Istari

Tales from a World of Slavery 4:

Educating Quinn

Chapters IV-VII

"Kid's plugged," he whispered to Greg.

"Think so?"

"Absolutely. Big one too by the way he's walking."

Greg looked more closely and had to agree. Gavin's somewhat halting gait was almost identical to Brandon's preferred and well-practiced method for walking with a big plug up his butt. "Could be," Greg said.

"Let's find out. Junior Trainee Jenkins!"

"Yes, sir?" the boy stopped in his tracks at James Milstead's masterful command.

"Are you plugged?"

Gavin turned around to face them and he flashed a disarming smile. "Yes, sirs, I am. All us junior trainees are. I'm indentured 'til I turn sixteen."

"Got a cock-cage on under there?" James asked, pointing to the boy's groin.

Gavin blushed. "No, sir. My junk is too small. Even the smallest cage they make doesn't fit me that good. I wear a BoyGuard XS chastity belt instead."

James stifled a laugh. "Extra-small? That's meant for eight year olds, Jenkins."

Again the boy blushed. "I know. All the other j-techs tease me when we're back in the barracks. But Aaron says I'll start growing soon and have a real dick like his and get a real cock-cage. I hope he's right. Here we are sirs."

The doors in front of them read 'Penal Slave Markings'.

As before, the lights flickered on automatically when they crossed the threshold and tripped the motion detectors. James whistled under his breath and Brandon shuffled closer to Greg. The difference between the 'Penal Slave Prep Area' and this section was like night and day. The other had been white and bright and sterile, this place was gray and dark and oppressive. Gray cinderblock walls, concrete tile for the floors and chains hanging from the walls and ceiling. There was a dank, musty smell in here. The scariest sight was a large stainless steel operating table with leather restraining straps. It was in the center of the room under some very bright operating lights. Next to it was a low steel prep table on which all the tools needed to mark a boy for life as a penal slave awaited their next subject. Just on quick observation, Greg noticed several tattoo machines, branding irons, and the small electric brazier off to one side.

At the back of the room there was a raised platform with bench seating that overlooked the operating table. Gavin led them up the stairs to the platform.

"You'll be able to look down from here and see all modifications as they are done," the boy said cheerfully. He then went to work at the prep table, organizing everything that would be needed to give Quinn van Doorn his penal slave markings.

Sitting comfortably, Greg, James and Brandon were just waiting for the show to start; waiting for the principle player to take his place under the harsh white operating lights.

Ten minutes passed before the doors opened again. Aaron appeared at the entrance pulling Quinn by a leash into the center of the room. The twelve-year-old boy was really a sight to see as he tried in vain to keep his heavily weighted and low-hanging testicles from swinging and pulling on his scrotum. Every ginger step of his cute bare boyfeet, every slight motion of his narrow hips reminded him that he had two pounds [2 kg] of weight hanging from his ball-sack. The boy's testes had in fact been compressed into a tight shiny mass below the two split-collar weights. They were already turning a nice shade of purple. His uncut penis was soft at the moment, dangling limp. At three inches [7½ cm], it was long enough to swing from side to side as the boy walked. His nipples were still clamped, but the initial pain had faded to a dull ache. Quinn van Doorn was an amusing and arousing site that made Greg and James adjust the contents of their pants. They couldn't hold back their smiles at the faint ouches and yelps coming from Quinn's lips as the unfortunate boy tried to walk with his new ball weights, not to mention the weight of his iron slave collar and the heavy shackles permanently attached to his slender limbs.

Aaron was all business as he tugged Quinn forward toward the table.

"Get up there, boy," he said, smacking Quinn on the butt.

With all the weight attached to his body, it took quite an effort for Quinn to lift himself up onto the stainless steel table. The first thing he noticed is that it was icy cold against his bare butt. He shivered and then swung his feet up onto the table. His weighted scrotum scrapped along the cold hard metal surface forcing Quinn to let out several high-pitched yelps until he positioned himself in the center of the table. The twelve-year-old then got an unpleasant surprise as his weighted scrotum dropped through a round opening and hung in air below the table. The sharp sudden pull on his tender boy-bits caused him to scream. It echoed throughout the room. Aaron scoffed at Quinn's seemingly low pain threshold.

"You'd better toughen up in a hurry, kid. We haven't even started yet! I think I'll stuff your mouth to keep you from embarrassing yourself."

That said, Aaron stuffed a large penis gag into Quinn's mouth and strapped it tightly at the back of his head pulling it deeper into the boy's mouth and gagging him.

Aaron then went on to strap Quinn tightly to the operating table, restrained at the ankles, the knees, hips, neck and across the eyes. Aaron pulled each strap with a flurry and a snap and a jerk so Quinn could feel each and every roller buckle being fastened. In the end, Quinn was rendered completely motionless. He could not even turn his head. All the boy could do was wiggle his toes and fingers in building anxiety. In that moment he started to pee, just a short trickle onto the concrete floor, but it echoed and pattered like rain on the roof.

"He's peeing!" Gavin noted with wicked glee.

"Animals will do that," James said.

With the young penal slave boy strapped down to the table, Aaron faced the spectator platform and shared the following information with Greg.

"The state requires that Quinn be tattooed with the word SLAVE in black ink across his chest and also down the side of his right leg. As an additional service we will also be giving him his markings as your personal property. As per your overseer's instructions his slave number, 47, will be tattooed on his right shoulder blade and on the center of his forehead."

James turned to Greg and explained that he had given the number 47 to his former son as it was simply the next number in sequence of the plantation's acquired field slaves; the number was otherwise insignificant, just as Quinn was now.

"Our administrator wants to expedite the processing of this penal slave," Aaron continued after checking his clipboard. "To this end, he has assigned a team of six tattooists to work on different areas of the boy's body; three to outline and three to fill in the characters and numbers. We will be able to reduce five hours of tattooing to one hour."

Four men then entered the room wearing uniforms identical to those worn by the young processing technicians. They immediately began marking the places on the boy's body where the tattoos would be done.

"Given our expedited timeline," Aaron explained, "for today we are also joined by two professionals from the 'Slaves-R-Us Tattoo Studio' downtown. We bring them in for the more complicated jobs."

Two women entered the room.

"Denise and her daughter Jessica," Aaron made the cursory introductions.

James leaned over and whispered into Greg's ear. "Sounds like your friend John is eager to get us out of here today."

Quinn is horrified by the presence of these two women. Being naked in front of other guys was bad enough, but being naked in front of females was a nightmare for any twelve-year-old boy. His lightly freckled face burned beat red with embarrassment. His late mother was the only female to have ever seen him naked and now there is a fifty-year-old mother and her eighteen-year-old daughter standing with tattoo guns at his right leg ready to ink the word SLAVE onto his skin.

Young Jessica trailed her dark eyes down the length of Quinn's body, finally resting them on the boy's impressive penis.

"He's got a big one, for such a little boy," she said in a mocking tone.

Quinn realized that they can see his junk and knows that he just peed. The boy's embarrassment went deep; he was uncomfortable being naked in front of his mother and now he finds himself unbearably ashamed. He tried to close his legs and twist his hips to hide his boyhood from them, but the straps held him down firmly.

The tattoo teams moved with efficiency to complete all of the boy's penal slave markings at the same time. First a green soap mixture was sprayed on the areas to be stenciled. Next, the tracing papers with the word SLAVE and the number 47 were adhered to the areas to be tattooed and the stencils were rubbed onto the boy's skin and removed. For each stencil there were two tattooists with tattoo guns ready to prick the skin with the sting of thousands of bees; one to outline the stencil and one to fill in the three-inch [7½ cm] high characters and numbers with black ink.

As Jessica worked on filling in Quinn's leg tattoo, her left hand grazed Quinn's naked penis, which slowly started to twitch and swell.

"Look mom, his penis is coming out of its sheath."

Denise gave Quinn a hard threatening stare. "Don't you dare go and wag your nasty cock at my daughter, you filthy little boy, or I'll add the cost of a penectomy to your master's bill. You know what that means don't you?"

Quinn tries to shake his head but gets mixed up nodding 'No' first then 'Yes' or did he make a mistake? His little boy toes curved forward involuntarily.

"It means I'll slice your penis clean off, take it out by the root. You'll end up having to squat like a girl every time you take a piss."

Jessica laughed at the boy and flicked her fingers against the twelve-year-old's throbbing shaft. "Just like my brother Joshie has to do at home. He's eleven. He's still got his little balls, but no dick. Better get it soft if you don't want that happening to you."

But Quinn's penis clearly had a mind of its own and got even harder and rose unrestrained, its pink moist head out in the open. It bounced in the air a few times and a steady stream of clear sticky pre-cum dribbled out of him.

"Boys are such pathetic creatures," Denise hissed under her breath as she continued working on the boy's silken smooth hairless thigh.

Quinn's erection disappeared a bit as his focus was averted to his forehead where the excruciating work on the large number 47 was now beginning. He bit down hard on the rubber penis-gag in his mouth and screamed into it as they worked on him. Greg could see the boy tense his fine young muscles whenever the buzz of the tattoo guns started again. The boy struggled and stained against the straps, but he was held effectively motionless. His cock had quickly hardened again, but twelve-year-old boys often experience erections when they are frightened, and this was certainly the case now. Quinn was too preoccupied with the buzzing and sting of the tattoo machines to even be aware that his boycock was sticking up at forty-five degree angle. No one on the tattooing team paid any further attention to it either.

In less than an hour, Quinn's chest, right shoulder blade, the center of his forehead and the side of his right leg had been tattooed with black stenciled three-inch [7½ cm] high letters and numbers. The large 47 on the boy's forehead was particularly striking and further dehumanized the boy's appearance. The permanency of Quinn's slavery and status as a non-person was becoming more and more apparent.

Without words, Aaron and Gavin unbuckled Quinn from the table and turned him over on his stomach allowing his weighted scrotum to fall again through the open hole, eliciting the boy's now customary yelp. Then they reattached the straps to his ankles, this time including both of the boy's knees, hips, and shoulders and forcing Quinn's head to the right side pulling a strap across just above his ears fastening all of them tighter than before.

A tattooist completed Quinn's final tattoo, a bar code with his slave number and pertinent information including ownership particulars at the back of his neck. Quinn realized that even though he looked the part of a slave, it was the bar code that gave him the unmitigated full identity of one.

Once the tattooing brigade had left the room, Aaron turned on the electric brazier while Gavin began setting the appropriate letters into the branding iron. Aaron was giving his young counterpart a quick primer on branding a slave boy.

"Branding done properly permanently scars the slave. For the slave to receive his brand, he needs to be restrained properly. The restraints should be tight to hold him securely while the branding is taking place. This means he is totally unable to move, twist or jump. If he is allowed to do so, you run the risk of ruining the brand. Double check all the straps and tighten 'em down good."

Gavin quickly obeyed.

Quinn gulped hard as he felt the straps being pulled even tighter. On his tummy now, he was feeling pain again from the clamps on his nipples, not to mention the continued agonizing stretch of the two pound [1 kg] weights encircling his scrotum. He bit down on his penis-gag again and sucked in a sharp breath.

Aaron continued his lesson.

"The brand should be as hot as possible, if not the skin can adhere to the brand. The brand will need to be held on the spot with firm pressure for at least three seconds to be permanent. The slave will scream more when the branding is done. This is normal. There will be a lot of pain during, and afterwards. Don't freak out, Gavin. You've got to do this right."

"I'm ready, Aaron," the junior trainee said as he saw the branding iron turning a bright red.

Aaron looked over to Greg. "Your penal slave will receive your property brand for the plantation and vineyards, GVDP; the letters are set at two inches [5 cm] high to fit on your slave's right ass cheek."

Gavin pulls the branding iron from the brazier and everyone can see that the letters at the end are now white hot.

"Do it now, Gavin. Every second counts!"

Gavin pressed the hot iron against the slave boy's ivory ass cheek flesh.

Quinn's blue eyes widened and his face scrunched up in pain, searing pain, hear-your-own-flesh-sizzle pain and finally, smell-your-own-flesh-burn pain.

Aaron counts for Gavin. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi 3;"

The penis gag forced Quinn to choke on his screams, turning them into a series of pathetic gurgles, then nothing. Quinn passed out from the pain. The flesh of his right ass cheek that was so smooth and ivory pure was now blotchy red, swelling around the burning brand-mark.

Gavin pulled away the branding iron and returned it to the brazier. Aaron quickly inspected the brand for clarity then covered it with an ointment of hydrocortisone cream.

"Nice and clear. Good job, Gav. Gentlemen, we're finished here. Gavin will take you to the next section."

As Gavin again guided Greg, James and Brandon back out into the hallway to the next set of doors, Aaron released Quinn from the table and helped the twelve-year-old penal slave onto his feet. Quinn's eyes seemed distant and the boy was whimpering softly.

Aaron noticed how much longer Quinn's scrotum has become, as the weights and Dermaplast have had more than an hour to stretch the boy's ball-sack. "Looks like you're ready for another weight," the young technician said as he pulled the third split-collar from his pocket. "Spread 'em!"

Quinn spread his legs as far as his chains and hobbles would allow. Aaron tugged down on the boy's sack and quickly installed the third collar around the boy's scrotum, adding an additional pound [½ kg] of weight. Quinn groaned and winced and sniffled. Aaron playfully stroked Quinn's cock, bringing it back to a full five-inch [12½ cm] erection.

"You're liking this, aren't you?" Aaron asked him in a low voice.

Quinn vehemently shook his head, but something deep in the twelve-year-old's eyes said otherwise.

"Liar." Leaving the pre-teen erect and frustrated, Aaron attached the leash to the boy's collar again and led him out of the room.

Gavin meanwhile escorted Greg, James and Brandon through the doors that read 'Penal Slave Piercings'. This area was outfitted in white tiles and bright lights. Glass-fronted cabinets lined one wall, filled with all the tools and equipment necessary for the required piercing procedures. In the center of room is an OBGYN exam table with feet stirrups under very bright operating lights. It was a cold, clinical piece of furniture, given a bit of personality by faded pink leather padding on the seat and back. As in the previous room, at the rear there was a raised platform of that overlooked the table. Greg, James and Brandon sat down to watch Quinn continue receiving his slave modifications.

Aaron led the gagged and chained young boy in on a leash. Everyone immediately noticed that the twelve-year-old's awkward ginger gait was more pronounced than before, and for good reason. The third weight of the four he'd be receiving had been added to his scrotum, lowering his testicles another full inch [2½ cm] and compressing them even more tightly into a small purple knob. Awe replaced smirks and chuckles as Greg and James were amazed by the small elephant's trunk the little boy now had swinging between his slender trembling legs.

"I've never seen a boy this young with his balls stretched so far," James exclaimed under his breath. "And he's still got one more weight coming later on today."

Greg felt a mixture of sickened pity and inexplicable arousal as he gazed at Quinn's freakish transformation from cute adorable young boy into a twelve-year-old subhuman penal slave. "I think I'm enjoying this too much, Jim," he confided to his longtime friend and employee.

"You're not enjoying it enough," James replied.

"He's my son."

"No. He is not. He is an animal. And that's how he's going to be treated from now on. Look at him. Quinn is gone. Number 47. That's what he is now."

Aaron helped Quinn up on to the OBGYN exam table, making sure Quinn's weighted testicles fell through the opening in this table too. Aaron laughed. "Who knows, kid, another hour with your low riders hanging there and we might be able to clamp on two more weights instead of just the one."

