After thoroughly enjoying himself, Greg went to the front and had Quinn clean him off with his tongue.

"Lick it clean boy. Worship the cock that made you!"

Quinn did as he was told. From this day forward he will always, only, ever, do as he's told. After cleaning his father's cock, Quinn was shocked by his father's last demand, "I've got to piss, boy. Don't spill a drop and suck it all out unless you want me to add to your stripes." In that horrible moment of clarity Quinn started to separate his father from his new master and he sobbed in shame. He gagged and wretched as his father filled his mouth and throat with acrid man-piss. "Swallow it!"

Quinn did as he was told, all the while aware and ashamed of the fact that his penis was still desperately hard.

Greg then turned his attention to James. "I believe I interrupted you. His ass is yours, but I think maybe young Nathan would like a go first."

James grinned and so did Nate.

"Come on, boy," Greg said, gesturing Nathan over. "Shuck those shorts down and lets see if you're as big as your old man."

Thirteen-year-old Nate wasted no time getting naked. His slim wiry body was already glistening with sweat. Greg gasped when he laid eyes on the impressive cock between Nate's legs. He'd always known the boy was well-endowed but it had been a few years since he'd actually seen Nathan Milstead naked. The boy had a good four soft inches [10 cm] hardening rapidly to a full seven-inch [18 cm] boner that looked so comically oversized for such a skinny kid. It was topped with a small little tuft of brown pubic hair, the only hair anywhere on the boy's body except for his head. His balls were big and hanging low.

"He's been dying to fuck something, boss," James said. "Thanks for letting him have Quinn."

"Quinn is nothing more than livestock now, just like any of these filthy beasts. Nate can have him whenever he wants, as long as it doesn't effect his chores."

Nate had never fucked anything in his life, except his right hand, but nature quickly took its course as the lean horny teenager plowed his oversized schlong into Quinn's quivering ravaged ass.

"Ooooh, yeeeah, sooo good!"

At thirteen Nate had a hair-trigger and it took him all of two minutes to shout in ecstasy and shoot his load of fresh creamy boy-cum into Quinn's butt. The boy pulled out, still half hard, leaving a trail of cum, blood and ass-juice dribbling down Quinn's legs.

"Your turn, Jim," Greg said, offering up his beautiful son like a piece of meat and finding the whole thing incredibly arousing.

"I'm your third, boy, but I'm the one you'll remember. I'm gonna tear you apart!" Jim fucked the boy with brutal intensity and proved to have a great deal of stamina, going hard and fast for a good fifteen minutes. Quinn was mewling and moaning and the groans that had once been pain were now unmistakably pleasure. Greg reached down again and played with the twelve-year-old's cock, ensuring it remained fully and eagerly erect, but not allowing the boy to cum. When Jim shot his load into the boy, a small amount of milky white fluid dribbled from Quinn's cock.

"Looks like you milked his seed right outta him, dad," Nate said, having seen his father do this before with other boys, including himself.

"Ha, sure did! I'll have him flowing like a faucet in a few more months."

Greg shared a laugh with his trusted overseer then finally cast his gaze on young Brandon. The boy was standing there lost and forlorn, his head bowed, his little prick clearly trying to get hard inside its cage, a long strand of pre-cum hanging down between his legs.

"I'd let Brandon have a go, but his little cock is too small for fucking. Come here, boy."

Brandon stepped forward and into his master's loving arms. He broke down in tears. Tears for his best friend now a slave. Tears for hurting Quinn. Tears for how incredibly fucking unfair life was. He buried his face against Greg's chest and sobbed.

Greg stroked the boy's shaggy blonde hair. "Poor boy. I'm so proud of you. And I think I know what you need," he ran his hand gently down Brandon's back finally stopping at the boy's perfect little butt.

Holding Brandon by the arm, Greg turned to James. "Quinn is all yours until tomorrow morning; just make sure you have him up and ready and able to walk. Our new penal slave has to be at the Slave Processing and Discipline Center early for his modifications."

"You got it, boss."

Greg nodded and took Brandon back up to the house. If Brandon was expecting the usual rough fucking he normally got from his master is he was wrong. He was bathed and feed and released from his cock-cage and allowed to share his master's bed. Greg made love to him, slowly and gently all through the night, teasing the boy's hard little cock, suckling on his nipples, nibbling on his cute ears, licking the boy's taut abdomen, driving the fourteen-year-old into a frenzy of sexual need. Finally, as Greg was filling his butt with his seed for the second time, Brandon sighed and gasped and clawed at the sheets and experienced the first true orgasm of his life. He fell asleep in his master's arms.

