Istari

Tales from a World of Slavery 4:

Educating Quinn

Chapters VIII-

'I still got five more to do! I'm never gonna get them all done!'

The work was hard and miserable for a slim naked twelve-year-old boy in chains measuring nearly a third of his own weight. The wheelbarrow's wheel was wobbly, making it difficult to keep it level and push it in anything resembling a straight line. He'd already toppled it twice, spilling all the dirty moist urine-soaked straw onto the ground and having to shovel it all back in again. The shovel and the pitchfork were way too big for him, old-style farm implements with considerable weight of their own, not counting the weights of his chains, shackles and all the other cruel attachments he was forced to wear. The boy was hot, sweaty, smelly, and filthy. His arms and legs were now covered in muck and the putrid waste of his fellow slaves. Slaves who outranked him. He alone was the lowest animal on the plantation. The penal slave. The one who was a slave even to other slaves.

He took a deep breath, grabbed up the pitchfork in his clubbed hands and with his back bent under the unrelenting weight of his bonds, Quinn got back to work cleaning out the stall.

This single stall housed four of the youngest slave boys, and so it was by far the filthiest and nastiest he'd yet encountered.

'How can they make such a mess?!' he thought to himself as he toiled in the sweltering heat. His shoulders ached. His legs were sore. His feet were hurting. The straw had a way of getting under his toe-nails and finger-nails, like little needles constantly stabbing at him. The natural motions of his labor caused his stretched ball-sack to swing back and forth against his smooth hairless thighs, each time sending a jolt of pain through the boy's body. Worst of all was the Stinger, the spiked iron ball hanging from the ring in his perineum. It had swung into his inner thighs more times than he could count, leaving little pin-pricks and small little trickles of blood running down his legs. Still he trudged on, tossing another pile of wet straw into the wheelbarrow, causing the cow-bell attached to his collar to ring out in its dull tone.

Aside from his own breathing and his boyish high-pitched grunts and groans, the maddening sound of that bell was the only thing he'd heard since Nate had left him there.

"How's it going, turd?" Nate asked as he entered the stables. A worn and patched basketball was tucked under his long bronzed sinewy arm.

Quinn rested the shovel on the wheelbarrow and pointed back to the cleaned stalls behind him.

"Why did you stop workin', dumbass?" Nathan laughed, bouncing the ball at his feet. "You think you're still a free boy or something? You keep workin' till I say you stop."

Quinn quickly picked up the shovel and went back to his task.

"Fifteen stalls," Nate said, making a quick count of Quinn's progress. "Not bad, but not good enough. You better work twice as fast or you ain't gonna be done. Dad'll tan your hide if there's a dirty stall when he brings the boys back in."

Nate watched the heavily chained twelve-year-old bend to his labors, all the while gently fondling the growing erection in his threadbare shorts. When Quinn had finished in the latest stall, Nate ordered him to stop. Quinn looked up, and confusion registered in his sensitive blue eyes.

"Tell you what, 47, I'm gonna give you a little break. We haven't fed you all day, and you're supposed to get one bowl of gruel each day."

Quinn's lean taut tummy chose that moment to growl as he stood there with his head bowed.

"Are you hungry, 47?"

Quinn nodded his head vigorously, causing the cow-bell to ring out several times.

Nate laughed at him. "I'll take that as a yes. Well, I'm gonna feed you. Then its back to work for you until you finish the rest of the stalls."

The wiry young teenager attached a leash to Quinn's collar and pulled the twelve-year-old boy into one of the remaining unclean stalls, positioning him over a bed of soiled straw.

"Squat like you're takin' a shit," Nate commanded.

Fighting his chains and the weighted collars swinging from his balls, Quinn awkwardly got into position, letting out a high-pitched yelp into his muzzle as he tried to avoid sitting on the spiked ball, which hung between his legs.

Nate smiled. "Yeah, I bet that hurts. Get down all the way. I want to see your balls and your butt touching the ground."

Stretched nearly six inches [15 cm] by the weights, it was easy for Quinn to get his balls on the smelly moist straw. However, getting his butt down there required him to sit on the Stinger. It dug into his soft smooth hairless perineum, right behind his scrotum, and brought tears to the boy's eyes.