Quinn found himself in a strange position of actually acknowledging Aaron. With the penis gag still keeping him silent, he resorted to nodding his head in agreement to accepting more weight to be clamped onto his testicles.

Aaron moved close and whispered into the boy's ear. "Yeah. Just like I thought. It's all turning you on, isn't it?"

Quinn blinked tears out of his blue eyes but finally gave up to the overwhelming truth. He nodded his head slowly, imperceptibly to all but Aaron.

Aaron than went on to strap Quinn tightly to the table, pulling thick leather straps over Quinn's chest and stomach. Gavin in the mean time busied himself securing Quinn's feet into the stirrups and spreading the boy's legs high and wide.

Aaron faced the spectator platform. "Before we begin with the piercings, number 47 will first be tightly circumcised." Aaron reached out and played with Quinn's hard five-inch-long [12½ cm] boyhood rolling the boy's foreskin back and forth exposing his pink moist glans.

Quinn was clearly embarrassed as his pre-cum flowed. He moaned and squirmed as much as he could, restrained so tightly to the exam table.

James leaned closer to Greg as they watched Aaron manipulate the twelve-year-old's ample penis between his fingers. "I like seeing our slaves with their little pecker heads sticking out. I like seeing their bare knobs. All that silly skin just gets in the way. They can't hide their little pink penis heads when they're naked! And I love squeezing their little mushroom caps and having ready access to their pee holes. Besides, they're much easier to keep clean. I still say you really should have Brandon cut. A slave boy with a foreskin. It's just not right."

"Brandon's not one of your little animals in stables, James," Greg said, putting a protective arm around the fourteen-year-old's shoulders. "Besides, it's cute. He's got such a tiny cock anyway, there's no reason to remove a piece of it."

Brandon blushed a beet red as the two men discussed his pathetic little penis and its extra skin.

Meanwhile a tall lanky man dressed in a white lab coat entered the room. He was pushing a medical cart and he moved with slow purpose toward the naked boy bound to the exam table.

"We do everything here at the 'Slave Processing and Discipline Center' under the direction of the State Slave Regulatory Agency," Aaron explained, releasing Quinn's erection and allowing it to stand on its own. "As you know, slaves are considered animals and any medical treatment of these animals is left up to veterinarians. Dr. Klemper is here to carry out your penal slave's circumcision."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Van Doorn," the bearded gray-haired vet said with a familiar smile. Greg acknowledged him and breathed a sigh of relief. Greg had been worried that Quinn's penis would be mangled by some hack vet, but he knew Dr. Klemper's skills. The experienced slave vet provided all of the necessary and preventative veterinary services to the Van Doorn plantation. He'd set Brandon's broken arm two summer's ago and seemed to exude a natural authority over any boy in his presence. The boys in the Van Doorn stables always shivered and fell silent whenever the vet was making his monthly rounds.

"And good afternoon, number 47," the vet said to Quinn staring down at the boy's hairless body and noting the number tattooed on the twelve-year-old's forehead.

Still gagged, Quinn blinked his acknowledgement and blushed red. He'd known Dr. Klemper all his life and had often accompanied him on his rounds in the stables. Now he was just another of the animals owned by his father.

Dr. Klemper pinched Quinn's foreskin. "I will be performing an extremely tight circumcision on this slave's penis in which the entire length of his foreskin will be sliced off with an ultra-sharp scalpel and his frenum completely removed. The requirement for penal slave boys is the removal of as much erogenous tissue as possible. Since local anesthetics are optional and since this animal is a penal slave, I will leave it to the slave's owner to decide if anesthetics should be employed.

"Might as well save some money here, boss," Jim whispered into Greg's ear.

Greg nodded. "You may proceed without anesthesia, doctor."

Quinn began to sob and shake his head from side to side.

Dr. Klemper began lecturing to Quinn as if he was teaching the boy in sex-education class. "This extra skin at the end of your penis is called your foreskin."

Quinn nodded to indicate that he knew what it was called. Klemper skinned the boy's sheath back as far is it would go, revealing Quinn's moist pink swollen glans.

"Underneath is a cap that looks like a mushroom head called the glans."

Quinn had not heard the correct term for it before.

"No adhesions," Klemper noted, "that's good. And it looks like you keep it reasonably clean."

The boy craned his neck as best he could to get a glimpse at his erect cock with its shiny pink head now fully exposed. The vet continued to handle the boy's organ with expert hands.

"At the base of the glans," Klemper ran his thumb over the sensitive skin along the underside of the boy's cock-head, "is your frenum."

Quinn immediately gasped and shivered and felt all tingly and his five-inch [12½ cm] cock strained and got even harder. A gossamer strand of pre-cum dripped out of it and landed on his hairless abdomen.

"Yes, you see how sensitive it is, how much pleasure it can give you. Well, penal slave boys are not allowed to experience that kind of pleasure, so your frenum needs to be severed and removed from your penis. I'll take it and your foreskin at the same time. See, after the operation your skin will be gone and your glans will always be exposed."

Gavin interrupted, "Are you going to cut his balls off too?

Quinn shuddered, remembering the picture of the young boy 'without his junk' that he had seen in the catalog of various slave equipment and accessories.

"Not today," Klemper replied. "Mr. Van Doorn wants to hold off on making him a gelding at this time."

Quinn felt only a slight tinge of relief. Maybe it was better not to have balls at all, rather than have to walk around with all those weights hanging from them and stretching them down. The twelve-year-old mused darkly that his nuts would be down to his knees if they kept adding those steel collars to his ball sack.

Klemper noticed the wry expression on the boy's face and decided it was time to get started.

The veterinarian took a clamp from the medical cart. "First I'm going to stretch his foreskin around this clamp."

It was easy to attach the clamp as Quinn's penis was rock hard and jutting out and up at a forty-five-degree angle.

Klemper stretched the twelve-year-old boy's foreskin as far as it would go around the clamp and then squeezed it closed, pinching Quinn's stretched foreskin in place. "This protects his glans from being accidentally cut when I remove his foreskin."

The tightness of the clamp caused the veins in the twelve-year-old's foreskin to bulge in a purplish tint. Quinn bit into his penis-gag and clenched his fists as the clamp bit into his most sensitive flesh.

"You can see the little animal is in some distress. There are a large number of nerve endings in a boy's foreskin. Not to worry, boy, soon it will all be over and you'll have a nice bald penis to match your bald head."

Dr. Klemper drew the scalpel toward the twelve-year-old boy's erect penis. His foreskin had now turned a deep dark purple from the clamp constricting the flow of blood.

Quinn was thrashing his head from side to side and sobbing uncontrollably. He'd never been so afraid in all his brief twelve yeas. The clamp provided a natural numbing effect, but it did little to ease the boy's growing terror at the realization that he was about to have his favorite toy operated on.

Dr. Klemper took the point of the silvery laser-sharpened scalpel and pierced the foreskin at the edge of the clamp and began to circumcise the boy. Everyone could hear Quinn sucking in a tortured breath. A little blood began to trickle down the side of the boy's penis and Quinn's screams began. The doctor sliced the foreskin around in a circle with the scalpel and when he cut all the way around to the starting point, the foreskin was severed. It was still covering the head, a swatch of reddish-purple skin caught in the clamp, but it was no longer connected to Quinn's penis. Klemper then worked carefully to fully remove the boy's frenum. This sent Quinn into wild shrieks of agony as he struggled in vain against the straps binding him to the table. He yelled and shouted into his penis-gag. His little heart was racing. Klemper had no pity to give. He merely had to a job to do and he did it well, and quickly. The boy's screams finally died down to a gurgled choked wail. The doctor removed the clamp taking the foreskin with it. There was blood. A lot of it. Quinn felt sick as he gazed down at his exposed red cock-head. His penis was still throbbing and erect, but Quinn felt none of the strange arousal he'd been experiencing since his arrival here. He just wanted this particular nightmare to end.

The doctor squeezed the boy's exposed glans with two fingers, pleased he was causing Quinn's eyes to tear before he properly dressed the incision, blotting the blood and checking the quality of his work. The circumcision was extremely tight, leaving no loose skin whatsoever, and it would get even tighter as it healed. "No damage to his glans," he announced, pleased with the aesthetics of his work. Next he used a sterile gauze pad to apply a liberal amount of 'Newskin', another product of BoyTech Industries that would cut the healing time down to a matter of hours rather than days. He wrapped the boy's freshly skinned cock as it slowly shriveled to its flaccid three-inch [7½ cm] length. "We will let his penis rest awhile before we pierce the glans. We can take care of all the other required piercings in the meantime."

Klemper laid out all the various rings and posts that would soon be permanently inserted into the young boy's flesh. All of them were fashioned from a nondescript grayish-black cast iron.

"Using cast iron lends substantial weight to the rings," Klemper explained. "It will serve as a constant reminder to the boy that he's a penal slave. Plus they will be far more durable and suited to his life of hard labor. Now, instead of just piercing the skin and taking days to heal and days to enlarge the holes, I will use a dermal punch." Klemper held up the wicked silvery device. Quinn locked his blue eyes on it in muted terror.

"It will actually remove a piece of the slave's flesh in the diameter needed for each ring. I will then insert a stainless steel grommet that protects the skin from tearing and allows any ferrous material to be used without concern for allergic reactions. Let me demonstrate by installing his earrings. First I pick out the size of cutter I want to equip the punch with, in this case ½ inch [12 mm] diameter and I simply slip the earlobe between the punch and die and squeeze 3; thusly."

"Aaiiiggh!" Quinn's penis gag could not silence his high-pitched shriek as the sickening sound of his tender young flesh being crushed and torn and punched through filled his ears.

Before the twelve-year-old could catch his breath the doctor did the other earlobe. Then taking a grommet tool, the doctor sandwiched the earlobe between two grommets and pressed them together.

"And now for the rings."

They were heavy black iron, roughly cast, donut shaped half-an-inch [12 mm] thick and three inches [7½ cm] in diameter.

"They're large enough to serve a multitude of uses such as pony slave reins or connecting points for a 'bit' gag or a restraint harness. They weigh about half a pound [250 g] each and will always pull down on the young animal's ears. Lastly, they are engineered to go on easy and lock on permanently. They swivel open and have a locking pin that engages when you close them."

'CLICK!'

'CLICK!'

Quinn heard and felt the ominous sound of the rings being permanently closed and affixed to his ears.

"The only way to get them off is with bolt-cutters," Klemper informed his audience. "We'll pierce this little animal's tongue and septum next."

Gavin released Quinn's penis gag readying him for more piercings. An ocean of drool poured out of the boy's mouth. Quinn sniffled and blinked fresh tears out of his blue eyes.

Gavin obediently handed Dr. Klemper a set of forceps. While Quinn gagged on his saliva, Dr. Klemper quickly clamped the forceps onto the twelve-year-old's tongue. Holding out the forceps didn't silence the gurgling sounds emitted from Quinn's throat, but it did give the vet plenty of room to pierce the tongue and install two ¼" [6 mm] grommets into it. Quinn's tongue was given two piercings, one near the tip, the other near the middle.

"While I have his tongue," Dr. Klemper offered, "I'll just snip his lingual frenulum, that's the membrane that holds the tongue to the floor of his mouth. This will give the little animal's tongue added length to penetrate all those hard to reach places." Dr. Klemper winked knowingly at Greg and James.

Quinn's entire body shook and thrashed against the straps.

"Easy there, boy!" Klemper said, gently patting the boy's forehead as he would a frightened dog. "Penal slaves are forbidden to produce human speech. Since this little beast is too young yet to have his vocal chords permanently severed, I will instead be ringing his tongue. The ring is quite large and will ensure that any sound he tries to make will come out as gibberish."

The ring that was installed was the only one of the set made of stainless steel rather than iron. It was big and practically filled the boy's mouth. "The muzzle we'll be placing over his face later has several different fittings for his mouth, including a slot attachment that will allow you to pull his tongue ring through it and secure it with a padlock. 47 won't be able to pull his tongue back into his mouth. Most penal slave boys find it quite humiliating."

With so many pain signals being sent to his brain at once, Quinn went into an odd state of sensory overload. For a moment everything seemed to just go numb. His screaming stopped and he curiously rolled his newly ringed tongue around inside his mouth, getting a sharp unpleasant taste of metal mixed with blood.

"The septum is next," Dr. Klemper says to Quinn. "Do you know what that means?"

With the gag out, Quinn could finally speak and he answered in a high weak wavering voice. "You're gonna 3; gonna put a 3; a ring in my 3; in my nose, right?"

That was what Quinn attempted to say. What everyone heard was merely an unintelligible cacophony of seemingly random sounds, a mocking approximation of human speech. The boy's huge tongue ring had made it impossible for him to form any coherent words. His new language as a penal slave would be one only of grunts, moans, groans and whimpers. Quinn's blue eyes widened in horror as he realized what was happening. He repeated himself.

"Yrthth gmmm 3; ppptthh gn hrng nn m nthhth. Nnnnnn, nnnnnn!"

Quinn started to cry. He wiggled his cute freckled button nose in a last attempt to communicate.

"Right. What a smart little animal you are," Klemper playfully tickled Quinn's nose with his fingers. "Now show us all how brave you are and try not to scream."

With a horrible crunching sound, and a low grunt from the boy, the hole was punched. The heavy three-inch [7½ cm] diameter iron ring was slipped through the boy's septum with its decisive locking click. Dr. Klemper let go of the boy's new snout ring. It was quite heavy and swung downward to slap against Quinn's lips. He would be the only boy in the Van Doorn stables with a big snout ring dangling from his nose.

Quinn breathed in a heaving sobbing breath.

"And now we'll focus our attention on the little animal's nipples."

Klemper tugged on the clamps still attached to the boy's tiny dime-sized nipples. Quinn groaned in futile protest. The clamps, combined with the Dermaplast, now allowed the veterinarian to pull the boy's nipples a full inch [2½ cm] away from the twelve-year-old's chest. Quinn was taking in tortured heaving breaths.

"I'll have to remove the clamps first. Jenkins, please gag him."

Gavin immediately stuffed the penis-gag back into Quinn's mouth and pulled the straps tight. With his mouth now stuffed with a huge latex penis-gag, and his new tongue ring, Quinn felt as if he were about to choke. He panicked and thrashed wildly against his bonds.

Klemper was quick to reprimand the boy, smacking the twelve-year-old on the thigh and flicking his weighted testicles. "You'll learn to breathe through your nose, if you know what's good for you."

Klemper wasted no time pulling off the clamps. Quinn bucked wildly against the leather straps that bound him to the table. He yelled into his gag as the blood rushed back to his sensitive little boy-tits. The boy's scream was so loud it actually echoed off the walls.

"Hold him down!" Klemper ordered. Aaron and Gavin both pressed their hands against Quinn's shoulders, pinning him to the table. The vet clamped the forceps to the boy's left nipple.

Quinn was rolling his head from side to side. The dermal punch removed a large chunk of skin followed by hysterical heart-wrenching screams from Quinn.

Brandon was weeping.

Greg felt sick to his stomach.

Even hard-hearted James had to look away and tried to ignore the pitiable boyish shrieks that filled the room.

In quick succession the boy's right nipple was pierced and the stainless steel grommets were installed in both of them, followed by the clicks of the heavy cast iron rings locking into the boy's flesh. The rings were the same size and thickness as the one already in his septum, providing a relentless tug and pull on the boy's small pink nipples.