III. Penal Slave

Quinn offered a little wave of his hand. '33' simply stared, seemingly unfamiliar with this most basic signal of human contact. Puzzled for a moment, he finally waved back, just quickly, almost as if he were merely imitating Quinn's gesture. The boy was wearing the same type of bit-gag as Quinn. In fact all the boys wore the bits overnight, to keep them from talking to each other. '33' turned his eyes away, crawled into the corner of his stall, pissed on the floor then curled up and went to sleep.

Quinn wished he could fall asleep too, but his new home was a far cry from his comfy room in the house. The floor of the stall was hard concrete. His bedding was a small amount of straw and nothing more. When he had to piss, he would do so on the floor, like an animal.

It was sweltering hot inside the stables, even long after the sun went down. He could hear the other slave boys moaning, coughing, or crying softly, the sounds all muffled by the bit-gags in their mouths.

Quinn was still getting used to being naked all the time. Even at night in the privacy of his room he always slept in his boxers. He was sure he could feel nasty things crawling on his skin as he lay there on the straw, but whenever he looked or swatted at the spot there was nothing there. He was aware that he was sweating and dirty and itchy.

Sleep was made even more problematic by the fact that this was also Quinn's second night with his twelve-year-old penis imprisoned in a cock-cage. He was troubled every few minutes by renewed and increasingly strong attempts at erection, and even when his penis did soften, it now remained engorged enough to fill the cage. Quinn's state of sexual arousal and frustration was reaching a fevered pitch.

The plug in his butt wasn't helping. Every time he moved around in his heavy chains, the butt-plug poked at a spot up inside him that made his cock twitch and feel all tingly. He could not lie on his back, since his freshly-caned butt was still painful, nor could he lie on his tummy, since his chains would get tangled. The twelve-year-old could only lie on his side, chained and sore and sweaty and butt-plugged with a throbbing imprisoned cock between his slender hairless legs. He stared at the steel bars that formed the gate to his stall and his mind began to wonder thinking about what his life was going to be like now that he was a penal slave. His young imagination ran wild with nightmarish scenarios, most of which would actually pale in comparison to the reality of what awaited him.

By morning, word of Quinn van Doorn's enslavement, and the entirely contrived reason for it, had spread throughout the plantation. Hired hands and workers made it a point to gawk at the boy in his stall and shake their heads from side to side. Some whispered 'pity' and 'poor kid'. Others who were less charitable were heard to comment 'serves the little bastard right, trying to run off with a slave like that'. A few even went so far as to spit on the boy.

Quinn kept his eyes tightly closed and pretended to be sleeping, until James Milstead dumped a bucket of ice water onto his head. "Wake up, pig! Busy day for you.' Quinn shivered and sputtered and managed to get to his knees. Somehow the chains seemed even heavier this morning. James removed the chain that ran from the boy's collar to the wall behind, then unbuckled the strap that held the bit in the boy's mouth and cast it aside. "Not a word from you, boy."

He pulled a thick black rubber hose into the stall, turned it on full blast and washed the sweaty boy down, paying particular attention to the boy's caged genitals and caned butt. Quinn yelped and gasped and shivered and received several lashes with Jim's riding crop to remind him to keep still. When he was finished, and the boy was soaking wet and dripping, James turned the hose down to a trickle and held it out for Quinn to crawl over and get a drink.

Just then, Greg van Doorn peered into the stall. He gazed briefly at Quinn, naked on his hands and knees, and then spoke as if the boy was not there, "James, was he fed?"

"Not as yet, boss."

"Just as well. I have been informed that with the rigors of today's procedures it is best he have an empty stomach."

Greg attached a leash to Quinn's collar and jerked him up onto his feet. The unnecessary roughness validated the look on Greg's face that told his son he would rather be any other place this morning than here. Quinn felt ashamed and embarrassed to have caused his father so much trouble, to have disappointed him so completely and totally. There is likely no worse feeling for a boy than knowing he's lost his father's love and protection.

Quinn was pulled outside under the bright early morning sun to the small transport trailer waiting there. It was summer and it was already getting hot. Brandon was standing there next to the tiny cage. The boys' eyes met for a moment, but Brandon quickly looked away. Quinn's heart sank. Had he lost Brandon's love too?

"Get him loaded into the transport cage," Greg ordered.

James ushered Quinn into the cage. With his knees hobbled and bearing thirty-five pounds [16 kg] of chains, it was difficult for the boy to crawl into the tiny confines of the transport. A few harsh lashes of the riding crop on the backs of the boy's thighs helped to motivate him. Inside the cage, the naked twelve-year-old was forced to remain on his hands and knees. The cage door was shut and a heavy padlock snapped closed to secure him inside for the trip.

It would be a long and lonely ride to the Slave Processing and Discipline Center.