"This is how you sit 3; when you're allowed to sit that is," Nathan explained, standing over the younger boy. Looking up, Quinn could see Nate's oversized erection bulging against the thin fabric of his shorts. "Don't move," Nate said sharply. The thirteen-year-old then attached a short chain to Quinn's collar. The other end was mounted to solid iron ring on the back wall.

"I'll be right back." Still sporting a raging boner, Nate sauntered over to the storage area, opened a supply cabinet and picked up a small unlabeled aluminum can. Moments later he was standing in front of penal slave 47 again. Pulling the master key to 47's padlocks from his pocket, he removed the twelve-year-old's muzzle.

It was the first time since his processing that Quinn's face had been freed of the horrible humiliating penal slave muzzle. The long thick cock-gag popped out of his mouth with a loud sucking sound, followed by a long stream of drool, which dribbled down the boy's chin. With the gag no longer filling his mouth, Quinn was keenly aware of his missing back teeth, and the thick ring, which pierced his tongue. His jaw ached, and he opened and closed his mouth several times.

Nate pulled the top off the can and held it close under Quinn's nose. The smell from the brownish-gray contents of the can was awful.

"Slave chow," Nate said with the wicked sort of glee only a thirteen-year-old can muster. "We only feed this to the other slaves as punishment, but dad says this is all penal slaves like you ever get. Now get your tongue in there an' eat it!"

Nathan pushed the can towards Quinn's mouth and tilted it slightly so the twelve-year-old could get his pierced tongue into the can. The very first taste of the stuff caused the boy to wretch.

"Don't like it? Wow, you're picky. Well, rich boy, you ain't eatin' dinner up at the house anymore, so you better get used to it 3; unless you wanna go hungry. Don't matter to me either way."

Quinn tried again, using his tongue and front teeth to get more of the sloppy gruel from the can and trying to swallow it as fast as he could.

"That's better. Eat up! It's good for ya!"

Quinn had some serious doubts about that statement, but whatever the stuff was, it did seem to be filling his empty aching growling stomach.

"Not gonna puke, are ya?" Nate asked as pushed the can closer so that even Quinn's nose was buried in it.

Quinn shook his head and after a few more minutes managed to lick the can clean.

Nate smirked down at him as the last of the brown putrid juice dribbled down the twelve-year-old's chin. Quinn grimaced and licked his lips, giving Nate a good look at the huge steel ring in his tongue.

"That ring is fuckin' huge, 47! I'll be you screamed like a baby when they put that in, didn't you?"

"Nnno, thhhiirrr," Quinn replied, his voice cracking and soft. The first time in a week he'd used or heard his own voice, aside from moans and groans. The size of the tongue ring made it impossible for the boy to form coherent words. In fact even keeping his tongue in his mouth was difficult, now that the muzzle and penis-gag was out. His tongue flopped over his lower lip, pulled outward and downward by the weight of the ring.

"You look funny with your tongue hangin' out, just like a dog or something. But even dogs are better than you now, right?"

The twelve-year-old nodded slowly and again felt that baffling inexplicable tingling as his cock swelled inside its tight metal cage.

Nate took notice and gave the younger boy another wicked smirk, but he had no particular interest in the pre-teen penal slave's cock. "You better learn to keep that thing soft, or people'll think you actually like this."

Quinn blushed and lowered his eyes to Nate's feet.

"Ha! You do, don't you? You like being a penal slave. You're such a little fag!"

Quinn had no answer and would not have dared to speak even if he did.

"Well I bet you're thirsty, fag-boy. Let me give you a drink."

Nate shucked down his threadbare shorts, revealing his straining oversized seven-inch [18 cm] erection. Wiry and skinny and not yet very tall, the thirteen-year-old's big cock seemed comically mismatched for the rest of his slim frame. Calling it a 'third leg' would have been a good adage. His balls swung low in their hairless sack, big and ripe and full of young teen spunk.

Staring up at the sweaty handsome naked young teen, Quinn's cock jumped and twitched inside its chastity cage, driving the spikes in deep and causing him to whimper.

"Open your mouth, filth."

Quinn obeyed. Nate forced his erection downward. It took the thirteen-year-old a few moments to get his dick soft enough to start peeing, but once he started it seemed like a flood to Quinn. "You're lickin' up anything you spill," Nate said. "And this stall is filthy, so if you don't like the taste of shit, you better not spill another drop!"