Through the confused haze of pain and agony and shame and humiliation, Quinn wondered if there was any part of his sore and aching body that was not going to be used to cause him pain and humiliation. His agonized cock twitched to life again, swelling to a semi-erect state.

"Alright, number 47, I've got one more piercing before we end with your penis. This is state required for all penal slaves. It's called a guiche piercing. I am going to fit you with another ring, this time installed in your perineum. That's the skin between your anus and scrotum."

Dr. Klemper clamped and lanced a large hole in the smooth soft pale hairless skin between Quinn's heavily weighted scrotum and his plugged rectum. The one-pound ring he then inserted was huge, four inches [10 cm] in diameter and a full inch [2½ cm] in thickness. It would be perfect for tethering the boy to a wall or a cart.

Aaron watched the piercing and invited Greg down to observe more closely.

"You know there is just no way that he ever be able to close his legs ever again," the young man noted. "The ring in his perineum and his pulled and weighted scrotum will keep his legs so wide that his ass hole will be permanently visible to everyone. I can't get over how awesome he looks."

Greg had to agree as he gazed at the chained, collared, tattooed, pierced and naked boy lying on the table. He focused his attention on the word SLAVE in large black block letters on the boy's chest and leg, and on the number 47 that marked his forehead. He studied the split collar weights that permanently encircled the twelve-year-old's ball sack. He noted, not for the first time, the semi-aroused state of the boy's freshly circumcised penis. His own erection was plainly visible to everyone, including his son.

Quinn locked his blue eyes on his father. Greg stared back at him. The message was clear. You are my seed, but you are not my son. I am your sire, but I am not your father.

Quinn, picturing his new appearance and his new status could only sob in shame.

Dr. Klemper was ready to continue. "And now, finally, your penis piercings; the first is called the Prince Albert with a Prince's Wand. This particular piercing is done by putting a hole in your penis, just behind the underside of your glans and into your urethra. Do you know what your urethra is?"

Quinn somberly shook his head.

"It's the hole you pee out of."

Quinn's intelligent eyes flashed their understanding, and their horror. They were gonna put an extra hole in his dick. How would he pee with an extra hole down there?!

"Once I've made the hole I'll insert the wand. It's a hollow metal tube that goes into your pee hole. The wand is three-and-half-inches [9 cm] long and goes right down into your urethra." He held the newest piece of jewelry up for the boy to see.

Quinn's legs began to stiffen in the stirrups and his little boy toes curled down in anticipation.

"Once the wand is in your penis, a stem is inserted through the PA piercing and into this threaded hole on the side of the Prince's wand. See?"

Quinn nodded his head and swallowed hard.

"The side stem holds the tube in place inside your pee hole and the threaded cap at the end holds your pee. I'm sure your masters don't want you pissing all over the place while you're hard at work, so from now on they'll decide when you'll be allowed to pee." Dr. Klemper laughs gently.

As he prepared the PA piercing he turned to Greg van Doorn. "Perhaps as his master, you would like to perform this procedure?"

Quinn's eyes widened and he gave his father a pleading look.

"Yes. I think that would be a good idea," Greg said.

Klemper guided Greg through the process. Greg himself lanced the hole in his son's penis, inserted the wand and stem and twisted the little cap in place. Quinn could feel the cold metal wand inside his cock. He shivered and trembled but did not scream or cry. He wanted to be brave for his master.

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" the veterinarian asked the little penal slave.

Quinn slowly shook his head, never taking his mournful eyes off his father.

"47's last penis piercing is a shaft ampallang, I will pierce the skin on the underside of his penis just below his glans. The hole will be perpendicular to the shaft of the penis; this will be used to help secure your penal slave's new cock-cage on him and will use the last of the heavy weighted rings to help keep his penis always pointing south."

The piercing was again made by Greg himself, under the veterinarian's close supervision and over the soft moans and sobs of the twelve-year-old boy. Greg then inserted the last of the iron weights pulling Quinn's penis toward the floor.

Dr. Klemper wiped off the entire length of Quinn's penis with an antibiotic ointment paying special attention to the head with its new PA and the area right behind it where the new ring pierced the boy's shaft. Aaron cleaned off the rest of the piercing sites and applied antiseptic spray to each of them.

"That concludes the required piercings."

Klemper consulted his medical cart for the next device to be installed.

"Do you have his microchip ready?" he asked Aaron.

"Sure do, sir," the young technician said as he worked on the small laptop computer Klemper had brought in with him on the cart. "It's uploading all of number 47's information now. Connecting to the network 3; done." With a pair of tweezers, Aaron carefully placed the boy's microchip into a petrie dish.

"Your tracking chip," Klemper explained, showing it to Quinn. "All penal slave boys are required to have one. GPS locator lets the Slave Authority see your whereabouts at all times. Greg, you do understand that if you take him off the plantation for any reason, for any amount of time, you must scan his barcode into the tracking system, otherwise they will assume the little animal has escaped."

Greg nodded and looked over at James.

"Won't be a problem, boss, don't worry."

Quinn watched the doctor make a small shallow incision on the inner part of his silken smooth right thigh. The doctor then inserted the micro-chip and then closed the tiny cut with a liberal application of 'Newskin'. Quinn stared in cute boyish wonder as the incision disappeared completely in a matter of seconds.

"If you ever tried to escape," Klemper warned, "a satellite would track you and find your position within twenty feet [6 m], all in a matter of seconds. They would send Slave Control after you. Your father's custody of you would be terminated and you'd either be crucified or sold to a mine or factory, where you'd be dead in a matter of months."

Quinn's innocent blue eyes danced and he choked back a terrified whimper.

"But you won't be trying to run away, will you, number 47?"

The boy vehemently shook his head.

"Good boy. Now we come to the last modification here," Dr. Klemper held up a gleaming chrome dental spreader for Quinn to see. "Remove his gag, please." This time Greg, still standing over his son, removed the penis gag himself. Again their eyes met. Quinn saw a brief glimpse of sympathy in his sire's eyes, but it passed quickly.

"Open up boy, we need to remove your back teeth to make room for your bit for your days of plowing, hauling and carting."

Dr. Klemper inserted the dental spreader into Quinn's mouth and jacked his jaws widely apart. Next came the pliers. Quinn sobbed as the veterinarian brandished them in front of his face.

"Today we are removing the upper and lower sets of molars number 1 through 3, that's twelve teeth altogether, boy, if you're counting."

James spoke to Greg. "You know, boss, it would be just as easy to remove all 32 of its teeth while Doc is here. They say having your cock gummed is better than a pussy sucking it off, besides, it ain't like it's going to need them with a diet of slave chow from now on."

Greg noticed James using the term 'it' when speaking of Quinn. That didn't sit entirely well with him, but it was entirely accurate. Quinn van Doorn no longer existed. The animal strapped to the table was number 47. A non-person. A piece of property. Still he couldn't bring himself to speak of 47 in those terms yet.

"No James, I want him to lose just his back teeth to do the work of an animal."

Klemper bent over Quinn and tightened the pliers onto one of Quinn's back bottom molars on his left side. With seeming ease he twisted and yanked down. Quinn heard a cracking sound then heard himself scream "DADDY!" Even with the huge tongue ring, this one word rang out perfectly clear through the chamber. Then came a sickening sucking sound as his tooth worked free. Dr. Klemper held it before Quinn's hysterical eyes as his tongue explored the newly-created gaping hole in the back of his mouth. Dr. Klemper dropped the tooth into a metal pan on the medical cart. It landed with a clink! For the next fifteen minutes Dr. Klemper worked the pliers into the twelve-year-old's mouth... twisting and tugging...

Quinn passed out twice during the ordeal, only to be revived by smelling salts.

"Don't want this fine young animal to miss the experience of each tooth being pulled out of his little head," Klemper said, hinting at his true sadistic nature for the first time. Twist and pull, crunch and soul-crushing pain until all twelve of the boy's upper and lower molars had clinked into the metal pan. Klemper flooded the boy's mouth with salt water then packed it with gauze to staunch the bleeding. Then he shoved the penis-gag back into the boy's mouth and strapped it in place. He nodded to Greg and began packing up his instruments.

"I'll stop by the vineyards in two weeks to check on the animal's general health," Klemper said. "I'll just add my bill for today to your account."

After the vet departed, Aaron announced, "We're finished here. Gavin will take you to the last section."

As Gavin guided Greg, James and Brandon to the last section, Aaron unbuckled Quinn from the exam table and pulled him to his feet. In addition to the weight of his collar, shackles and hobbles, all of the boy's new rings added nearly ten more pounds [5 kg] to the weight he'd be forced to endure for the rest of his life. As Quinn's bare boy-feet hit the floor gravity for the first time pulled all of his attached weights downward in one massive screaming hurt.

"ARRRRRRGHHH!!!!"

"Oh, my god," Aaron stared with wonder how much longer 47's scrotum has become. "I must have used too much Dermaplast." It was true, the boy's cinched up purple balls were now dangling almost down to the middle of this smooth creamy white thighs. There was now room for a fourth, fifth and possibly sixth one-pound split collar.

"You and I agreed on two more, didn't we?"

47 slowly nodded, and his cock slowly hardened.

"I'm gonna try to get three of them on."

47 let out a high-pitched whimper but obediently and willingly spread his legs as wide as the hobbling irons above his knees would allow.

Aaron in fact had no problem adding three new split collars and three more pounds [1½ kg] of weight to the boy's scrotum.

"Probably gonna end up pinching your chords and making you sterile, but penal slaves aren't allowed to reproduce. Only humans have that right." Once the final split collar was placed around the twelve-year-old's stretched scrotum, Aaron dropped all six weights, all six inches [15 cm], all six pounds [3 kg]. Quinn staggered and nearly fell over. That sickening feeling of being kicked in the balls was back again. He blinked tears out of his baby-blue eyes and sucked in desperate rapid breaths.

"One more thing," Aaron said as he unlocked one of the glass-front cabinets and produced a round metallic ball, five inches [12½ cm] in diameter and covered all over with tiny sharp steel spikes. A short three-inch [7½ cm] chain was attached to it.

"This is called the 'Stinger.' It hangs from the ring in your perimeum. It makes sure you always keep your legs spread as wide as your knee hobbles will allow. That's another pound [½ cm] of weight for you too. Nice isn't it? Feel how sharp the spikes are."

Quinn reached out with his shackled left wrist and ran his fingers over the surface of the nasty little spikes.

"If you're smart, you won't ever try to bring your thighs together. If you do, this will stop you."

Aaron hung the stinger from the boy's guiche ring. Quinn felt it immediately, dangling and swinging between his slender hairless legs.

Aaron flicked 47's flaccid freshly circumcised three-inch [7½ cm] penis. "Time to install your cock-cage." He again attached the leash to the boy's collar. "Get moving!"

Greg, James and Brandon are standing, waiting for their slave in the last assigned section for slave modifications, 'Penal Control Modifications'.

V. Dehumanized

Together, Aaron and Gavin took Quinn to the center of this room and helped the twelve-year-old step up onto a raised pedestal between to posts. Leather armbands were cinched tightly around the boy's biceps and then chained to the posts, holding him position for his final modifications.

"First we have some optional modifications selected by your overseer and approved by your master. Let's start from the bottom up, shall we? We'll start at your feet with toe rings."

'Toe rings? Really?' Quinn mused. 'That doesn't sound too bad.'

Aaron and Gavin busied themselves fitting Quinn's sweet little boy toes with thick steel rings of varied widths, fitting Quinn's big toe first and working down to his pinky toe. Aaron was working on the boy's right foot, Gavin on his left. All of these toe rings had a large restraint ring welded to them of varying diameters from one inch to two inches [2½-5 cm].

"These rings can be used for restraining your feet for bastinado punishment," Aaron said.

Quinn did not know what bastinado meant, but he was sure James Milstead would be educating him as to its meaning.

"Just walking with these rings will remind you of your slave status as you feel the rings constantly and the thumps of the restraining rings flopping back and forth with every step you take."

James called Aaron over for a moment as Quinn wiggled is newly ringed toes. He quite liked the way they looked and let out a boyish giggle in spite of his pain and humiliation. He looked up to see his master, his overseer and the young technician conferring about something.

Aaron nodded his head and returned to the naked slave boy with a smirk. "Gavin," he ordered his young assistant, "take out 47's butt-plug."

Gavin obediently moved to Quinn's rear-end and removed Quinn's metal butt-plug.

"It looks like your overseer has ordered a larger size ten enema plug for you already."

Aaron stood before Quinn and showed him his new anus stretcher, an inflatable enema plug. This monster measured five-and-one-half inches [14 cm] in length, and was three inches [7½ cm] thick at its widest point, even the tapered end was more than one inch [2½ cm] thick. Aaron pumped up and released the air to demonstrate just how big the plug could become when fully inflated.

Quinn shuddered, wondering how that big thing was ever going to fit inside him.

Aaron pointed to the rubber tube running through enema butt plug.

"This will be used to pass fluids through while the plug is inflated. That means your overseer can give you your daily enemas without ever taking out your plug." Aaron then spoke to James and Greg. "It will also put a lot of pressure and stimulus on his prostate, much more than a standard plug. 47 will be crazy horny, all the time!"

"Good," James said. "We can put all the pent-up energy to hard labor."

Aaron gave the new plug to Gavin for lubing up. Both boys then worked the plug between Quinn's ass cheeks, twisting and shoving it past the young boy's sphincter muscles. With a sharp grimace of pain on Quinn's face and soft moan of protest from his throat, the new plug fit it all the way in. The boy felt his little ring trying to close around it. Gavin quickly attached the inflating hose and pumped the plug to its fullest size. He removed the hose and sealed the valve. Quinn's sphincter continued to twitch and struggle and stretch, but the plug was now firmly seated inside him.

He sobbed in humiliation as his penis again stiffened to a full throbbing five-inch [12½ cm] erection.

Aaron gave James quick instructions on the use of the enema plug. "You can fill his bowels, close the valve and make him hold the enema for minutes or hours."

James immediately imagined the small naked bald chained boy laboring in the fields with an abdomen grotesquely and painfully distended by a huge punishment enema. Yes, he'd be utilizing this feature often as part of 47's discipline and training.

"Next well be doing a partial clubbing of the boy's hands," Aaron said. "This is a state required discipline and control procedure. Human boys have five fingers. Animals, generally speaking, do not. 47 will be locked into penal slave gloves."

Gavin produced the pair of thick black leather gloves and held them up with a wicked smile for everyone to see. They were designed to completely cover the young penal slave's hands and attach via locking clasps to the iron rings on his wrist shackles. The slave gloves had open holes for only three of the boy's digits. His thumb, index and middle finger on each hand would be free, but his pinky and ring finger would be kept tightly curled against the palm of his hand and constricted motionless by the tightness of the glove. The end result was that the boy was left with the use of only two fingers and his thumb.

"Studies have shown that a penal slave boy can still be highly productive with only three functioning fingers on each hand. In time, his constricted fingers will become permanently curled upon themselves and completely useless. Put the gloves on him, Gavin."

Quinn watched seemingly mesmerized as the strange gloves were fitted over his hands and locked in place. He immediately noticed and felt what Aaron had been talking about, as the pinky and ring finger on each hand were held tightly clenched by the gloves. He tried to move those fingers, but it was simply impossible. He panicked and struggled against the poles that bound him in place.

"I'm told penal slaves always freak out when the gloves first go on. He'll get used to it, eventually."