James and Brandon rode in the back seat of Greg's car. Quinn's public display as a slave was no longer a concern as Greg drove back through the populated streets of town. In fact John had recommended they take this route to further ensure that their little deception would not be found out and that everyone who saw the boy would know that Quinn van Doorn was now a penal slave. Quinn peered out between the bars of the transport cage, meeting the curious eyes of all those who stopped to watch him passing by. Living in the now as all twelve-year-old boys do, Quinn felt like an animal on display on his bumpy ride and figured the sight must have been rather amusing to all those who bothered to look, like watching a circus monkey in its cage.

On the way to the Slave Processing and Discipline Center, James Milstead was working on his laptop, already developing a plan for putting Quinn van Doorn to good hard use.

"Law says he has to work fourteen hours a day until he turns thirteen. Then it jumps to eighteen hours," Jim explained to an obviously rather distracted Greg. "I'm thinking I can put him up on the north terrace and we can finally get that third arbor planted."

"The pinot we've been talking about?"

"Precisely." James then laughed.

"What's so funny?" Greg never laughed about wine.

"It really will be a Van Doorn wine. Since your son will be the one who planted and harvested the grapes. Hell I might even have him crush the skins with his feet. May I'll just build a little shed for him up there and keep him out on the mountain."

Greg actually liked that idea as it meant he would never have to actually see the boy. James seemed to understand and placed a friendly hand on Greg's shoulder. "Maybe easier for you that way too."

Brandon meanwhile kept looking back at the trailer and pondering this abrupt change in the normal routine of his existence. Until yesterday, it was him riding around in that little cage. This was, in fact, the first time he'd ever been allowed to ride inside the family sedan. He found the air-conditioning unbearably cold against his bare skin. His teeth chattered and he shivered.

"Is he alright?" Greg asked, peering in the rearview.

James drew the young teen closer and laid a hand gently on the boy's smooth silky thigh. "Just a little cold. Don't worry, sprout, good old Jim will warm you up."

Brandon didn't like Jim. He'd never liked Jim. And after watching what they'd done to Quinn yesterday he liked Jim even less. But Jim's arm around his trembling shoulders did feel good and warm and comforting, and Jim's hand presently tickling the boy's inner thigh was causing Brandon's cock to swell up inside its cage. The boy moaned contently and shifted his body a bit closer and spread his legs a bit wider.

Jim obliged by fondling the fourteen-year-old's imprisoned genitals and gently caressing Brandon's balls. As Brandon was the personal slave of the Van Doorn family, Jim strictly had no right to touch him in this way, but Greg figured the young teen would benefit from the distraction. Quinn's transformation was going to be just as hard for Brandon as it was for Quinn himself.

At the entrance to the Slave Processing and Discipline Center, the guard on duty was one of the men who had released Brandon and Quinn two days earlier. He nodded approvingly when he saw Quinn naked and alone and heavily chained in the slave transport cage.

"Bringing him back I see," he said as he checked the intake sheet for the day. His eyes widened when he saw that the boy was scheduled for processing as a penal slave. He handed the sheet over for Greg's signature. "You can proceed to Receiving, Dock 3. A processing team will meet you there."

Greg returned the signed papers, realizing that this was the final act. Once he drove through those gates, there was no turning back. Quinn would be leaving today as a penal slave boy, transformed into a subhuman beast of burden. His cock hardened again, and he willed it to go soft.

At the receiving dock, James pulled Quinn out of the cage and the four of them stood waiting. Quinn was trying to be brave and not let on how scared he was. He stood still and kept his eyes straight ahead. He did not look at his father. James had a hand locked in an iron grip on the twelve-year-old's shoulder, just in case the boy thought of making a run for it. Greg stood with Brandon leaning slightly against him. The fourteen-year-old was breathing hard and starting to panic. His visits to this place were few, but always memorable.

At the age of eight he'd been sent here when his parents died. In a small room he'd stood naked in front of a judge while the adults in the room talked about him and finally committed him to slavery as an orphan. He spent the next month in an isolation cell, and then another month during which he received his basic slave training. He'd been brought back a few times since for discipline or just to be scared straight at the sight of the horrible tortures inflicted on boys here.

Greg ran a hand down the boy's back and patted his sore butt.

"Just relax, son," he whispered in Brandon's ears. "Nothing's going to happen to you today."

Brandon looked up at Greg and managed a weak smile.

Just then the door to the loading dock rolled up and two Slave Processing Technicians appeared, wearing the standard black military fatigues of the State Slave Authority. The first thing Greg noticed was that they were young. Very young. Still in their teens at a guess. The younger one looked even younger than Brandon.

"Van Doorn party?" the older of the two youths asked, checking his clipboard. His name was Aaron. He was eighteen years old, but already in his fourth year of duty at the center. For free born boys from poor families, the Slave Authority provided a well-paying alternative to the military, inducting boys right out of middle school. They were, strictly speaking, indentured slaves themselves, but with a great deal of responsibility, authority and freedom.