He coughed and sputtered and frantically tried to swallow as much of it as he could.

How thirteen-year-old Nate with his slim wiry body could house a gallon size bladder that took five minutes to empty was beyond Quinn's comprehension; of course the reality was only a few ounces and about twenty seconds, but Quinn's perception of reality had changed dramatically over the past week. What was really puzzling to Quinn was unlike the horrid and humiliating slave chow, the drinking of Nate's piss was like sharing an intimacy and Quinn felt strangely right with that. Besides, Quinn mused to himself, the taste of Nate's pee was better than the after-taste of the slave chow.

After the last drop of pee, Nate's flaccid penis again hardened rapidly to a full seven-inch [18 cm] boner. Nate began to stroke it furiously as his breathing became ragged.

"Keep your mouth open," he grunted. "I ain't jerked off yet today, so its gonna be a good one!"

His whole being stiffened and an explosion of pent-up boy-cum erupted from his oversized cock and shot into the back of Quinn's throat.

Quinn gagged, his blue eyes wide and swimming. And he swallowed the warm sticky boy-spunk, gazing up at Nate with a look of total and absolute submission in his young eyes.

Nate was clearly pleased with himself. He'd already nailed Quinn's ass and now having used the penal slave's mouth for his piss and cum was sure verification of his dominance over the younger boy. Nate basically lived in fear of his old man. It was nice to be the one in charge for a change.

Quinn licked his lips clean, then took the added step of cleaning Nate's cock for him.

"Wow! Yeah, clean my dick! You really like the taste of cum, don't ya? Nate asked.

"Yethhh, thhhir," the young penal slave replied.

Nate pulled up his tattered short and strapped the muzzle back onto Quinn's face, forcing the penis-gag back down the boy's throat.

"Get back to work now, fag. Finish cleaning the stalls. When you're done, go chain yourself in your stall. Tomorrow we're gonna take you out to the fields and you're gonna do some real work, so ya better get some rest."

Nate left, picking up his basketball and bouncing it a few times as he turned around the side of the stable and made his way to the small one bedroom house he shared with his dad.

Quinn was left alone now with his thoughts, his tools, and the last of the dirty stalls awaiting his labors. He bent down and picked up the heavy shovel and pitchfork, loaded them onto the creaky wheelbarrow and moved down to stall number 4. No one was watching over him but Quinn simply knew he must finish his job, and do it well. He was confused about his feelings; was it submission, loyalty to his dad and his family name, or just the need to obey?

After another hour, Quinn finally finished cleaning the remaining stalls; tired, filthy and reeking of feces and urine, Quinn parked the wheelbarrow, hung the tools back on the wall and stumbled into his stall. He looked around the small empty space for a moment, thinking about his old room and how everything in his life had changed so fast.

Hanging from one side of the stall there was a number of thick heavy chains. With no one around to tell him what to do, the boy's instincts told him what was expected of him. He chose the heaviest and the shortest of chains and using a padlock found on a hook locked the chain to his nose ring allowing him to neither stand nor lie down but only to kneel and lean against the wall to go to sleep.

Quinn was already learning that penal slave boys don't really sleep like normal boys. They simply take fitful little naps in whatever position, in whatever place and in whatever time they are allowed. Every sound, from within the stable and without, seemed to startle him awake. Kneeling against the wall, with the heavy chain dangling from his nose ring, he jumped and flinched at the slightest noise. Looking up at the narrow window of his stall, he could see a sparrow had landed outside the bars and was chirping happily. The boy twisted sharply, sounding the cow-bell around his neck and sent the bird squawking away.

'Stupid bird.'

He still felt hungry. His stomach was queasy from the horrible slave chow and yet somehow it felt empty. The penis-gag inside his muzzle was making it hard to swallow and several times made him wretch. It was hard for the twelve-year-old boy to get used to having a big rubber cock in his mouth, more or less permanently.

He desperately needed to pee, but no one had taken the cap off his penis plug, so his gut burned and ached and his cock swelled inside its confining metal cage.

'What'll happen if I just start peeing?' the boy thought to himself. 'I can't hold it in much longer.'