Brandon shifted nervously next to Greg. Sometimes, as punishment, Greg would bind his hands and fingers in this way and he knew exactly what his former master was feeling at the moment.

"It has to be done, Brandon," Greg whispered to the fourteen-year-old slave boy. "He'll be better off this way. It's for his own good."

That was the kind of thing masters always said to their slave boys before something really bad happened.

With the gloves locked in place, Aaron and Gavin now returned to Quinn's front, to finalize the boy's permanent enforced chastity.

"Now for 47's new cock-cage. It is even smaller and more constricting than his first one."

Aaron playfully stroked the twelve-year-old boy's erect penis.

"Before we permanently lock up his boyhood, do you want us to give your penal slave one last orgasm?

Greg did not even have to think about it. "No." Greg's rejection echoed in the room. Quinn's last hope for mercy was gone. He cast his eyes to the floor and waited, watching his erect penis throb insistently, so full of need.

"Ice the animal's penis down please, Gavin," Aaron said.

Gavin returned a moment later with a spray can of icy aerosol and applied it liberally to the young penal slave's cock.

Quinn felt his penis going ice-cold immediately. His erection slowly but thoroughly subsided until he was completely limp and flaccid again.

"I will now install 47's cock-cage. The cock-cage is shockingly small for penal slaves and quite severe. The stainless steel cage is intended to keep 47's penis bent downward at a sharp angle. The inside has sharp stainless steel spikes covering all interior bars. This will defeat any attempted erections."

Aaron stared directly into Quinn's blue eyes. "You will NEVER have an erection again."

Quinn sniffled and closed his eyes tightly.

Aaron held up the first piece of the cock-cage. It was a steel genital ring in two halves, similar to the split collar weights dangling from the boy's scrotum. He closed it carefully at the base of the twelve-year-old's genitals, encircling the base of the boy's cock and scrotum, snug up against the boy's hairless groin. He locked the base ring in place with an allen-wrench. The base ring had a series of posts and locking clamps designed to accommodate the cock-cage itself.

Aaron removed the ring that pierced the underside of the boy's penile shaft, then bent the twelve-year-old's flaccid boyhood downward and slipped the small steel cock-cage over his penis. The base of the cage had small holes and catches that corresponded to the posts and clamps on the base ring. Aaron attached the two pieces of the cage together. The posts slid easily into the holes, and with an ominous 'CLICK' the clamps closed and locked around the catches. Small set screws were then tightened down on the base ring to ensure the cage formed a single solid impregnable piece. Removing the cage would require the use of bolt-cutters to sever the metal posts and break the locking clamps. Quinn's penis was now permanently locked in chastity. Not even his master had a key to release him.

As if to further emphasize this fact, Aaron again fed the heavy steel ring through the boy's ampallang piercing and padlocked the ring to the front end of the cock-cage. This further ensured no freedom of movement for the boy's cock inside its tiny constricting prison.

Quinn immediately started to get hard and was now experiencing the relentless discipline of the sharp spikes as he looked down at his penis permanently locked into a heavy cruel cock-cage, never to be used again except for peeing. Tears welled up in his eyes, but his cock strained yet harder. The twelve-year-old's penis was oozing pre-cum now like a leaky faucet, and it always would from this day forward.

Aaron jiggled the boy's cock-cage, ensuring the fit was extremely tight.

"Excellent. Feel those spikes, 47?"

Quinn nodded and tried in vain to will his penis to soften. Twelve-year-old boys have no control over their eager young cocks, but the cock-cage would provide that control for him for the rest of his life.

"As a lifer condemned to hard labor, you will need to be fitted with a muzzle, this is your last modification. Your Master chose the Model S-10 permanent muzzle for you. It is called the 'Silencer', which is manufactured by BoyTech Industries. It is designed specifically for pre-teen penal slaves like you. It is a stainless steel muzzle. It will cover the entire lower half of your face."

Gavin held up the muzzle and turned it around so that Quinn could see it. It was designed to cover the entire lower half of the boy's face. The mouth opening was about two inches [5 cm] in diameter and was surrounded with mounting points that would allow the attachment of either a cock-gag or the special slot attachment that would stretch the boy's tongue out of his mouth.

Aaron demonstrated the fitting of the cock-gag, making a special point to note that it had a funnel attachment. "Your penal slave can be fed his slave chow without the need to ever remove the muzzle."

James smiled. "That's a real time saver. Good choice, boss," he patted Greg on the back.

"OK boy, let's see how it fits." Aaron said.

Aaron pushed the steel muzzle up toward Quinn's face, telling Quinn to open his mouth. Gavin amusingly held up Quinn's large snout ring while Aaron cupped the bottom of Quinn's chin in the lower half of the muzzle pushing in the penis gag in to fill Quinn's small mouth. Gavin let go of Quinn's snout ring. It fell forward to slap against the front of the stainless steel muzzle with a loud 'clank.'

Aaron then fastened and locked the back of the muzzle tightly around Quinn's bald head. He then demonstrated how the cock-gag of the muzzle could be unscrewed and removed by turning the large steel ring at the front of the muzzle. He pulled it out for just a moment and then replaced it with the funnel attachment screwing the funnel tightly in place. "There are rubber seals inside to ensure no drool leaks out when he's gagged and no slave chow spills from the funnel."

"Nice," James said, clapping his hands.

Aaron took the funnel attachment out and screwed the cock-gag back in.

The entire lower half of the boy's face was covered by the cruel muzzle. All that was visible was his nose with its large snout ring, his ringed ears, his bald head, his missing eyebrows, and the number 47 on his forehead. The only similarity between this dehumanized animal and a boy named Quinn van Doorn was those soft sensitive intelligent blue eyes.

Aaron and Gavin unbuckled the armbands around number 47's biceps, freeing the boy from the bondage posts. The young technicians then reattached 47's heavy restraining chains with padlocks; from his slender ankles to his slim wrists and in between them both, and finally up to the collar. Quinn is now bent forward under their backbreaking weight. The original thirty-seven pounds [17 kg] of chains and fetters have now ballooned to at least fifty pounds [23 kg] with all the weighted split collars and rings added to his body.

Aaron drew a small flexible crop from his belt and smacked 47 hard across the ass. "Stand up straight, boy!"

Quinn yelped into his muzzle and tried his best to obey, fighting with all his boyish strength against his cruel bonds. They guided him off the pedestal to stand for inspection by Greg and James.

Aaron had a clip board with a check list of 'Penal Slave Modifications' from which he called off each indignity suffered by Quinn's young twelve-year-old pre-teen body as Gavin points to them and yells 'CHECK'.

• Item 1. Permanent depilation of all body hair.
• Item 2. Head and eyebrows shaved with permanent depilation.
• Item 3. Installation of 6 one-pound stainless steel split collar scrotum weights.
• Item 4. Piercing and installation of rings in the following locations:
  • Earlobes
  • Septum
  • Tongue
  • Perineum (Guiche piercing, with 'Stinger' spiked ball attachment)
  • Penis (PA and Shaft Ampallang piercings, with Prince's Wand)
• Item 5. Circumcision with full removal of frenum.
• Item 6: Permanent identifying tattoos:
  • "47" in center of forehead
  • "47" on right shoulder blade
  • "SLAVE" across chest
  • "SLAVE" down side of right leg
  • Bar code at back of neck
• Item 7: Slave branding
  • "GVDP" on right ass cheek
• Item 8: GPS tracking microchip installed in inner right thigh.
• Item 9: Teeth removal
  • 12 - Top and Bottom, Left and Right Molars 1 through 3.
• Item 10: Toe rings with restraints.
• Item 11: Installation of anal plug
  • Combination anus stretcher and enema plug, size 10.
• Item 12: Penal slave gloves.
• Item 13: Installation of permanent cock-cage
  • Boyguard Model X-7 stainless steel cage.
• Item 14: Permanent stainless steel muzzle.
  • The 'Silencer', Boy-Tech Industries Model S-10.

Aaron turned the clipboard over to Greg for him to sign off, indicating all required and optional modifications of his penal slave were completed to his satisfaction. Aaron reminded Greg that if any other modifications were decided upon at a later date, that he would be more than welcome to return to the Processing and Discipline Center. Greg scanned the list one last time, noticed the prices, parts and labor for each procedure, and signed off on the modifications.

Number 47's transformation had just cost Greg van Doorn exactly $3,749.67

"Pretty steep, boss," James observed. "But with a penal slave boy working fourteen hours a day, we can let a few of our field hands go. He'll end up turning a nice profit for you in the end." James glared at the boy. "I'll see to that. Gonna work you hard, boy!"

Aaron and Gavin made one last check of all of number 47's chains, from his ankles, to his wrists, to his collar and in between them all, making sure all the padlocks are secured. The keys to all the padlocks, and to 47's cock-cage, where all placed on a large steel ring and handed to Greg van Doorn. Greg instantly turned them over to James.

"That concludes all of the procedures," Aaron announced. Quinn stood in the spotlight by himself in the center of the room, totally exhausted, shattered and confused and quietly shedding tears.

"Gavin will guide you gentlemen out. As discussed these modifications can be quite traumatic and will require the boy to be held in one of our solitary confinement cells for several days until he's healed and healthy enough to be returned. We will keep you informed as to his progress and as to when you may pick him up."

Aaron held out his hand and received Greg's strong grip in return. "When your contract with the Slave Authority is up, I'm sure I could find a place for you at the Van Doorn estates."

Aaron smiled. "Thank you, sir. I'll certainly think about it."

Thirteen-year-old Gavin escorted Greg, James and Brandon out of the penal slave processing area.

Aaron meanwhile attached a leash to Quinn's collar and pulled the boy out to the hallway and down another flight of stairs to the confinement cells. It got darker and darker and colder and colder the deeper they went, long dank corridors lit by bare dim light-bulbs. Aaron brought the boy to a stop in front of a cell. Its solid steel door was opened with a key. Number 47 was pulled into the dark confinement space and attached standing to chains hanging from the ceiling.

Aaron stared at him for a moment, then unbuckled his pants and pulled them down. The eighteen-year-old's soft five-inch [12½ cm] cock quickly hardened to a thick and powerful seven inches [18 cm]. His balls were huge and hanging low, indicating the young man's virility.

"You've been getting me all hot and horny all fucking day!"

Aaron wiped his drooling pre-cum on the twelve-year-old's chest and started to masturbate right in front of 47's wide eyes. After just a few minutes, Aaron gasped, threw his head back and ejaculated all over Quinn's face and chest. Then he buckled up and left the room.

"See ya around kid," Aaron said as he slammed the door to the isolation cell. He held no malice toward the boy, nor did he feel the slightest empathy.

The door was locked, and the darkness became abject blackness. Then suddenly there is light, bright glaring light. Quinn could see that he was not alone in solitary. There were multiple Quinns, all with the word SLAVE on their chests and the number 47 on their foreheads. There were mirrors on every wall reflecting his image and the reflection of his image from other mirrors making for a multitude of shamed, humiliated and degraded twelve-year-old pre-teen boys. The lights flickered off, casting the boy in oppressive darkness again.

Exactly thirty minutes later, they snapped on again, and a voice over the loudspeaker says, "Stand at attention, number 47."

Quinn struggled to stand up straight with all the weight hanging from his body, but he obeys.

The lights went off.

Thirty minutes later they clicked on again.

"Stand at attention, number 47."

And so it went on for seven days. Seven days for penal slave number 47 to recover from his modifications. Seven days during which the boy learned what it was like to have every movement and every one of his bodily functions strictly controlled by others. Seven days for the boy to begin to understand why the images looking back at him were exciting him and causing so much discomfort within the strict confines of his tiny metal cock-cage.

VI. Homecoming

Greg at first assumed the fault must lie mostly with him. He had been far too inattentive with Quinn's upbringing, and he had missed the many warning signs, from the time Quinn was eight or nine years old, that the boy simply wasn't made of stern enough stuff to be a master of slaves, or a master of the estate, or a master of anything for that matter. The boy was bright and energetic to be sure, but flighty and undisciplined, overly sensitive, weak of spirit, easily lead into trouble, and obviously submissive. Any of these character flaws would have been manageable taken on their own, but the combination of all of them in young Quinn van Doorn had likely doomed the boy from the start to a life of slavery.

'Maybe if I'd been tougher on him,' Greg mused, but he was a believer in nature over nurture. The flaw, ultimately, was with the boy himself. He looked in the rearview at James Milstead. 'Jim always told me Quinn was a weak seed. Guess he was right.'

Greg then laid his eyes on Brandon. The fourteen-year-old boy had always endured his enslavement with such grace and quiet dignity. He would cry softly when he was being punished or otherwise hurting, but he would never whine or complain about his lot in life. He was generally obedient, responsible, good-natured and highly intelligent if mostly uneducated. Everyone who met the young slave was immediately taken by his winning personality and the unassuming pride with which he carried himself. Greg studied the young teen's delicate sleeping face. There was so much potential there. Potential that Quinn likely never had, and now would never develop.

Greg smiled to himself as he turned down the long drive onto the estate. The solution to the problem of the Van Doorn plantation's future was sleeping on the back seat.

When the house came into view, James nudged Brandon in the ribs. "We're home, boy. Don't let your master catch you sleeping again." He laughed and smacked the boy lightly on the back of his head.

Once they were out of the family sedan, Greg attached a leash to Brandon's collar and held it loosely in his right hand.

"Guess I'd better see what Nate's been up to while we were gone," James said, taking a quick glance over to the stables on the far side of the circular driveway. "If he doesn't have a team of boys out planting, I'll flog his little ass."

Greg laughed, always amused at James' perpetual disappointment in his own son. He tugged lightly on Brandon's leash and led him into the house. Once the door was closed, the boy stared up at him with a haunted look in his hazel eyes and then broke into tears. Brandon had been suppressing his young emotions all day and finally, in the privacy of his master's house where he'd always felt safe, if not free, he could no longer hold them back.

Greg dropped the leash and took the small fourteen-year-old boy into his arms.

"It's alright, Brandon. Everything is going to work out. You'll see. Has your master ever lied to you?"

"No, sir," the boy replied, his voice soft and weak.

"No more tears. Go fix me a drink, then bring it to me in the living room."

Brandon sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his arm. "Yes, sir. What would master like to drink?"

"Gin and Tonic. Two limes. I'll want a glass of cola too, lots of ice. Bring them on a tray."

"Yes, master."

Greg gave the boy a firm swat on his butt to snap him out of his funk and get him moving.

While Brandon was busying himself in the kitchen, Greg made a detour into his office and opened the wall safe. He searched through several folders and envelopes until he found the one he was looking for. He tucked it under his arm, strolled leisurely down the hall, nearly tripped on Quinn's skateboard, and then made himself comfortable in the spacious living room.

Brandon appeared a few minutes later with the two prescribed drinks on the tray. The naked boy set them down on the table and presented the first one to his master with a well-practiced bow. Domestic service was one of the boy's best talents, and something he seemed to rather enjoy.

"Thank you, boy," Greg said, casting his eyes up and down the fourteen-year-old's long, lean, lithe, hairless body. He took a sip of the G&T and smiled. "Excellent. You're getting better at these."

Brandon smiled shyly. "Thank you. That book you gave me really helped. I can't really read the instructions, but the pictures help a lot."

"Thought they might. Everyone is always very impressed with you whenever we have guests."

"Thank you, master."