Quinn quickly looked down and a wry smile formed on his lips at the word 'party'. Somehow he guessed this particular party was not going to be as much fun as his recent birthday bash.

Greg offered his hand to the young man and introduced himself. "Greg Van Doorn. Van Doorn Estate Vineyards."

Aaron returned Greg's gesture with a polite smile. His grip was firm and strong, but still soft and youthful. "My dad likes your wines, sir," he replied. "My name is Aaron." He then gestured to his younger counterpart. "This is Gavin."

Gavin also took Greg's hand, in the light grip of a boy. His voice was still clear and high and unbroken. "Junior Slave Processing Technician Trainee Gavin Jenkins, sir."

Greg smiled at the erstwhile young lad. "That's quite a mouthful. How old are you, Jenkins?"

"Thirteen years, eight months, sir," the boy replied with self-assured confidence.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Nah," young Gavin replied. "I wasn't any good at that stuff, sir."

Greg laughed at the boy's simple honesty and quickly introduced James and Brandon and then finally Quinn, the reason for their visit.

Aaron double-checked his clipboard and read off the information on the intake papers. "Van Doorn, Quinn. Age twelve. Height four feet eleven inches [1.50 m], weight eighty-nine pounds [40 kg], eyes blue, hair blonde. Status: Penal Slave. Scheduled for a full level one modification. Mister Van Doorn, will you verify for the record that the boy you've just presented to us is in fact Quinn van Doorn?"

Quinn stared up at his father.

Greg nodded. "That's him."

Satisfied with the physical identification, Aaron and Gavin looked Quinn over for a moment, sizing him up to see if he might be trouble. He didn't look dangerous. Quite the opposite. But his enslavement papers indicated several serious crimes and it was never wise to take chances with boys condemned to penal slavery, even harmless-looking ones like Quinn. After quickly judging the boy's weight and strength Aaron gave Gavin specific instructions.

"Gavin, go get the hundred-pound [45 kg] poles."

"Yes, sir."

The young teen came back a moment later with two tempered steel rods. Each one was about two feet [60 cm] long and had a handgrip at one end. Aaron attached one of the poles to the ring on the front of Quinn's iron slave collar, while Gavin attached the second one to the identical ring at the back of it. The length and thickness of the poles was designed to account for Quinn's eighty-nine pound [40 kg] frame. In this manner the two young technicians could safely escort the new penal slave boy while keeping him exactly between them and under strict control. Aaron took hold of the front pole and Gavin took the rear one.

"Sirs," Aaron said, pulling Quinn forward on the pole, "if you'll follow us downstairs to the penal processing area, we can get started."

Greg had a passing familiarity with the Processing Center and had never been down to the lowest level. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

Walking along with Quinn on the poles between them, Aaron volunteered to explain.

"Sir, we don't get very many penal slave boys here. All the standard slave processing is done upstairs in the main facility. That's committed slaves, indentured slaves, orphan slaves and agency slaves. A penal slave is a rarity and that's why Gavin and I fought for this assignment when it went up on the board last night. We read about it and it excited us so that we had to volunteer for this job."

Gavin piped up excitedly in his high clear tenor. "Yeah, we saw the pictures of all the mods and stuff we'll be doing to him. Waaaaaay cool. So extreme, really neat. This'll be our first penal slave, won't it, Aaron?"

"That's right. Good experience for us both."

Greg had some doubts. These two seemed so young to be entrusted with such a big and difficult responsibility. Aaron seemed to read Greg's thoughts immediately. It was not the first time his youth had been called into question.

"Don't worry, sir. I've got years of experience upstairs, and I don't have any doubts about processing a penal slave." Aaron looked past Quinn as if he weren't even there, focusing his young but worldly eyes on the boy's father. "He's earned every extreme modification he receives, and the modifications are meant to serve as punishment too. We'll do our jobs, sir. You have my word on that. Everything by the book."

Quinn shuffled along between the two steel poles with trepidation as to what lay ahead. His chains clanked and scraped and rattled along the flat concrete floor beneath his bare feet.

Corridor after winding corridor took them deeper into the bowels of the Slave Processing and Discipline Center until they reached a set of large steel doors stenciled in black block letters: 'Penal Slave Processing. Authorized Personnel Only'.

Aaron pulled out his radio. "Control, this is unit 571a2, escorting. Open door 5C, level 1."

The electronic lock on the doors buzzed loudly and instantly released. Penal Slave Processing formed its own complete enclosed section of the Center. Once inside, Quinn would not be leaving until his transformation was complete.

Inside the door, they turned immediately to the left, entering an expansive shower area done in antiseptic white tiles with glaring bright overhead fluorescent lights. Motion detectors brought the lights up and they flickered and crackled and buzzed softly. The room was icy cold. Naked, Quinn and Brandon both shivered.