As the light from his barred window slowly faded, he heard the sound of rattling chains and the shuffling of bare feet as the plantation's slave boys were marched back into the stable for the night. Sore achy groans and moans filled the air as the sweaty exhausted boys were herded into groups and chained in their stalls.

"What should I do with this one, dad?" Nathan asked, as he dragged a senseless eleven-year-old boy across the floor by his ankles.

"Put the little thief in with 47. Maybe if he gets a good look at what happened to Quinn van Doorn, he'll think twice about eating anymore of the boss's grapes."

After a morning spent on the cross, and an afternoon in the hot-box, Squirrel gave the impression of being quite dead as Nathan dragged the skinny boy into the stall.

"Hey, dad!" Nate called, seeing Quinn kneeling there against the wall. "Check it out! 47's chained himself by his nose ring."

"I'll be damned," James said, peering into the stall. He stepped into the cramped little space and roughly rubbed his right hand over 47's shaven head. "Just like a good little animal should."

47 shrank back at the sight of Squirrel's seemingly lifeless body.

"Oh, don't worry, slave," James said in an unconcerned manner. "Little shit's still alive, probably wishes he weren't."

Nate locked a short chain to Squirrel's collar and attached it to a ring in the floor.

"Got him secured, boy?"

"Yes, sir," Nate replied.

"Good. Now get your ass up to the house and fix dinner. And strip out of those shorts and put 'em in the wash. I can see your cum stains from here you little hornball. You can stay naked 'til morning."

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir."

Nate scurried off. Quinn stared up at James with his sensitive blue eyes.

"What? You got a problem, 47?"

Quinn quickly lowered his eyes to the ground and gestured to his caged cock.

"Your cock's no concern of mine, boy."

Quinn pointed to the end of the cock-cage and made a little shiver.

"Oh. You have to piss, don't you?"

The twelve-year-old nodded his head in desperation.

"Nate should have done that when he fed you. I'll whip him good tonight. Sit up straight. Hands straight down at your sides."

Quinn obeyed and watched with boyish curiosity as the overseer knelt in front of him and carefully removed the cap from his penis plug.

"Do your business and be quick about it."

Just a week ago Quinn would have been embarrassed to think about peeing on the floor, in front of a grown man, but his early days as a penal slave were already changing the way he thought about things like this. His need to pee was so strong that it quickly overcame any shyness that might have remained. A strong steady dark yellow stream flowed from his caged boyhood and he sighed in relief.

"Come on, 47, I haven't got all night."

Not knowing when he might be allowed to pee again, Quinn clenched and strained and squeezed out as much boy-piss as he could. When it died off to a trickle, James screwed the cap back onto the plug and left him there chained to the wall. He spat on young Squirrel as he left. Moments later the overhead lights flickered off, casting the stables into inky blackness.

It took a while for Quinn's eyes to adjust to the darkness. The rising moon cast an eerie blue glow into the stall. Quinn shifted around on his knees, regretting his choice to chain himself by his nose ring. The one good thing about his kneeling position was that it was easy to keep his legs spread. He could feel the weight of the spiked spherical Stinger hanging from the ring in his perineum. It swung and spun slowly, but he managed to keep it from glancing against his thighs. The constant tug and pull on that erogenous area between his plugged anus and his caged genitals was strangely arousing. The boy felt a little spasm in his half-hard cock and glob of pre-cum oozed out of his piss-slit. His need to cum was growing stronger and stronger, and he knew there was nothing he could do to get any relief.

He closed his eyes in a hopeless attempt to sleep, only to open them again to noise of sniffling and shivering in the darkness.

Penal slave 47 could make out the silhouette of the other naked boy in his stall. The one he'd named Squirrel. The younger boy was waking up in darkness and let out a frightened cry. Quinn could see the boy's terrified eyes flashing in the moonlight. Muzzled and muted and chained to the wall, there was no comfort he could give. Quinn decided it was best to just sit still and keep quiet.

After a few minutes, he could see the small slender figure sit up. The length of the chain tethering the small boy to the floor meant that the best he could do was get into a kneeling position much like's Quinn's. The boys' eyes locked in the hazy blue moonlight, and they stared at each other for a moment.

"Hey," Squirrel finally broke the silence, his voice high and soft and weak and cracking from thirst. "You 3; you're Master Quinn, aren't you?"