Greg gestured to the second drink on the tray with a smile. "That one is for you."

Brandon's eyes widened in shock for a moment. He was never allowed to have any kind of soda. Only free boys drank good sweet stuff like that. Since his enslavement at the age of eight, Brandon drank only milk, water and a daily protein shake.

"Really?"

"Really. Unless you'd like some gin?" Greg held his glass out to the boy.

"No, sir. Cola is fine, sir."

Brandon almost greedily picked up the glass and took a big long gulp. The sugary sweetness nearly made his knees go weak. It had been so long since he'd tasted anything so good. Quinn had always delighted in drinking sodas in front of him and reminding him that he couldn't have any.

Greg returned his drink to the table and picked up the folder he'd brought from the office. He thumbed through it for a moment then stared directly at Brandon. He held his gaze for a long time.

"Is something wrong, master?" Brandon asked, afraid he'd put too much tonic in his master's drink.

"No. I'm just looking at you. A master can look at his handsome young slave boy when he wants too, can't he?"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

Brandon set his drink next to Greg's on the table, then stood at attention with his arms behind his head.

Greg sat forward, still holding the folder. Several papers fell out, but he ignored them and gestured Brandon to keep still when the boy dutifully bent down to pick them up.

"What do you think about what you saw today? Tell me the truth, boy."

Brandon's hazel eyes danced. "I think it sucks, sir. What they did to Quinn. How could you 3; I mean 3; " the boy trailed off, afraid he'd gone too far.

"No. Continue. I said I wanted the truth."

"How could you and Master James let them do that to him? He's your son, sir. I tried not to cry, but Quinn's my friend. I know I would have tried to stop them, if I was his dad. How could you let that happen to him? That was the worst part of the whole thing, sir. You just watched the whole thing, and you never tried to help him."

Greg sat back, a bit surprised at the depth of the slave boy's feeling, and venom, but pleased that Brandon had obeyed his command.

"What could I have done, Brandon? We all made a mess of things, and the only way to fix it was for Quinn to be enslaved. If he hadn't agreed to it, well 3; you'd be dead, I'd be in prison, and Quinn would be a slave anyway. At least this way he stays with us and we all stay together. Right?"

Brandon nodded slowly. "But I thought 3; I mean you were so mean to him in there 3; like you were enjoying it."

Greg locked his eyes on the young teenager. "Part of me was enjoying it. I can't deny that. Just like I enjoy it when I spank you're cute little ass."

Brandon lowered his head and blushed.

"But I had to be harsh for his own good, and mine. There's no room for mercy or pity for him. If I think about him, even for a second, as my adorable little boy, I wouldn't be able to stand it. He's a penal slave now. Nothing can ever change that and he has to get used to being treated like an animal, because that is all he is. Penal Slave #47."

Brandon looked down at his bare feet. "He's more than that to me, sir."

"I know. But don't let that get you into trouble. The state has very strict rules about penal slaves. If we break them, or show any leniency, they'll take him away from us and we will never see him again. Like I said, at least he'll get to stay here, with his family, even if he can't be part of it anymore. I'll learn to accept his fate, and so will he, and so must you."

Brandon sniffled and took another drink of his soda. "I guess that makes sense, master. When do we get to bring him back home?"

"Soon. They need to watch him for a few days, and there are a few more things they have to do to help him adjust to being a penal slave."

"Things? Like what?"

"Things a slave boy your age should not be asking about."

The fourteen-year-old swallowed hard, and his little cock twitched inside its tiny cage. "Yes, master. I'm sorry, master. I know it's none of my business."

Greg thumbed the folder in front of him again. "It's going to start being your business though."

Brandon gave his master a puzzled look.

"It was becoming painfully obvious, even before all this happened, that Quinn was a pretty terrible master."

"Quinn was a good master, sir," Brandon said, still deeply loyal to Quinn. "He was my best friend."

"Don't you see that was part of the problem? Your master or your friend. He could not be both. Am I your friend? Have I ever been your friend?"

"No, sir."

"Why?"

"Because you just aren't, sir. You're my master."

"And Quinn should have been too, but he just didn't have it in him. Putting him in charge of you this last year led to this whole disaster and we just barely escaped. He never would have been able to take over the plantation or the winery, and he never really showed any interest in either. I think he's ended up exactly where he needs to be, and probably, deep down, where he really wanted to be all along."

"No one WANTS to be a slave, sir!" Brandon exclaimed nearly laughing at such a ludicrous suggestion from his master.

"That's not true, boy. Some people are just born that way. I think Quinn is one of them. He needs structure and discipline and control. As a slave, he'll get that. James told me a long time ago that he thought the wrong boy was the slave in this house, that one day Quinn would have a collar around his neck. I knew it too. I just didn't want to face it. But I planned accordingly, just in case."

Greg handed the folder to Brandon.

"Open it."

Brandon obeyed his master and opened the folder. Inside were several letters and documents. Paper-clipped to the first one were three pictures of a naked eight-year-old boy shackled and chained, and wearing an iron slave collar several sizes too big for his slender little neck. His hazel eyes looked sad and lost and frightened. Brandon stared at his eight-year-old self and felt his stomach churn.

"I remember when these were taken, sir," he said. "I'd never been naked in front of anyone except my mom and dad before. They took these right after they shaved my head. The guards all laughed at me 'cause the collar was so big. They said I was a little runt and I'd never be worth anything to anybody." With tears filling his eyes at the mention of his parents and the memory of his enslavement, the young teenager thumbed the document to which the pictures were attached. Brandon was able to read, though just barely, having not had any formal education since the third grade. Some of the words on the paper were indecipherable to him, but he knew enough to know that he was holding the official documents of his enslavement in his hands.

He set them carefully down onto the table and looked at the second document in the folder. This one had even bigger words than the first one and no pictures to give him a hint as to what the words might be saying. He did recognize his own name 'Brandon van Doorn' in several places. He wrinkled his brow, perplexed and frustrated. He'd always been amazed and just a bit jealous of Quinn's easy ability to read.

"If you need help figuring out what that says, just ask," Greg volunteered gently. "Why don't you try sounding out the first line or two."

Brandon felt small and stupid and embarrassed as he stood there naked in front of his master, stammering and struggling to form the words with his mouth, but he was determined to do it. Finally, after several minutes, the boy was able to put all the letters together.

"Certificate 3; of 3; Adoption."

His hazel eyes danced and he snapped his head up to stare at his master. Reading the words off the page was difficult. Comprehending their meaning was not.

Greg smiled gently. "Did you never wonder why you were the only slave boy on the estate with a last name? Heck, most of them don't have names at all, just numbers."

Brandon blushed and confessed that it never really occurred to him.

"When I took you in as a slave, I had the adoption papers drawn up and certified at the same time. You are my slave, but you are also my son. It has always been my intention to free you on your sixteenth birthday."

Brandon stared at his master with wide eyes and dropped the folder onto the floor.

Greg smiled and gently ran his hands along the boy's thigh.

"I'll 3; be free again, sir?"

"That's the plan, as long as you don't screw things up. For now you're still a slave, but there's no reason you can't start learning how to run things around here. I'm going to have you legally reclassified as a slave trustee. That means you'll have a little more freedom, and lot more responsibility. If you show me you can handle it, you'll be free when you turn sixteen and my legal heir. If you don't, I'll rescind the adoption and put you to work as a field slave. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."

"You're going to be a busy boy the next two years. You've got a lot to learn."

"I can do it, sir. I promise."

"You'll be working a lot with James in the stables, and I'm going to put you in charge of penal slave 47 when we get him back."

Brandon's expression darkened a bit at this news.

"Do you have a problem with that, boy? If you do, I need to know right now."

The fourteen-year-old bit his lip and slowly shook his head. "No, sir. I don't have a problem with that. I'll take charge of him."

"Good." Greg stood up and drew the boy into his arms. The young teen sighed and seemed to melt in his master's embrace. Greg gripped the boy's slender wrist and placed Brandon's hand over his rapidly hardening cock. "Being a trustee does not absolve you of your basic duties," he whispered into the boy's ear. "Go into my bedroom and wait for me."

"Yes, master!"

As the boy stepped back and turned to obey, Greg noticed that Brandon's little penis was straining against the confines of the tiny metal cock-cage in which it had been imprisoned since the boy was ten. He fingered the key to Brandon's chastity device and pulled it from his pocket. "Come back for a moment," he ordered the boy.

Brandon obeyed and stood at attention in front of his master.

Greg shuffled through the drawer on one of the end tables and found a spare key ring. With it, he attached the key to Brandon's cock-cage to the iron ring on the front of the slave boy's collar.

Brandon's hazel eyes danced with need and arousal.

"As a symbol of my trust in you, you will wear the key to your cock-cage around your neck. You will not touch it, but it will always be there to remind you."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

With the key to his imprisoned boyhood now dangling from his collar, Brandon scurried off toward his master's bedroom to await his master's pleasure.

And Greg did make him wait. For nearly an hour. When he finally appeared, he was naked and fully erect. As always, Brandon gulped and felt a familiar twinge of fear as he stared at his master's enormous dick.

Greg smiled. He always loved Brandon's adorable shyness and seeming perpetual innocence where matters of sex were concerned. He put the boy face down on the bed then tied him spread-eagle to the corners. He pulled out the boy's butt-plug with single firm tug. Brandon let out a high-pitched grunt and a large glob of pre-cum oozed out the boy's caged penis onto the silken sheets.

"Naughty boy, leaking your slave spunk all over your master's bed." Greg spanked the fourteen-year-old's small smooth round ass, playfully, but enough to inflame the lingering pain from the boy's recent caning.

Brandon cooed in pleasure as Greg inserted one, then two fingers into the boy's rectum. "Keeping yourself nice and clean back here, boy?" Greg asked.

Brandon moaned and nodded as more pre-cum was forced out of his penis.

"Let's find out." Greg removed his fingers and presented them to the bound boy. Brandon dutifully licked his own ass juices off his master's fingers.

"Ready for me, boy?"

Brandon clutched at the mattress and uttered a muffled "Yes, sir," into the pillow.

The previous night, master had fucked him slowly and gently, allowing the boy the pleasure of his first true orgasm. Tonight there was no such consideration. Greg entered the boy in a single powerful thrust. Brandon bit into the pillow to silence his scream. He knew that his master expected silence from him.

Greg fucked the boy rough and hard. Brandon could feel his master's big balls slapping against his as Greg pulled his thick hard cock all the way out of the boy's ass and rammed it back in over and over again.

Each violent thrust was assaulting that special sensitive spot deep inside the boy. His initial cries of pain slowly turned into soft mewling moans of pleasure. It was different from last night, but it was happening again. His little cock strained and throbbed desperately inside its cage. With a loud tortured gasp, Brandon came for the second time in his life, this time without the climactic joy of ejaculation. He thrashed in his bonds. Greg thrust in yet deeper, coaxing more thin milky white seed from the boy.

Moments later, Greg growled and grabbed the boy's shaggy unkempt hair and released his seed into the slave boy's guts. He pulled out, wiped his still drooling cock on the boy's butt, whipped him gently with a leather flogger, strapped a ball-gag into his mouth and then left the boy tied to the bed.

When Greg returned it was close to midnight. He released the fourteen-year-old's stretched and aching limbs and escorted him down the hall. Brandon naturally assumed he was being taken back to his tiny cell to be locked into his cage for the night. Instead Greg took him to Quinn's room. He pointed to the boy's unmade bed.

"It's yours now."

Brandon stared up at him in bewilderment.

"Unless you'd like me to move your cage in here?"

Brandon felt a little twinge of guilt as he sat down on Quinn's bed. It was so soft.

"This will be fine, sir," he said, holding back a yawn and stretching out on his back.

"Set the alarm clock for five a.m. You'll be up, showered, and have my breakfast ready by six. Then I'll turn you over James to start your training."

"Yes, sir," Brandon said, fiddling with the buttons on the clock unsure how it actually worked. After a few minutes he finally figured it out.

Greg smiled when he realized that Brandon was going to have to learn some of the most basic routines of daily existence from scratch. The young teenager simply had no experience with such things. 'I bet he doesn't even know how to use a telephone,' Greg mused. He tussled the boy's hair, teasingly fondled his caged genitals then covered him with the warm blankets.

"Get some sleep, boy."

Brandon had the best sleep he could ever remember.

At seven in the morning, the intercom on the stable wall buzzed to life. Young Nate had just finished feeding the slave boys their slop and was starting on the unpleasant weekly task of mucking out the stalls. The thirteen-year-old was as naked this morning as his charges. Cleaning the stalls was a messy job and his father forbade him to wear clothes when he did it. The boy's healthy young cock and balls swung from side to side as he worked, using a pitchfork to remove the soiled urine-soaked straw bedding from the first stall. It was hot already and the young teen was already sweating. Three of the younger slave boys occupied this first stall, all of them currently on their knees and chained to the back wall by their necks. They stared up at him with blank, distant eyes.

Nate always marveled at how big a mess slave boys can make. "Stupid animals," he muttered under his breath as he glared at them. "Probably don't even know how to use the toilet."

The intercom buzzed again. Nate growled impatiently under his breath, made sure to set the pitchfork down out of the slave boys' reach, and ran toward the entrance to stables.

"Stables," he said into the speaker, his voice cracking awkwardly.

"Is this Nate?" Greg Van Doorn's voice replied.

"Yes, sir."

"Up early."

"Like always, sir."

"Good. Is your father around?"

"He's out back, sir. He's got Squirrel on the whipping post this morning."

Squirrel was eleven years old, small for his age, shy, quiet and timid. The last boy Greg would have expected to require a flogging.

"Why?"

"Thievin', sir. Popped a few grapes into his mouth yesterday, then lied about it."

Just then the shrill sounds of a young boy screaming could be heard behind the stables. James Milstead had one rule above all others for all of the Van Doorn slave boys. You do not steal the master's property and you certainly do not eat it.

"Should I go get him, sir?"

"No. I'm sure you've got work to do. And I wouldn't want to interrupt your father's fun.

Have him come up to the house when he's finished. You won't forget to tell him, will you?" Nate was notoriously unreliable when it came to relaying messages.

"I'll tell him, sir. Have a good day, sir." Nate released the button on the intercom and went back to work.

At nine o'clock, James appeared at the door to Greg's office. He had little Squirrel with him on a chain. The boy was naked, collared, shackled and wearing a tiny cock-cage over his prepubescent genitals. The eleven-year-old was also currently wearing a scold's bridle, which would ensure that no other Van Doorn grapes would be entering his mouth anytime soon. His brown eyes were red from crying and his auburn hair was wet with sweat and quite possibly other fluids thanks to the gentle lessons of his overseer.

"Sorry to bring the stupid little beast with me, sir," he smacked the boy on the back of his head, "but I can't let the little thief out of my sight until I'm sure it's learned its lesson."

Greg smiled at the scene. Jim spun the eleven-year-old around so Greg could see the livid stripes of the whip on the boy's back and butt. "How many grapes did it eat, Jim?"

"Nate saw it scoffing two of them right down. Probably ate two or three more before that."

Greg looked down at the cowed and frightened little boy. "You won't be making that mistake again, will you?"

Squirrel shook his head as far as the bridle would allow.

"Remind me, James," Greg said, "how did we acquire this one?"

"At public auction. Its parents were in debt."

"Has it given us any trouble before now?"

"No more than normal for a filthy little slave beast."

Greg nodded thoughtfully and stared at the naked boy once more.