"Sir, I will need your master keys for the boy's restraints."

Greg readily complied and then stood back to watch as Aaron went around and removed all of Quinn's connecting chains and hobbles. The boy's shackles and his iron collar remained in place. Quinn was then bent over and his butt plug removed. Gavin, wearing latex gloves took it away and dropped it into a disinfectant solution. Aaron then knelt down in front of Quinn and unlocked and removed the twelve-year-old's cock-cage. Quinn's soft three-inch-long [7½ cm] uncut boyhood immediately flopped down between his legs.

Young Gavin's eyes widened and he whistled under his breath at the slave boy's impressive package. For his part, Aaron couldn't resist palming Quinn's cock and balls as if he was weighing them. He spoke directly to Quinn for the first time.

"Wow! You got some heavy junk here, dude." He then spoke to Greg. "You have a really well-hung boy here, how old is he?"

"He turned twelve about a month ago," Greg answered.

At that moment a glob of glistening pre-cum oozed out of Quinn's uncut penis and his boyhood grew to a rigid five-inch [12½ cm] erection, standing up at a lewd forty-five degree angle and throbbing with need.

Aaron ignored Quinn's erection and continued hefting the twelve-year-old's balls. He looked up at Greg with a wry smile. "If he follows the normal growth patterns for a boy his age, you can expect a minimum of two or three inches [5-7½ cm] added to his length and another inch or so [2-3 cm] added to his girth. That means the new cock-cage we give him later today should be considered a starter kit."

Young Gavin laughed out loud at his partner's joke.

"You'll probably be buying at least two more cock-cages before Quinn reaches his eighteenth birthday." Aaron grabbed Quinn's balls and squeezed them hard, causing the twelve-year-old to wince and stand up on his toes. "To bad you never really got to use the equipment, huh?"

Quinn swallowed hard, blushed a deep red and shook his head as more pre-cum dribbled from his throbbing pre-teen boner.

"And now you'll never get the chance," Aaron said. If he felt any real sympathy for Quinn, it didn't show. "Enjoy that boner while you can, kid."

Quinn was now naked except for his steel collar and wrist and ankle cuffs. Standing there on the cold tile floors with his hard boy-cock straining between his slim hairless legs. He was ashamed and humiliated, but also naturally curious as to the proceedings. He watched with wide innocent eyes as Gavin rolled a large stainless steel frame into the shower area.

The junior technician trainee awkwardly connected the rings on Quinn's shackles with chains to the inside corners of the frame, stretching Quinn's slender limbs wide and positioning the boy spread-eagled.

Aaron meanwhile brought in a portable medication tree-stand with three very full six-quart [5.7 liter] enema bags attached to the top hooks. Aaron looked again at his clipboard and explained. "He gets three very hot soapy enemas to clean him out before we begin."

Gavin knelt down behind the naked boy. He spread Quinn's ass cheeks and roughly and thoroughly lubed the twelve-year-old's anus. Quinn's erect cock strained and seemed to grow even harder.

"Randy little slut, isn't he?" James commented.

Greg had to admit it was true and once again the feeling that Quinn somehow belonged here filled his thoughts.

"Get ready, kid," Gavin warned with a wicked smile as he slipped the large enema nozzle into Quinn's butt. Quinn gasped and strained against the bonds holding him spread-eagle to the frame. Aaron then fed the first enema through the hose into Quinn's rectum. The pre-teen clenched his fists and closed his blue eyes tightly. He moaned and groaned and let out a series of helpless high-pitched whimpers as the large enema filled his insides, causing his abdomen to swell and distend.

James laughed. "Always love the look of a boy with a big huge enema in his guts. Looks like he's five months pregnant!"

Greg and the two young technicians shared James' laughter. Brandon did not find it amusing at all, and naturally neither did Quinn.

"That should be good for the first one. Pull the nozzle out, Gavin." Aaron looked at Greg and James. "This part gets rather messy. You may want to look away."

Gavin pulled out the nozzle and stepped back quickly. The frame to which Quinn was bound was positioned over a large open grated drain. Quinn's entire body tensed for a moment as the last of the cramps hit him, then he lost control and released his bowels in a flood of brown water.

Gavin was quick to pull a hose from the wall and wash everything down the drain. Quinn hung his head and sobbed quietly as his father and James and Brandon looked on.

"That's the first one," Aaron said. "Two more to go."

Quinn just whimpered softly as the nozzle was shoved into his rectum yet again.

After the last of the enemas were completed, Quinn hung exhausted from the stainless steel frame, tears rolling down his lightly freckled cheeks. His cock had returned to its flaccid three-inch [7½ cm] length, hanging like a limp sausage over his ripe twelve-year-old balls.