Hearing his name was strange.

'Not anymore,' he thought to himself. He slowly shook his head 'No'.

"It is you," the younger boy insisted. "We all heard about what you did. You really screwed up! You're a penal slave now, right?"

47 nodded in the dim light.

Squirrel tried to shuffle closer, but was held fast by the short chain attached to his collar. "Can't talk 'cause of the muzzle, right?"

47 nodded.

"Yeah. Well we're not supposed to talk to you anyway."

Squirrel managed to cross his skinny legs and rest his back against the opposite wall. He fiddled rather intently with the tiny cock-cage around his hairless little boy parts and sighed with relief. "Still got everything," he said, jiggling the cage and the small padlock that secured it. "Overseer said he'd take my balls if I kept messin' up. Guess I won't never get to use 'em, but I don't wanna lose 'em neither."

47 made a questioning grunt into his gag and muzzle.

"Yeah. I'm a thief. Stole your dad's grapes right off the vine and popped 'em right in my mouth. Been doin' it for weeks. I'm so small they usually don't pay no attention to me. They were so fuckin' good! I'll do it again too, only next time I won't get caught. You'll see."

The twelve-year-old penal slave laughed. How many times had he done the exact same thing and blamed it on one of the hapless naked slave boys, sometimes even standing there with an innocent look on his face as the innocent young slave was flogged for his misdeeds.

"What's so funny?" Squirrel asked.

Gagged and muzzled and unable to voice a reply, 47 just shrugged his shoulders.

Exhausted from his own ordeal, and with nothing more to say to the former son of his master, Squirrel curled up into a little ball and fell into a fitful sleep. 47 watched him for a moment, the eleven-year-old's nude sun-browned body outlined in the soft light. Then he leaned his shoulder against the wall, careful to keep the Stinger from swinging between his legs. 47 again closed his eyes.

He didn't actually remember sleeping when he awoke to the sound of familiar voices close by. It was his dad and James Milstead. He opened his tired eyes to find that it was still dark outside and to see them standing in front of his stall. Brandon was with them, wearing a leather jockstrap and his iron slave collar, holding his new flogger and looking very lost and confused.

"I know this whole fiasco cost us a fortune, James," Greg van Doorn said. "But if we put the north face under cultivation right away, we can make a nice profit out of this."

James smirked. Greg's son was now a penal slave, and Greg was already thinking of ways to turn this to his financial advantage. He and Greg stared down at 47 kneeling in his stall, chained to the wall by his nose ring. The boy looked up at them with his soft intelligent blue eyes. He knew better now than to expect any show of empathy from either of them.

"We've never even touched that hill with a plow, sir," James said. "Its good soil, but lots of rocks and roots up there. It's going to be a lot of work for a twelve-year-old boy."

"Hard labor is all he's good for now, Jim," Greg reminded him, giving the chained and collared twelve-year-old only a cursory glance. "And the harder you work him, the stronger and faster he'll get it done."

James nodded. "I never doubted that, sir, but your timeline is awfully tight. And it will still be several years before the vines mature and we can actually sell any of it."

"People will buy it as soon as its bottled, even if it's awful, when they find out how it's planted, harvested and bottled. 47's gonna do it all. We can even have him crush the grapes with his feet. We'll call it Bin 47, Special Reserve."

"Slaveboy wine," James laughed. "Well, it'll certainly be one-of-a-kind."

Greg again stared down at the bald, naked, chained, dehumanized boy in the stall. Looking into the boy's soft blue eyes, he knew that his beloved Quinn was still in there somewhere, but to all outer appearances, the boy was nothing more now than a beast of burden. Greg felt a moment of heartache, but then he locked his eyes on the large black '47' tattooed across the boy's forehead, the word 'SLAVE' across his chest, his permanently caged genitals and the grotesque appearance of the boy's stretched and weighted balls.

Greg's fatherly expression faded and hardened. He pointed to the boy and gave James his orders. "I want 47 up there plowing the field today. I figure he should be able to cover one acre [4,000 m²] every three hours or so. I want you to put Brandon in charge of him. He needs to start learning the family business."

Quinn was taking this all in as his dad, overseer and former slave spoke of him as if he were not there.