"No rations for it for the next two days," Greg ordered. "Maybe it'll learn to appreciate its slave chow better if it's good and hungry."

James generally did not approve of withholding food. Starving boys don't work as hard. But under the circumstances it seemed like a fitting punishment.

"I got a call from the Slave Processing Center today," Greg announced. "Penal slave 47 is ready to be picked up."

"Perfect," James replied. He'd been working all week on a new labor schedule to account for estate's newest slave boy. "I'll head out after I put Squirrel on the cross."

Greg didn't even blink. A full day hanging from a wooden cross, exposed to all the elements was always enough to teach a disobedient slave boy a valuable lesson, provided he survived the ordeal. Squirrel was already quaking in terror. A little dribble of pee ran down his leg. The two men just ignored him.

"I want you to take Brandon with you too."

James raised his eyebrows for a moment.

"I'm reclassifying him as a slave trustee," Greg explained. "Time the boy starts learning how things work around here. I'm going to put him in charge of 47's daily management, under your supervision of course."

James nodded and smiled, clearly pleased with the idea. Managing a penal slave boy was practically a full-time job and he'd been struggling to figure out how he'd keep 47 disciplined and hard at work while still managing the twenty other boys on the plantation. The thought of having more close contact with sexy young Brandon was just an added bonus into the bargain.

"I'll get Brandon ready for you. You can pick him up here on the porch. Ten minutes?"

James yanked on the chain attached to Squirrel's collar. "That should be more than enough time to get this little piece of shit on the cross." He smacked the filthy sweaty naked boy again on the back of his head and dragged him off the front porch. "You're just lucky your master is such a softy. If I were running things, you'd be swinging by your scrawny little neck right now, after I'd gutted you of course. Then I'd chop up your worthless carcass and feed it to the guard dogs."

Squirrel whimpered into his bridle and started to cry. James looked back at Greg and winked and flashed wicked grin. "I love my job."

"It shows," Greg said with a chuckle. "I'll have Brandon ready for you."

When James pulled the sedan up to the house, Brandon was sitting on the porch steps. He immediately stood up and gave James a shy wave. Brandon was wearing a leather jockstrap and his spiked slave collar. As he was normally kept naked, Brandon knew this was quite a privilege and an important outing.

Brandon thought back to his master's parting words moments before. 'You're going to have to learn to balance things out, Brandon,' Greg had explained as he adjusted the boy's collar on the front porch. 'You are a slave, and you will obey and be respectful. But I want everyone who sees you to know that you are not just a mindless beast like the rest of them. You're smart and clever. I want you to show it. You are also a Van Doorn. That means you will wear your collar with pride.'

"I always try to, sir," Brandon whispered.

"I know."

He kissed the boy on the lips and turned back into the house. Brandon sat himself down on the bottom step and waited, wiggling around from time to time to keep his butt-plug from jabbing him. When he saw the car pull up, he felt his stomach turn. James Milstead had always terrified him, and now he'd be alone with him, in the car, during the drive to the Processing Center.

James offered the boy a warm smile and leaned over to pop the door open. "Get in. It's unlocked. And I don't bite. At least not on the boss's time."

The fourteen-year-old slid gracefully into the passenger seat and closed the door. He gave James a shy smile then twisted his lithe lean torso to bring the seatbelt over his shoulder.

"All strapped in?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not used to seeing you all dressed up," James said as he started down the long driveway.

Brandon's naked butt on the hot leather seat reminded him that for a slave 'dressed' was a very subjective term.

"Master thinks I'll look better this way in public, sir."

"Well, I'll miss seeing your cute little dick. Still got it locked up?"

Brandon pointed to the key hanging from his collar. "Yes, sir. Key's right here, sir."

"Good. That tiny little prick of yours isn't good for anything but peeing. No reason the cage should ever come off, is there?"

"No, sir," Brandon answered as he stared down at the key hanging from his collar.

"Want some music?"

Brandon's eyes lit up. "Can we, really?"

"Hey it's just us. Go ahead. Slave boy's choice."

Brandon stared at the console of the satellite radio. This was only the second time he'd actually been allowed inside the car. The slave transport cage behind them was empty, reserved now for Quinn. Brandon hovered his right hand over the colorful display for a moment, then realized he had absolutely no idea how this thing worked, or even how to turn it on.

James laughed at first, but then his expression softened when he saw the shame and confusion on the handsome young teen's face.

"I didn't even think," the normally gruff overseer said gently. He patted the boy on his bare thigh. "You don't know anything about this kind of stuff, do you?"

Brandon sadly shook his head. "I've got a lot to learn, sir."

At the end of the driveway, James stopped. He took Brandon's hand and gently guided the boy to the 'on' indicator flashing on the display.

"You can read the basics, right?"

"Little words, sir, yes, sir."

"Just press your finger over the 'on' button."

Brandon placed his index finger on the touch screen and pressed timidly, afraid he might break this expensive piece of technology that was probably worth more than he was. An instant later the sound of classic rock music came over the car's luxury sound system.

Brandon smiled, showing off his silvery braces. "That's awesome! All you gotta do is touch it?"

"Yep. If you want to change the channel, just touch one of the pre-set buttons."

For the next ten minutes Brandon had a blast changing the stations back and forth, amazed at the command literally at his fingertips. For a boy who'd had every decision and every choice made for him or forced upon him since he was eight years old, even this little bit of freedom was enough to get him a bit giddy.

James' patience finally wore out. "Pick one!" But he smiled at the boy.

"Sorry, sir," Brandon replied and settled back on the first station as he thought that was the one James probably liked best. He tapped his toes to the music for the rest of the trip and hummed along to the melodies.

"So you like music?" James asked, impressed at the boy's musical memory.

"Yes, sir. I was learning the violin, before I became a slave, sir."

James felt a melancholy ache for the boy's misfortune and his own unrealized dreams. As a boy he'd loved music and his happiest moments were spent on his little drum kit. But he was a Milstead. And Milstead boys become Milstead men and Milstead men have had one job and one destiny for the last five generations. Running the Van Doorn plantation. When he really thought about it, he wasn't really much more than a slave himself. And now his son would be following in the tradition.

"I'll talk to the boss about buying you a violin. You should start playing again."

Brandon's hazel eyes lit up. "Really, sir?"

"Why not? Boss told me he's making you a trustee. And I've known about the whole

adoption thing since day one."

The fourteen-year-old furrowed his brow. Apparently he himself was the only one who

hadn't known.

"It was just a matter of time before he freed you. Nate and I will be calling you 'sir' in another year or two, if you don't fuck it up."

Several songs later, they arrived at the Processing Center.

"Turn it off," James said. "Time for business now. I expect you on your best behavior."

Brandon nodded and shut off the music.

They were directed to a loading dock where Aaron and Gavin were awaiting them. Aaron was in his full uniform, with an additional rank stripe on his sleeve. Gavin however was stripped down only to his chastity belt and was wearing a shock collar around his neck.

"Good morning, Mr. Milstead," Aaron said extending his hand.

James shook the young man's hand and gestured to the nearly naked Gavin. "What happened to Jenkins there?"

"He's being punished, sir. He mouthed off to the lieutenant a few days ago. He'll get his uniform back when he earns it."

James admired the thirteen-year-old's firm muscular body. Young Gavin, in spite of his small stature, was a well-built boy. He already had broad shoulders and a well-defined chest, a lean rigid abdomen and a trim, tight, tapered waist. His chastity belt was indeed a model designed for a much younger boy, leaving Gavin basically flat up front as if he had no genitals at all. "Who has the control for his shock collar?" James asked.

Aaron smirked and pointed to a small controller attached to his belt.

"Has he used it on you yet?" James asked the younger boy.

Gavin shuddered and nodded. He was clearly a different boy from the cocky playful young teen they'd met just a week earlier. "Yes, sir. Several times, sir."

"Well I'm sure you deserved it. Is our boy ready?"

"Absolutely, sir," Aaron replied. Fingering the controller at his belt was all he needed to send Gavin running to fetch the merchandise. Aaron followed along leisurely behind, clearly enjoying his new rank and power.

Moments later the solid steel doors at the back of the loading dock swung open. The rattling and dragging of heavy chains was the first thing James and Brandon noticed. Then Aaron and Gavin re-appeared leading penal slave 47 between them on two steel poles attached to his collar. The restraining rings on the boy's toe rings slapped back and forth making a metallic noise as he shuffled his feet.

What they could see of 47's face above his permanent stainless steel muzzle was pale and expressionless, but his blue eyes showed every humiliation he had suffered. The twelve-year-old boy looked exhausted and thoroughly broken and in just a week's time it was clear he was several pounds lighter than his already slight eighty-five pound [38½ kg] frame. Yet upon seeing Brandon, his eyes danced and his caged penis attempted to rise in spite of the spikes that surrounded it. Quinn's frustrated pre-teen arousal was obvious. A dribble of pre-cum, tinged a milky white, managed to leak out around the Prince's wand inserted in his urethra. The sticky gossamer fluid dangled for a moment at the end of his cock-cage, then swung to the left as he took his next labored step and attached itself to the boy's thigh.

The young technicians brought the twelve-year-old penal slave to a halt and unhooked the steel guide-poles from the boy's iron collar.

Brandon stared at 47 with a mixture of horror and pity. Bald, tattooed, bound in the backbreaking weight of his iron collar, shackles and chains, an enormous ring piercing his septum, that cruel muzzle covering the lower half of his face. There was no way this grotesque dehumanized creature could possibly be Quinn, a boy he'd known for most of his life, but those intelligent sensitive steel-blue eyes were unmistakable. It was Quinn. But it wasn't. Its name was 47 now, and it was a penal slave, the lowest level of existence to which any boy could fall.

"What do you think of your former master now, boy?" James asked Brandon.

The young teen took another hard look at 47 and noted that the penal slave's cock was straining desperately to erect itself against the cruel confines of its cock-cage. 47 stared directly at him for a moment, and then quickly remembered his place and lowered his eyes to the ground again.

"I think he'll be a good worker, sir," Brandon replied, figuring something like that is what James probably wanted to hear.

The facility administrator John Thompson then appeared. Aaron and Gavin quickly stood to attention. 47 continued to stare down at his ringed feet. John shook James' hand in a business-like manner. He ignored Brandon's presence entirely.

"47's modifications are complete. You shouldn't have any problems putting him straight to work," Thompson said. "First we had to make sure all the piercings and the brand were completely healed before we started his basic training. We put him through some rather intense psychological and behavioral modification. He's spent most of the week without sleep in a bright mirrored room to acquaint him thoroughly with his new status and look as a penal slave. He's learned to respond immediately to any command anyone gives him. Some might say we broke his will. I would prefer to say that we helped him redirect his spirit toward accepting the consequences of his decision to become a penal slave. At first you might consider his attitude a little lethargic but once you put him to hard labor you will appreciate his blind obedience."

John Thompson handed James a clipboard with an itemized list of the latest charges. James looked it over and smirked. The facility charged an enormous fee for boarding the boy for the last week. Not to mention the charges associated with the behavioral conditioning. Quinn was proving to be a very costly investment.

"Greg has asked me to get a couple of whips to handle our young charge," James said. "So you might as well add those to the list here. One for me, and one for Brandon here."

Brandon's hazel eyes widened in shock and the administrator acknowledged the young teen's existence for the first time. 47 looked up for just an instant. His emotionless expression remained largely unchanged, but his blue eyes danced at bit and the two boys stared at each other.

"We have just what you need in stock," John replied with a smile. The sale of add-ons and accessories was where the state-run facility really generated all of its revenue and how he brought home a fat bonus every month. "Jenkins, would you please go to the 'Product and Accessory Room' and bring back a 7-tail and a 15-tail flogger."

Clad in only his chastity belt, the young junior trainee scurried off through the security doors and disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later, the thirteen-year-old came running back with two white boxes tucked under each arm. The boxes are marked in black stenciled ink 'Boy-Tech Industries', one denoted as model #BF-7, the other as #BF-15.

John Thompson took the first box from young Gavin and opened it to reveal a beautiful handcrafted whip. James whistled in admiration at the fine and obvious handiwork.

"These floggers are made of Latigo leather," John explained, "a very dense and tough cowhide, heavily tanned. Latigo produces an intense sting with very little effort. These floggers start at intense and get worse. The tails are heavy, thick, and stiff, each are a ½ inch [1 cm] wide and twenty inches [50 cm] long. This flogger has seven tails. We've taken to calling it 'Little Boy' since it is often a first whip for young masters in training." John then smiled at Brandon in a friendly manner. James gently rubbed the young teen's shoulders.

"The other one has 15 tails. It's quite heavy and lands quite a blow. You'll need to use it with discretion, James," John warned, knowing of the Van Doorn overseer's penchant for delivering long hard whippings to his miserable young chattel.

James took the 'Little Boy' and handed it to Brandon. The fourteen-year-old examined the finely crafted instrument of discipline for a moment, then swung it clumsily through the air, inadvertently snapping the tails against his own thighs.

"Ouch!" he yelped, trying to swing it again and getting much the same results, this time around his lean muscular abdomen.

James laughed and took the larger whip from its box. "Careful with that, boy! Here, I'll show you. May I borrow young Jenkins for a moment?"

John Thompson agreed and the thirteen-year-old junior trainee assumed the position in front of the Van Doorn overseer. The boy's chastity belt was of such a design that his butt was left bare and exposed with only a strap running down between his two pale ass-cheeks, holding the kid's butt-plug in place.

"You need to step back a bit, and aim past your target," James explained. With Brandon mimicking his movements, James stepped back and took a good swing, though only at half his normal strength. Still the tails of the flogger lashed against Gavin's bare butt. The boy let out a sharp scream but stifled himself just as quickly.

"Give it a try, Brandon."

The fourteen-year-old slave boy stepped back and thrust sharply forward as he'd just seen James do and sent the whip swishing through the air and cracking hard against Gavin's ass.

This time Gavin could not contain his scream. Brandon had put all of his wiry teenaged strength into the blow. Gavin's legs twitched and wobbled and tears streamed freely down his cheeks as he wailed. Livid red stripes appeared on his cute little butt.

A smile came across Brandon's face and his cock hardened inside its little cage.

"Well done, boy. How did that feel?"

"Good, sir," Brandon replied, holding the whip at his side now.

James was pleased. "Not bad for your first try. We'll give you more practice on 47's butt when we get him home."

Gavin meanwhile had managed to stand up straight again and was wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his arm.

"We'll take these," James announced.

"I thought you would," John Thompson replied. "Oh, and I have one more thing for you." He gestured to Aaron who presented Brandon with a small box. "This is for your Plantation's patronage."

Brandon opened the box to find a large brass cowbell inside.

"Clip that to number 47's collar. The constant ringing will keep you aware that your penal slave is working."

Brandon awaited and received James' tacit permission, then slowly approached Quinn with the cowbell in his right hand. Quinn's blue eyes flashed and widened as Brandon stood right in front of him. The twelve-year-old's cock was so hard inside its chastity cage now that it was becoming quite painful. He was breathing rapidly in fear and excitement. He stared at the cowbell and then back up into Brandon's hazel eyes. For a moment, Brandon hesitated. Quinn then smiled behind his muzzle, blinked his eyes and quickly nodded his head in a manner no one else would have noticed. Then he took an awkward step forward and extended his neck as far as he could. The boy's message was clear. Brandon inhaled a deep breath and attached the cowbell to the twelve-year-old's iron collar.