"Looks like they finally found a way to make Quinn lose that boner," James Milstead observed with a laugh.

As junior trainee Gavin took on the unenviable task of cleaning up from the enemas, Aaron rolled in a small four-wheeled medical cart. The wheels clanked and clattered against the tile floor. Quinn watched with tired eyes as Aaron selected a steel speculum from the array of scary-looking instruments on the cart.

"As a penal slave, Quinn will be fitted with a rather large butt-plug," Aaron explained. "I'll need to determine the maximum elasticity of his anus to ensure a proper fit."

Quinn groaned in obvious discomfort as the icy-cold device was used to spread his anus as wide as it could possibly go. The twelve-year-old was gasping in sharp rapid breaths now, his cock slowly returning to its erect state.

"Looks like a size seven will do best. Lube him up, Gavin."

Gavin was only too happy to snap on the latex gloves, put a large glob of lubricant on his fingers and apply it to Quinn's quivering little boy-hole. Quinn gasped and moaned and tensed in his chains, clearly feeling a certain amount of pleasure as Gavin worked two then three fingers knuckle deep into the boy's anus. The pre-teen's cock was rock hard and oozing pre-cum once again.

"Little faggot likes this," the thirteen-year-old junior trainee said to Aaron.

"Sure seems to. Most of them do. Got him nice and loose back there, Gav?"

"I think so."

Aaron selected a large metal butt-plug from a collection on the lower shelf of the medical cart. Seeing its enormous size and bulbous shape, Quinn began to tremble. Brandon looked up at Greg in dismay. His own plug was barely half the size of the one they were going to be forcing into Quinn's butt.

Aaron wasted no time forcing the huge metal plug into Quinn's butt. All the lube in the world would not have made the plug's insertion any less difficult nor any less painful. Quinn shrieked and thrashed violently against the chains that bound him to the frame. His shrill sounds of agony grew to a higher and higher pitch until he was no longer making any sound at all, just staring into emptiness with his mouth agape as the plug was worked deep into his rectum.

"Pleeease, pleeeeese, its too big!" Quinn squealed, speaking for the first time since his arrival here.

"Calm down and keep your mouth shut, slave," Aaron said sternly, smacking Quinn on the thigh. He then looked over to Greg and James. "This plug is actually a small one for a penal slave. You'll need to have him wearing a permanent size twelve enema plug within six months or you could be fined by the state for being overly lenient with him."

James nodded and made a note of the new requirement.

Greg gave his overseer a puzzled look. "Enema plug?"

"It's a standard butt-plug, but with an open tube in the center that allows for the insertion of an enema nozzle. That way, there is no need to ever remove the boy's plug. I use them as punishment sometimes. Quinn will be the first boy to have one in him permanently."

"Now that we've got him plugged," Aaron announced, "it's time to remove the boy's hair."

Quinn stared pleadingly at his father, but the boy knew there could be no possibility of mercy. His penis was again fully erect as the huge plug stimulated the twelve-year-old's prostate.

Gavin busily attached additional chains to Quinn's collar to stabilize his head against the frame. Aaron meanwhile placed a small stool behind Quinn's spread-eagle form so that Gavin could use the height to position himself above Quinn's head and perform his barbering duties. The electric clippers came to life with a loud hum and mashing metal blades as Gavin took aim and began shaving Quinn's long shaggy sandy-blonde locks.

Quinn's blue eyes opened in a flash and he felt a wide swath of his hair missing. Tears ran freely down his cheeks as a second parallel swath was made with a flourish and Gavin's lively boyish giggles. The locks of the boy's soft silken hair continued to fall in front of Quinn's eyes until there were no more. Quinn hung his head and sobbed quietly as Aaron took his place on the stool with shaving cream and razor in hand to remove the last vestiges of blond boyish stubble. Then for the finale, the young processing technician moved to the front of Quinn's spread-eagled body and spread some shaving cream onto the twelve-year-old's thin eyebrows.

"These have to go too," Aaron announced and moments later they were gone, leaving poor Quinn's head utterly hairless. The visual result was immediate and striking. Shaving the boy's head seemed to clear away a great deal of the young slave's former identity, leaving behind a pitiable young sub-human creature, a non-person, an animal suitable only for harsh use and hard labor.

Aaron next moved his hand all over Quinn's slim, lean twelve-year-old body and found it to be utterly hairless. Quinn didn't even have any pre-teen fuzz on his arms and legs. Aaron paid particularly close attention to Quinn's armpits, legs and his as yet bare pubic area and ball-sack.

"The law requires that penal slave boys be kept completely and permanently hairless. Quinn's body may be lacking hair now but I am sure he'll start to grow some soon. Gavin, I want you to coat him from head to toe with chemical depilatory cream."