Greg placed his hands on Brandon's shoulders and held the boy firmly. "Work him hard. Be strict. Don't show mercy. He's not a boy anymore. He's an animal. Treat him like one and he won't give you trouble. He wants to obey. He needs to obey."

Brandon nodded slowly.

"I'll order the plantings today. They should be here by the end of the month. Once we've got the soil broken, 47 can start building the trellises and setting up the irrigation." Without giving his slave-boy son another glance, Greg turned and left the stables.

James looked at Brandon for a moment as if measuring up for the work and training that lie ahead for him. Brandon's hazel eyes danced and he trembled under the overseer's gaze.

"Your master has set you a rather hard task. I'd want at least ten boys to do what you're going to make 47 do all by himself. Gonna be some long days for both of you, boy. Ready to get started?"

"Yes, sir," Brandon said, trying to sound confident but not feeling it.

"Nate will help you get 47 ready today, but starting tomorrow he's your responsibility, got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Nate appeared moments later, naked as he normally seemed to be and already dirty and sweaty from exercising the pony boys out in the paddock. The thirteen-year-old's long pendulous cock swung freely from side to side as he walked and his ripe hairless balls hung low in the summer heat.

"What's up, dad?" Nate asked as he stood in front of his father. James towered over his son.

"Get 47 fed and ready for work. Show Brandon the ropes here. Tomorrow he's doing this all himself."

Nate gave Brandon a conspiratorial smile.

"Can you handle this on your own, or do you need me to stick around?" James asked the two teenaged boys.

"We got this, sir," Nate said immediately. He then glanced strongly at Brandon.

"Yes, sir, we've got this, sir," Brandon added.

Satisfied that there would be no mischief, James left the boys to their task. "Don't disappoint me or I'll blister both your asses."

With his father gone, Nate relaxed noticeably and draped a slim sinewy arm around Brandon's bare shoulders. The two young teens were almost the same height, Nate though younger being an inch or so taller.

"Scared?"

"A little, sir."

"Don't worry. I'll show ya the ropes. We gotta get some food in its belly first," Nate gestured to Quinn who was now staring at both of them in anxious anticipation of his first real day of hard labor.

The two boys walked over to the storage cabinet and Nate showed Brandon the many plain unlabeled cans of slave chow, on the lower shelf. Enough to feed penal slave 47 for at least a month.

"He gets one can a day, no more, no less. That's the rules. He's always gonna feel hungry, makes him more obedient that way."

Brandon nodded that he understood. He gazed down at Nate's big cock, crowned by a sparse little patch of light-brown pubic hair.

Nate giggled. "Yeah, it's a big one ain't it?"

"Yes, sir."

Nate's penis responded to Brandon's admiring gaze by slowly erecting itself. Brandon's cock started to harden too inside his leather jockstrap. Before leaving the house that morning, Greg had removed the boy's cock-cage.

"Hey! You're getting a boner! Don't'cha have it locked up?"

"No, sir. Master said I don't have to wear it when I'm in charge of Quinn 3; I mean number 47."

"Feels good havin' a hard dick, doesn't it?" Nate asked, giving his proud seven-inch [18 cm] boner a quick stroke.

"I guess, kinda," Brandon said. After having his penis locked into a chastity cage since he was nine years old, the teen wasn't really sure what to think. He only knew that he was feeling really horny right now and that the desire to pull down his tight jockstrap and play with himself was almost more than he could stand.

"Well, we can have fun with these later," Nate laughed, grabbing himself in a lewd way. "We gotta get some chow down his throat."

The boys enter the stall and see Quinn leaning against the wall and the short heavy chain locked to his nose ring.

"Still can't believe you chained yourself to the wall by your nose. You are a little freak, aren't you!"

The twelve-year-old kept his head bowed.

"Answer me, turd!"

47 slowly nodded.

"Ha! Well You couldn't'a gotten much sleep torturing yourself that way but that is like totally awesome. You're really into this whole thing, aren't ya?"

Quinn realized he was nodded his head 'yes' without even really thinking about it. Was it that natural?

"Go grab the hose, Brandon, and we'll hose him down first."

Brandon had been in the stables enough times to know the general layout and he was back a moment later pulling the heavy black rubber hose with him.