John Thompson handed James the clipboard again, having added in the cost of the floggers.

"Money well spent," James said as signed off for the Van Doorn Plantation.

John nodded in agreement. "I suppose you'll be having an initiation ceremony at the plantation for your new penal slave?"

"You can count on that," James replied. "We have always had a big initiation party for a new slave boy. As a matter of fact, Greg Van Doorn's former son used to attend these initiations so I'm sure that 47 is looking forward to the party." James glared menacingly at the young penal slave, roughly pulled the boy forward and sharply raised his chin. He locked his dark eyes on the trembling boy.

Quinn's eyes watered and he let out a frightened whimper behind his muzzle.

Realizing the sun was getting hot and the morning wearing away fast, James turned sharply to Brandon. "Put a leash on it," he pointed at 47, "and take it out to the transport cage."

"Yes, sir," Brandon replied. Then he blushed and lowered his head. "I 3; left the leash in the car."

"Then go get it. Be quick now. Time is money, boy."

The young teen gracefully ran down the ramp to the car and returned a moment later with a thick heavy leather leash. Feigning confidence he did not actually have, he strode past James and the facility administrator and clipped the end of the leash to 47's iron collar.

"Come on, 47. It's time to go home."

Brandon pulled Quinn down the loading dock ramp to the waiting trailer with its small transport cage. The twelve-year-old shuffled along behind his former slave as fast as his hobbled legs could manage. In his ears he could hear the low dull ringing of the cowbell hanging from his collar and the sharp metallic tinkling of his toe rings. The boy's gait was made even more awkward by the huge butt-plug filling his rectum and the heavy needled sphere hanging from his perineal piercing and swinging between his legs. Quinn had already learned he had to take careful, plodding, measured steps to avoid the spiked sphere smacking into his smooth hairless thighs. As he walked toward the waiting cage, he fought to stand up straight under the heavy load of the penal collar, shackles, chains, rings and weights now permanently attached to him.

"Its still trying to walk like a free boy," John Thompson observed with a chuckle. "A penal slave boy should always be bent over, its eyes should always be fixed on the ground at its feet. It'll figure that out on its own, though you may want to give it some encouragement."

For Brandon, it all felt so alien. Pulling his former young master on a leash and holding onto his new flogger with his free hand.

"I said give it some encouragement, boy," John said to the young teenager.

Brandon turned and tugged a little harder on 47's leash and made an awkward attempt to thrash the flogger around the twelve-year-old's shoulders. It made a soft and mostly painless crack, but the message was clear. Quinn looked up at Brandon for a moment, then quickly lowered his gaze and abandoned his efforts to stand up straight, allowing the backbreaking weight of the chains to bend him slightly forward.

"A good start, boy," John said from the loading dock. "47 will give you more reasons to use it and you will, without hesitation, trust me I know."

Quinn gave Brandon no further cause as he meekly crawled into the cage. It was difficult to manage without getting his chains tangled, but after some struggling and boyish groaning he was confined within the small square cage. This was not the same cage Brandon normally rode in, rather a much smaller one specifically intended for heavily bound penal slave boys. It had been lying out behind the Van Doorn stables for years, overgrown with grass and slowly rusting. James and Nate had reclaimed it the day before and gotten it back into reasonably good shape. On those rare occasions when Quinn would be leaving the plantation, it would be in this harsh confining cage that he would travel. Quinn was nearly bent double inside it, with no room to move his limbs. The bars had sharp spikes on their inner surfaces, to ensure that a lazy penal slave boy did not lean against them.

James himself applied the heavy padlock to the cage door and put the key into his pocket.

"We're going to take him through town again, so everyone can see his transformation. If that little shit Joey Ridgeway sees him, all the better. He can run and tell his daddy everything's just like he said it was."

The ride back to the plantation was uneventful. Still morning, the town was mostly empty and young Joey no doubt in school. Naked slave boys in cages were a fairly common sight, and few people took any particular notice of number 47 as he was bounced around on the trailer behind the car.

During the trip, Brandon occupied his time stroking the soft supple tails of the flogger lying in his lap thinking of what lie ahead for him, and his former master.

James rested his hand on Brandon's bare thigh, slowly inching towards the fourteen-year-old's caged genitals.

"If you're good, I'll talk to the boss about letting you out of that when you're working with 47. If you're learning to be a master, you might as well learn about some of the perks!"

Arriving at the plantation, James drove the sedan up the dirt road to the paddock area in front of the stable.

"He's your responsibility, boy," James said, unlocking the passenger side door and handing Brandon the key to unlock the cage.

The fourteen-year-old was quick to get out of the car make his way back to the transport cage. 47 kept perfectly still and perfectly quiet as Brandon removed the padlock and opened the cage door.

"Get out, 47," Brandon said. His voice clearly lacked any tone of command, but Quinn obeyed, slowly and awkwardly backing out of the cage, careful not to get his chains tangled. Once the twelve-year-old boy was on his feet, he remained there standing. His hairless legs were spread as wide as the hobbles around his knees would allow. His young back was bent under the cruel weight of the chains he would bear for the rest of his life. His sensitive blue eyes were focused on the hard-packed dirt at his feet. This was 47's worldview now, the ground around him and his bare ringed feet. He was not allowed to lift his eyes unless ordered to do so. They had drilled that rule into him rather harshly during his week in that tiny cell.

Brandon reattached the leash to 47's collar. James leaned against the door of the car with his arms crossed watching the scene unfold before him. If Greg Van Doorn's plan was going to work, it was important that Brandon establish his control and dominance over Quinn right from the start, without any interference.

"Take it into the paddock and chain it to the whipping frame," James ordered.

Brandon nodded and jerked slightly at 47's leash, pulling the heavily bound twelve-year-old forward. 47 was a little slow to move. Sensing James Milstead's dark eyes watching him, Brandon spun about, raised the flogger, and landed the seven tails with a snap against Quinn's branded bare ass. The pre-teen boy let out a high-pitched yelp and raised his eyes to Brandon for just a second before lowering his gaze again. Shock and surprise registered there.

"Move it!" Brandon shouted, a little more strongly than before. His cock twitched and swelled inside its tiny metal cage. He landed another blow with the flogger, this time across the twelve-year-old's thighs, and tugged hard on the boy's leash. Brandon lowered the flogger and gazed at it for a moment as Quinn shuffled along as quickly as he could behind him. Quinn had given him reason to use it. And he had done so, without hesitation.

James Milstead smiled and nodded his head in silent approval.

Brandon led 47 into the wide paddock. This open space was normally used for exercising and training the plantation's pony boys, but it also served as a good spot to mete out punishments. The whipping frame was here, as well as the wooden cross. 47 kept his eyes down, but Brandon got a good look at the well-worn cross as they passed in front of it. It was in use. Eleven-year-old Squirrel was still being crucified. James had put him up there before they'd left this morning.

The little boy was naked. His only covering the tiny chastity cage which encased his little cock. His wrists were tied to the crossbeam with coarse red-tinged ropes, which had rubbed his skin raw during his struggles. His chest, thighs and ankles were lashed to the heavy wooden post. His hairless body glistened with sweat. Hanging from a rope coiled tightly around his skinny little neck was a wooden plank with the word 'THIEF' painted on it in bold stenciled letters. The ground in front of the cross showed signs that many small young bare feet had trodden there just recently, as all the younger slave boys in the stable had been paraded past to witness Squirrel's punishment and hopefully learn a valuable lesson.

Exhausted and nearing the end of his boyish strength, Squirrel was fighting desperately to keep his feet on the small wooden block that allowed him some relief from the cruel stretching of his limbs and torso. He fought for breath in rough, congested high-pitched gasps. His head hung low against his chest. His tired tear-filled eyes locked on Brandon for a moment. The fourteen-year-old gazed up at the slender little boy then back at James who was standing at the paddock gate.

"Never you mind him, Brandon," the overseer said gruffly. "If the little shit survives the night, he'll be back in his stall with the rest of them. If not, the dogs will eat better than usual."

Brandon knew he was powerless to protest, so he made no attempt to do so. He turned away and pulled Quinn forward again and brought him to the sturdy wooden whipping frame.

Quinn knew what was expected of him and he offered Brandon no resistance. He stepped up onto the block beneath the frame then turned around and raised his arms as far as his chains would allow. Knowing that James was too far away to see, he locked his steel blue eyes on Brandon, then gestured to the chains hanging from either side of the frame. He was going to be whipped. As all newly arrived slaves were. Quinn winced as the spikes on his cock-cage bit into his straining hardening boyhood. He was desperately scared, and desperately aroused.

Brandon fastened the whipping frame's chains to Quinn's fetters. Quinn looked to the side of the frame where a well-worn leather strap was hanging from a rusty hook. It was thick and eighteen inches [45 cm] long and stained a dark brown with the dried blood of countless boys who had felt its kiss over the years. Brandon's blood was on this horrible strap. And now Quinn's would be as well. The twelve-year-old winced at the thought of what this simple piece of leather was going to do to him. And the spikes were still digging painfully into his throbbing penis.

VII. Breaking

Quinn quickly shifted his eyes to his left and gazed at the horrible sight of a slave boy hanging on the cross. The sun was hot and strong, and the crucified boy was clearly suffering. The boy was younger than he was, and Quinn remembered this one was fairly new to the plantation. He remembered this boy's arrival just four months ago. Or was it five? It was already becoming hard for him to measure time. He remembered this little boy spread across the whipping frame just as he was now. He remembered taking the cruel strap and lashing this boy's butt and back and legs. He remembered laughing and kicking the little boy in the balls when he peed himself. He remembered how James and his dad had encouraged his cruelty, while Brandon looked on with hurt and sadness in his hazel eyes.

What was the boy's name? He'd given it to him. Quinn had named all the newly arrived boys since he was eight years old, and often just as quickly forgotten. Not that it mattered. Not that anyone cared. What was the name? Rabbit? Mouse? Some kind of rodent. Squirrel. That's what he called him.

"Skrrtthhhll," Quinn said into his muzzle, staring at the anguished eleven-year-old as he struggled for breath on the cross.

Brandon swung the flogger across Quinn's leg.

"Eyes forward, 47," Brandon said.

47 immediately obeyed.

James had joined Brandon now in front of the frame. He took the punishment strap from its hook and held it out to the young teenager. Brandon carefully laid his new flogger onto the ground and took the strap. It was heavy. He remembered it.

"Get him started, boy," James said. "I'll get the welcoming party together."

Brandon held the punishment strap and stood facing his former master. He turned the strap over in his hands examining the stained and well-worn leather. He then looked up sharply at Quinn.

"Look at me!"

Quinn did as ordered.

"They made me cane you last week, remember that?"

47 slowly nodded his head. He'd never forget.

"I told you I hated it. I told you I hated you. Only one of those was a lie. Guess which one."

Quinn stared bewildered into Brandon's eyes.

"Guess."

Quinn continued to stare, his eyes starting to water. Brandon charged forward and locked his right hand around Quinn's neck. "I said guess!" he shouted, his adolescent voice breaking.

Quinn shivered and let out a plaintive moan into his muzzle.

Brandon pushed himself away again and raised the strap. "You really don't know the answer do you?! We've known each other almost all our lives and you don't know the answer! Well, I'll tell you, number 47. I loved it. I loved caning you. My dick wanted to get hard so bad but it couldn't. It's trying to get hard again right now just thinking about it. I loved it! So that was the lie. And even a little dumb-ass like you should be able to figure out which one was true."

He reached up and unscrewed the plug-gag on 47's muzzle, allowing the twelve-year-old slave boy to speak for the first time. With the huge ring piercing his tongue, his words were slurred and barely intelligible.

"You hate me," he whispered, his voice small and high and sad. The sudden realization of a shattering truth.

"Yes," Brandon said, moving close with surprising speed and lashing Quinn across the chest with the strap. The blow took Quinn's breath away and he gasped and jerked wildly against his restraints, the dull sound of the cowbell around his neck filled the air. "I fucking hate you! I've always hated you."

"I thoughthhh we were fffrends," Quinn stammered and Brandon walked round behind him and delivered another blow across the boy's shoulders. Quinn shrieked and wailed.

"Slaves don't have friends, stupid! We were never friends. We're never gonna be friends!" Brandon was crying openly now as he laid blow after blow across Quinn's back and butt. The young penal slave boy bucked and writhed against the chains holding him to the frame. He shrieked and shouted and whimpered.

Hearing the commotion from the paddock, James came out of the stables to see what was going on. "Easy there, boy," James Milstead said, hurrying forward and locking Brandon's slim wrist in a firm grip. "Save some of that for the rest of us."

Brandon stopped and stared at the angry welts he'd given Quinn. Tears streamed from his eyes. He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his slender arm then meekly handed the strap back to James.

"Getting off to a fast start, aren't you?" James asked.

"Yes, sir," the young teen sniffled.

"Well you and I both know the little shit deserves it."

Brandon hung his head, unable to even look at Quinn.

James stepped up to the frame and used the handle of the leather strap to raise 47's chin. "That's enough hollering from you," he said, picking up the plug-gag from the ground where Brandon had dropped it and forcing it back into the twelve-year-old's mouth. He twisted it sharply to lock it back into the boy's muzzle. He examined the lashes and welts Brandon had just given him and noted the swollen state of the boy's penis within its tiny constricting cock-cage. He moved in close and spoke into the boy's ear.

"Yeah. I know. You're loving this, aren't you?" He reached down and fiddled with 47's imprisoned boyhood. 47 moaned softly. "Well your useless cock will be nice and soft once we're all done with you."

At that moment, Nathan appeared from the stables, leading five of the older slave boys in a line all connected by chains to their iron collars. Their hands were bound in manacles behind their backs. All of them had bit-gags in their mouths. The boys had been temporarily freed of their cock-cages and all of them sported firm throbbing teenaged erections. The youngest of the five was a small but well-built fourteen-year-old with the number 39 tattooed on the front of his right thigh, a large rock-hard oversized cock and heavy low-hanging balls that seemed far too big for his slight frame. Three of the boys were fifteen, all slim, lean and wiry, with eager dripping erections. The oldest boy was a tall thin gangly sixteen-year-old with the number 23 tattooed on his right shoulder and rather small cock which was nonetheless hard as steel and desperate to be put to some use.

Nathan was wearing a stained and dirty jock-strap and nothing else. He was as filthy and sweaty as the slave boys themselves, and only his lack of a collar and the riding crop in his right hand really distinguished him from the others. He moved gracefully from boy to boy, releasing the chains that ran between their collars. The boys' hands remained manacled behind their backs. They stood at attention under the hot midday sun. Nathan stood close by, ready to use the crop if any of them stepped out of line.

James stood in front of them and pointed to Quinn in the whipping frame. "That is penal slave 47. Some of you might recognize it. It used to have another name."

All of the assembled slave boys know exactly who 47 had been. Two of them snickered. The rest just glared hungrily at the boy who until last week had been their master.

"It needs to be taught its place. You boys are the oldest. Here's the rules. You will be allowed to speak to it. You will tell it the name it gave you and anything else you have to say. Then you will give it five slaps with the strap anyplace on its body. You will have three minutes to jerk off and cum all over it. When you are done, you will return to the line and the next boy will take his turn. 39, you're first."

Nathan removed 39's bit-gag and freed the boy's hands from the manacles. With his huge oversized cock throbbing and wagging back and forth he scurried up to the frame, taking the strap from the overseer's hand.