Gavin gleefully opened a white plastic five-gallon [19 liter] pail of green gunk. It had a strong foul odor. Snapping on another pair of rubber gloves, the thirteen-year-old junior trainee started at the top, working his way down, slowly and methodically coating every inch of Quinn's young athletic pre-teen body. Gavin was careful to avoid touching the boy's erect cock, but was sure to get a lot of it around Quinn's pubic region and along the boy's perineum and ass-crack. Meanwhile the goop on Quinn's head was slowly running down into his face.

"Keep your eyes closed," Gavin warned the boy, "unless you wanna go blind."

Once Quinn was covered from head to toe, Gavin stepped back and Aaron inspected his younger partner's work, finding the results satisfactory. "We'll need to wait about thirty minutes for the cream to destroy all of his hair follicles. Once it's done, he will be permanently hairless for the rest of his life. If anyone needs a drink or a snack, we do have vending machines around the next corner. Public restrooms are there too."

Brandon whispered into Greg's ear that he desperately needed to pee.

"I'll take him," James said. "I could use a bag of chips anyway."

With James and Brandon gone, Greg was left alone with Quinn and the two young technicians.

"I read the report on this one," Aaron said, offering small talk. "So, he's your son?"

"He was my son," Greg corrected the young man gently.

"Right. Tried to run off with one of your slaves?"

"More or less." Greg stared at the boy who until yesterday morning had been his beautiful son. Now his naked body was hanging from a steel frame and covered in depilatory cream. Greg knew that with each passing stage of the boy's transformation he would become less and less Quinn van Doorn and more and more a lowly nameless penal slave. He sighed as his eyes gazed upon Quinn's penis, which had hardened yet again.

"This seemed like the best solution for all of us."

James returned with Brandon and a bag of chips. He offered them to his employer. "I'm afraid they're quite stale. Expiration date was like a year and a half ago."

Aaron grinned. "Yeah, that fits. Like I said, we don't process many penal slaves. It has been at least that long since anyone's been down here."

Greg took a single chip, frowned and handed the bag to Brandon. "You can finish them if you want, boy."

Rarely offered any kind of snack or treat, even stale ones, Brandon eagerly took the bag and started munching. It was good to have something to occupy his attention other than Quinn's ongoing transformation.

After thirty minutes, Aaron announced that time was up. Gavin dutifully manned the hose and began to spray off the green gunk from Quinn's body starting at the twelve-year-old's head and working down his body until only the boy's pale white wet skin showed. Now totally and absolutely and permanently hairless, Quinn never felt more naked in his life. His skin felt different somehow, tighter, more sensitive and the cold of the air on his soft boy-flesh made him shiver violently.

Gavin took several digital photographs of the new penal slave boy, all for the public record. Copies would be sent to the boy's former school so that all of his little friends and schoolmates could see how far Quinn van Doorn had fallen and the severe consequences of violating slave laws.

Aaron began explaining the next procedure to Greg and James. "In order to prepare him for his later modifications, we are going need to stretch his nipples and scrotum, extending them away from his body. Pre-teen boys have highly elastic skin, and everything would just snap right back. So, we'll be using Boytech Industries Dermaplast on him."

James nodded his approval. Overseeing the labor of twenty slave boys on the Van Doorn plantation, he was well familiar with the various products and technologies offered by Boytech. Most of the collars, shackles, chains and cock-cages used in the Van Doorn stables were provided by them. James often joked he spent so much of Greg's money with Boytech that Greg should have owned part of the company by now. He'd heard of Dermaplast, but never had cause to use it on one of the boys.

"It's a lot like leather softener but its especially designed for use on boys aged eight to sixteen," Aaron continued. " It will easily penetrate the fibers of his skin and break down the elasticity of his nipples and scrotum, essentially we will be plasticising those areas of his skin. We'll need his nipples extended a bit so that we can install the rings, and his scrotum is going to have to be stretched to accommodate the split-collar weights he'll be receiving." Aaron again looked at Quinn and hefted the twelve-year-old's ripe and surprisingly heavy balls. "You'll be having some real low hangers, boy," he said with a laugh.

Quinn did not find any of this very funny.

The medical cart was rolled closer to Quinn's spread-eagle frame and Gavin opened a small container of the highly concentrated Dermaplast. First putting on a pair of protective rubber gloves that extend up to his elbows, Gavin dipped his fingers into the caustic gray gloop and placed a generous amount on each of Quinn's cute dime-sized nips.

The young penal slave boy reacted with a stifled cry and a violent shudder as the gluttonous material spread its burning icy cold through the sensitive skin of his little pink nipples. With giddiness spawned by the unmistakable arousal in his pants, thirteen-year-old Gavin massaged the Dermaplast in vigorously, stroking and pinching Quinn's boy-nips, which had quickly hardened.

No one in all of Quinn's young life had ever toyed with his nipples. Quinn himself had yet to discover their erotic potential. He gasped at the intimate contact and his hard boy-cock throbbed and pulsed excitedly in spite of the dull pain he was starting to feel as the Dermaplast went to work.

Smirking at Quinn's five-inch [12½ cm] boner but otherwise ignoring it, Gavin shifted his attention to Quinn's dangling ball-sack and worked a glob of the Dermaplast into the soft silken skin of the twelve-year-old's scrotum. Suddenly there was an ever-increasing heat coming from the chemical as it was absorbed into Quinn's skin and began destroying the soft tissue membranes. Quinn let out a frightened cry.

"Well I'll be damned, would you look at that!" James said in amazement as he watched the Dermaplast do its work. In a matter of moments the effects on Quinn's balls were obvious to everyone as the boy's scrotum became visibly stretched, his young balls already hanging a full inch [2½ cm] lower than they had just moments before.

Aaron took over, kneeling before Quinn and repeating his statement from earlier. "Well, boy, you're about to have a pair of low hangers!"

Quinn let out a high-pitched sob and sniffled miserably.

Gavin prepared the first of the steel weights and handed them to Aaron. Aaron explained to Greg what was going to happen.

"Ball weights are required for all penal slave boys. Since he's over the age of eleven, your boy will get the maximum weights of one pound [½ kg] each. They are split collars that are stainless steel, 1-1/8 inch [28 mm] inside diameter, two inch [5 cm] outside diameter and one inch [2½ cm] thick. He will get four of these collars today, weighing a total of four pounds [2 kg]."

Quinn's big blue eyes shifted nervously from Aaron to his dad and back. Weights? On his balls? What where they talking about?

"Four pounds [2 kg] might not seem like a lot," Aaron continued as he opened the first of the steel split-collar weights and closed it around Quinn's newly stretched scrotum. "But it is. His low-hanging balls and all that weight will be a constant reminder to him that he's a penal slave. At this time, I'll only be installing the first two of the split collars until they stretch his scrotum low enough to fit the last two. Your boy will be wearing all four collars before the day is up and they will be permanent. You are required to bring him back here once a year until his sixteenth birthday to receive an additional one pound [½ kg] weight."

James again made a note of this special requirement. Managing Quinn as a penal slave was going to be a far bigger job than he'd anticipated. 'Gonna have to ask the boss for a raise,' he thought to himself.

Aaron worked slowly, having never actually performed this procedure before. As the first pound was added to the twelve-year-old's balls, Quinn wrinkled his face in distress and let out a weak groan. Holding the pre-teen's balls with one hand, Aaron secured the first weight with a customized allen-wrench and quickly installed the second weight. When this one too had been secured, and the locking bolts sealed over with special adhesive, Aaron let Quinn's balls drop with the full force of the weights for the first time.

Two pounds on weight on young twelve-year-old balls was a lot to ask. Quinn yelped and gasped and made a very troubling gurgling sound. It felt like someone had kicked him down there, hard, like happened a few months ago at soccer practice. Only now it felt like they just kept on kicking. He had the dry heaves for a moment and Greg was thankful he'd followed instructions and not allowed the boy to eat anything.

"Give him a moment," Aaron said, "he'll get used to it."

As Quinn squealed and sobbed and strained against the chains holding him to the frame, Aaron again squeezed and pinched the boy's nipples. This time they did not snap back, but instead remained soft and pliable like putty between the young man's fingers. "Hand me the clamps, Gavin."

Gavin immediately picked up two medium-sized sharply teethed alligator clamps from the medical cart and handed them over. Aaron applied them immediately, forcing the twelve-year-old's little nips out away from his body and sending waves of sharp searing pain through the boy's chest. Quinn screamed and thrashed and screamed again as his weighted balls swung from side to side, teaching him his first lesson that penal slave boys had best not make any sharp sudden movements, regardless of how much pain they might be in.

"We'll keep the clamps on until we put his rings in, which we'll be doing next," Aaron announced. "Gavin will escort you down the hall to the next section."

As they left the room, Greg looked back at the miserable sight of the naked slave boy still hanging on the frame, his weighted balls dangling low, his head clean-shaven, his nipples painfully clamped. Quinn was crying like a little boy, but remarkably the twelve-year-old's penis was still half-hard. Greg felt a mixture of anger and pity and again that inexplicable arousal at the sight before his eyes. Now with Quinn already so transformed into a slave, it was getting easier and easier to disconnect.

"Dad?" Quinn raised his head for a moment, his eyes pleaded softly, only for acknowledgement. His sweet voice was high and weak and barely audible.

Greg simply turned his back on the sobbing twelve-year-old and draped his right arm gently over Brandon's bare shoulders as they followed Gavin out of the room.

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