"I'm number 39," he said in a crackling pubescent voice. His brown eyes were sad. "You called me Pisser, 'cause I got such a big dick." He walked around behind Quinn and gave him five harsh blows across his little twelve-year-old butt. Then with his right hand he started jerking his oversized penis. It was the first time Pisser had touched his own dick since he was ten years old. If his technique was awkward and sloppy, the results were quick and impressive as he grunted and groaned and shot a huge load of teenaged spunk onto Quinn's back and ass. It rolled down into the twelve-year-old's butt-crack and dripped onto the wooden block on which he stood.

Pisser marched back to the line of slave boys, his cock still drooling and half-hard. Nathan quickly yanked the boy's arms behind his back and manacled him again. The bit-gag went back in immediately.

The next boy was released and marched up to the frame. It was one of the fifteen-year-olds. Quinn didn't even recognize this one, but he should have. This boy had been a Van Doorn slave since the age of ten. He was the first boy Quinn had ever named. "I'm number 12. You called me Mud, because you pushed me down in a puddle. You thought it was funny. You laughed at me."

Mud laid the strap hard three times on the backs of Quinn's thighs and saved the last two for Quinn's shoulders.

Quinn grunted and screamed into his muzzle as the blows fell and the strap raised more angry welts on his soft smooth tender skin.

Mud came around front, grasped his aching desperate frustrated cock and jerked off fast and hard, shooting thick globs of boy-cum onto Quinn's chest and belly. It dripped down onto the twelve-year-old's smooth hairless groin and joined Pisser's spent cum between Quinn's feet.

The other two fifteen-year-olds took their turn. Quinn was sobbing fitfully, his body covered in angry welts. As James had promised, the boy's cock had softened and shriveled. It was the only relief Quinn was likely to get. He barely had the strength to stand now. He was really feeling the weights tugging on his stretched ball-sack and the heavy relentless pull of the spiked 'stinger' hanging from his perineal piercing. His legs were quaking, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burned from being held out from his body for so long.

Number 23 was the last boy to take his turn. Nathan removed the sixteen-year-old's bit and released his wrists from the manacles. 23 was tall, but skinny as a rail. Seven years of hard labor and abuse had left his back and buttocks scared with the marks of the cane and the whip. His hairless body was wiry and angular and he had a half-starved appearance. His green eyes were ringed in dark hollows, and his expression was mostly vacant. He was a wraith, and nearing the end of his useful days at the plantation. He moved forward in an almost robotic fashion, with a pronounced limp from a broken leg suffered when he was twelve. His erect penis was about five inches [12½ cm] long, the smallest of the boys assembled here. With a blank and distant expression he took the strap from his overseer and stood in front of penal slave 47.

"23," the boy said, his voice thin and rather high for his age. "You 3; made 3; me 3; lick 3; your 3; butt," it was difficult for the boy to form words, forbidden to speak for nearly half his life. "You called me 3; Butt-licker."

His skinny body contained a lot more strength than one might have expected. He raised the strap and brought it lashing down across Quinn's chest and stomach. Five hard blows in quick succession, leaving the twelve-year-old breathless and gasping for air and unable to scream. The pain was searing and he saw white flashes before his eyes.

Butt-licker handed the strap back to his overseer and without attempting to jerk off or even touching his hard cock he walked back to his place in line. He put his hands behind his back. Nathan replaced the manacles and gagged him again. Then he reconnected the chains to all their collars. The five boys stood there at attention under the blazing sun, their heads bowed. Nathan then sauntered over to his father and took the strap from his hands. James himself unhooked his new 15-tail flogger from his belt. Through foggy moist eyes, Quinn stared at the overseer and his son. He sucked in a tortured breath. His back and legs and chest burned from the lashes he'd already received.

"You remember how this ends, right, filth?" James asked cruelly. "When all the slaves were done, you and your dad would take turns whipping the new boy."

Quinn sniffled miserably and slowly nodded. In front of him Nathan was taking a few practice swings through the air. Brandon stood off to one side, watching with a stricken expression on his handsome young face.

"Well you have no father anymore, slut, and you are no man's son. So Nate and I are gonna take care of things instead."

James now spoke to his son. "I knew the former master here was headed for trouble. I'd been telling the boss for years. I always knew he'd come to a bad end, I always knew. Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Don't think I won't let the boss put a collar around your scrawny neck too if you ever fuck up."

With a healthy firm erection barely contained behind his tattered old jock-strap thirteen-year-old Nathan nodded somberly that he understood.

"You take the front. I'll introduce the little bastard's back to my new flogger."

For the next fifteen minutes, father and son whipped 47 until the twelve-year-old finally passed out from the pain and exhaustion. James brought him back around with a few sharp slaps. He gripped 47's bald head between his hands stared into the boy's tired steel-blue eyes. There he saw the clear signs of surrender and absolute submission. He spat in the boy's face and let 47's head drop down again.

"Broken. Shame. I hoped he'd have shown a little more spirit. He'll be ready for some hard work tomorrow," he told Brandon. "You run along to the house now. I'm sure the boss has some work for you up there. Be back here at five in the morning so you can get 47 out to the fields. If you're late, I'll whip you with your own flogger."

Taking one last quick look at Quinn's battered body stretched across the whipping frame, Brandon turned on his bare feet and ran back up to the house as fast as his long lean legs could carry him.

James turned to his son and gestured to the five slave boys still standing at attention. "Get these boys back into their cock-cages then take them over to the cellars. There's casks and barrels that have to be moved today."

"Yes, sir," Nathan said. "What about him?" he pointed at Quinn.

"We'll leave him out here to get some sun. Now get moving!"

Nathan approached the naked teens and made sure the chains connecting them together were all secured. Number 39, the youngest of the group, was at the front of the line, his cock hard and throbbing again, despite his recent orgasm. In fact all five boys were sporting erections. Nathan lashed the fourteen-year-old's butt with his riding crop to get the line moving and drove the boys back into the stables. It took several minutes of hosing them down with frigid water for their eager aching erections to soften. At thirteen, Nathan was already an expert in the proper handling of these horny young beasts and he quickly got them all back into their cock-cages. He marched them out at a quick pace toward the cellars. It was going to be another busy day.

Hours passed and the warm morning turned into a bright, still, humid afternoon. The paddock area was quiet. There was not a soul around. All the slave boys were out toiling in the fields or the cellars. Quinn remained chained to the whipping frame, alone and forlorn. His legs felt weak and wobbly and could barely support his weight. His cock was soft, for which he was thankful. As always, the boy was aware of constant tug of the weights stretching his hairless ball-sack, but he was starting to become accustomed to having his balls swinging six inches [15 cm] between his legs. The split-collar weights had compressed his balls into a single swollen shiny purple mass. They no longer hurt the way they did when the weights had first been put on. Now it was a dull and constant ache, a continual reminder of his status and a torment to his young mind of what he had become.

In the blistering heat, he had only his own thoughts to keep him company. He was glad the whipping was over and that he'd made it through his initiation. His body ached. His arms and shoulders burned. He was thirsty. Terribly thirsty. His tongue felt dry and swollen against the thick latex penis-gag locked into his mouth. His lips were chapped and cracked behind the muzzle that permanently covered the lower half of his face. Looking down, he could count the lashes and welts on his thighs and torso. He stared at his hairless groin and studied his penis, rendered forever useless by the small constricting metal cock-cage. The look of it, that little shiny metal device that was now a permanent part of his body, was compelling.

He sighed heavily. Being only twelve, and given the shattering emotional and physical ordeals of the last week, Quinn had yet to give any real thought to the long empty frustrating years of permanent enforced chastity and denial that lay ahead of him. Even now he could only conceive of it in the vaguest of terms.

'I'll never get a real boner again,' he thought. 'I'll never be able to jerk off.'

And that thought caused his young heart to race and his boyhood to twitch and swell just slightly until the spikes dug into his flesh and forced his cock to soften again.

His blue eyes fixated on the word 'SLAVE' tattooed on his chest in large black letters.

It was an outer symbol of the battle currently going on in the boy's mind. He still thought of himself as Quinn van Doorn in moments like this, when he was alone and everything was quiet. He could reason like a twelve-year-old boy and think about everything that had happened, everything that was going to happen. He could see himself as a penal slave boy, but it was like he was looking at a mirror through a foggy haze. And when there were others around, Milstead, or Nate, or his dad, or Brandon, something inside him switched off. Quinn disappeared and number 47 took his place. Number 47. The bald, hairless, chained, plugged, cock-caged, branded, tattooed little beast that everyone hated.

'But I'm still Quinn!' part of his mind screamed inwardly.

'No I'm not! Quinn's gone. I'm number 47 3; 47 3; 47'

He kept repeating the number silently in his head until it drove out every other thought.

He thought of the initiation, and the whippings the other slave boys had given him. The words Brandon had spoken to him. The simple fact that his father had not been there to witness any of it.

'I'm worthless! I deserve this!' 47 shouted in his head.

'No I don't!'

'Yes, I do!!'

He discovered the shocking fact that he never earned the respect of others like his dad had. It turned out that he was just a horrible little shit and deserved the payback he got. It was hard for him to come to that realization. Harder still was the realization that he was all alone in his suffering, no one was going to help him through his transition; the continued suffering was to be all his. He had worked hard to earn it.

He stared at the word 'SLAVE' again and slowly began to cry.

It was early evening when James and Nate returned to the paddock area. James took Squirrel down from the cross and dragged his nearly lifeless little body over to the side of the stables. He'd planned on keeping the little thief up there all night, but something told him he'd have a dead boy on his hands come morning. Slaves need harsh treatment and brutal correction, but dead ones simply aren't profitable. He turned on the hose and blasted the naked boy with frigid water. After several moments, Squirrel sputtered back to consciousness. He was still too weak to move or fight off the assault of the water, he just lay there moaning and blinking his eyes in terror. James kicked him in the ribs, turned off the water, and yanked the eleven-year-old to his feet before throwing him over his shoulder.

"Get 47 off the frame and put it to work," he said. "I'm gonna lock this little thief into the hot-box for a few hours then head back to the fields. I want the stables cleaned before we bring the boys back in for their slop."

"Sure thing, dad," Nate said as he watched his father walk away with Squirrel hanging limp over his right shoulder.

Nate smirked at 47 with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. "Gonna have all sorts of fun with you," he muttered as he released 47's arms from the chains and attached a leash to the boy's collar.

"Come on, 'Sir'," he said mockingly and pulled the former young master toward the stables.

At the front entrance he stopped, removed the leash and locked a surprisingly firm boyish grip on Quinn's shoulders.

"Look around, turd. This place gets sooo filthy," the thirteen-year-old said with a crooked grin. "Used to be my job to keep it clean every fuckin' day, but guess who's job it is now?"

47 blinked his eyes slowly and bowed his head.

"That's right, shit-head, it's yours. I figure there's about five hours left 'til dad brings the rest of the boys back in from the fields. That's more than enough to get all of the stalls mucked out."

Locking his fingers around the iron ring in front of the twelve-year-old's collar, he pulled the boy through the stables to the storage area in the back.

"Here's your tools. A wheelbarrow, a pitchfork and a shovel. There's buckets over there next to the spigot. Once you clean out all the old bedding from the stalls, you wash 'em down and throw in some new straw. Come on, I'll show you."

Nate had Quinn push the laden wheelbarrow to the first stall. It was a struggle with all the chains and weights attached to his body, but he soon got the hang of it. The first stall they came to was still occupied.

"We always do the pony-boys first. There's four of 'em. Stalls one, two, three, and four. If they ain't out running, or pulling carts 'n wagons, they're kept in here."

Quinn knew this. He'd rather enjoyed taking the little two-wheeled trap out for the day, with two of the lean muscular young pony boys running at full pace and poor Brandon chained behind, trying desperately to keep up.

The first stall housed Bucephalus, a handsome fourteen-year-old black boy with milk-chocolate skin and haunting grey eyes. The boy was chained by his collar to an iron ring in the back wall of his stall. His long wiry arms were locked behind him in a well-worn leather bondage sleeve. Bucephalus was well trained and made no movements other than those demanded and expected of him. His gray eyes danced, but his expression was otherwise blank.

Unlike the other slave boys on the plantation, the pony boys did not wear chastity devices. With their arms and hands kept permanently bound behind their backs, there was no way for them to touch themselves. Bucephalus' long pendulous tightly circumcised six-inch[15 cm] cock swung heavily between his hairless muscular thighs as Nate led him out of his stall. The black boy's balls were huge and dangled low in their dark brown silken smooth sack.

"He's huge, ain't he?" Nate observed, playfully brushing his hand over the pony boy's thick cock. It started to harden almost instantly, but still the boy showed no signs of emotion. "He ain't been milked in over a month. Dad says we're gonna keep him full of cum and breed him this fall."

Quinn blinked that he understood.

"'Course you won't be breeding anything, with your cock locked up forever like that," Nate laughed and flicked his fingers against the bars of Quinn's cock-cage. "Now get your ass in there and start mucking out. When you're done, fill two buckets and wash down the stall. You should be able to do it in like five minutes."

Quinn parked his wheelbarrow close to the stall door and entered. He could feel the urine soaked straw and the squishy warm manure between his toes. The smell was strong and acrid and nearly made him sick. Quinn could not believe the degradation heaped on him. He imagined he could not feel any lower than he did at that moment. And yet his imprisoned cock was throbbing even more desperately than before. A long stream of pre-cum oozed out of him, dangling between his slim hairless legs.

With much difficulty and rattling of his heavy chains, the twelve-year-old used the pitchfork to remove the manure and wet straw forking them into the wheelbarrow. 47 then used the shovel to remove the manure in the corners of the stall. When he had everything cleaned out, Nate directed the penal slave boy to push the wheelbarrow out of the stable and to add it to the compost pile outside.

"You're gonna have to move faster than that, turd," Nate yelled after him.

When Quinn returned he parked the wheelbarrow, got a quick smack on his ass from Nate, hurried over to the spigot as fast as his could in his chains and hobbles, filled two buckets with cold clear water, lugged them huffing and puffing back to the stall, and washed the place out. He then reloaded the wheelbarrow with fresh straw and spread it around Bucephalus' stall by hand.

Pleased with the new penal slave boy's work, Nate put Bucephalus back into his stall and chained the boy to the wall once again. The pony boy's cock was now fully erect and throbbing, eager to be put to use, any use. Nate left the fourteen-year-old in heat and directed Quinn to stall number two, which was empty.

"That first stall took you almost twenty minutes. You gotta be faster than that. My dad doesn't like lazy-ass slaves and I don't either. You got nineteen stalls to go before sundown. I'd hurry up if I were you."

The threat in Nate's pubescent voice was clear. Quinn shivered, then blinked and nodded that he would work harder.

"Good boy. Use a broom to sweep up any spilled manure and straw from your trips to the manure pile when you're finished cleaning and bedding all the stalls."

Nate gave Quinn's ass a firm smack with his riding crop. "I'm gonna go shoot some hoops around back. I wanna hear your cowbell ringing every fucking second. If I have to come back in here to check on your lazy butt, you're gonna be sorry, got it?!"

47 nodded and pushed the wheelbarrow along the line to the next dirty stall. He watched with some relief as Nate walked out of the stables, then bent over and got to work. He was sweaty and filthy after only one stall. He could scarcely imagine what a mess he'd be by the time he was done all twenty of them.

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