Nate removed the padlock and chain from 47's nose ring and pulled the twelve-year-old out of the stall to be hosed down. 47 stared at these two boys he'd spent most of his life with and stood at attention, his arms straight at his sides, his eyes wide with anticipation, fear and the inexplicable sexual arousal that seemed to now be his constant companion.

"Spray the filthy animal down, Brandon," Nate said.

"Yes, sir." Brandon stared into his former master's blue eyes. Quinn's eyes danced and watered and he lowered them in submission. Brandon squeezed the trigger on the nozzle and sprayed a strong stream of frigid water at Quinn's chest.

Quinn sputtered and shivered, causing his chains to clink and rattle and the Stinger between his legs to swing wildly against his smooth hairless thighs.

"Get his legs and his feet," Nate instructed the novice slave handler. Brandon obeyed.

"Now his face. He's really dirty."

Brandon let up a bit on the pressure, sending a softer but soaking and ice-cold spray over Quinn's bald head.

"That's good enough for him. He's just gonna get mucked up again anyway."

Brandon turned off the hose.

"I fed him last night, so you should do it so you learn how."

"Do I need to take his muzzle off, sir?" Brandon asked.

Nate smiled. "Well you could, but why bother. You can just unscrew the penis-gag. See?" Nate reached down and slowly twisted the end of the large latex cock, which filled Quinn's mouth. "Now you try. Just twist 'til you hear it click and pull it right out. He won't bite."

Brandon turned the gag till it came loose and withdrew it from Quinn's mouth. Quinn's ringed tongue immediately flopped out over his bottom lip, accompanied by a flood of drool.

"Now pop the top on the can and make him eat it. Get him down on all fours and get his head right down into the can. Whip his back if you need to."

Brandon again followed Nate's instructions. Quinn offered no resistance, but Brandon gave him two gentle lashes just to remind him who was in charge now.

"You're getting' better with the flogger," Nate offered encouragement to his new friend. Having another helping hand around the stables was always a welcome development.

"Yes, sir. It was hard the first time, whipping him 3; but I guess I got used to it real quick. Eat up," he said to Quinn, reaching down and pushing his hand between the naked twelve-year-old's shoulder blades. He held the younger boy down in that position until he heard the slurping and licking and hollow rattling of the can against the ground that told him 47 had finished eating.

"Did he lick it clean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now he needs something to drink. You pee yet this morning?"

"No, sir. I got up too late for that. I had to make Master's breakfast and then get out here."

"Then you can pee right here."

Brandon looked around. "Where, sir?"

"There," Nate said with a giggle and pointed to 47's mouth. "Open up, 47."

Quinn opened his mouth and looked up at Brandon with soft eyes, his expression a mix of shame and sexual excitement.

Brandon wrapped his hand around his own cock, for the first time in years, and released a full stream of dark yellow teenaged boy-piss into the twelve-year-old's waiting mouth. Brandon sighed with relief as he emptied his aching bladder. He'd planned to take a piss when they got up into the hills, but the boy quickly discovered peeing into Quinn's mouth was even better, and way hotter. His little cock grew to its full four-inches [10 cm] showing his appreciation for Quinn's service.

As he dutifully swallowed Brandon's piss, 47 noted how different it tasted from Nate's yesterday.

'Does everyone taste different?' he wondered with intent twelve-year-old curiosity. He licked the last drops from the tip of Brandon's hard boyhood then sat back on his haunches and waited for the day to begin.

Brandon stuffed his cute little boner back into his leather jock and stood back. Nate handed him a leather leash, which he attached to 47's iron collar. He then pushed the penis-gag back into 47's mouth and twisted it until locked to the boy's muzzle again.

Nate grabbed hold of 47's leash and tugged the boy forward harshly. "Listen up, turd. Brandon's in charge of you from now on, but I'm in charge of Brandon, so if you fuck up, we all three get punished. Don't fuck up. Got it?"

47 nodded his head sharply.

"See that cart over there?" Nate pointed to a large two-wheeled wooden cart, slightly worse for wear.

Again the twelve-year-old penal slave nodded.

"Bring it over to us."

Hobbled and bent by his heavy chains, and stiff and sore from sleeping on his knees, Quinn shuffled across the hard-packed dirt floor of the stables. The cart was designed to be pushed from behind, like the wheelbarrow that had given him so much trouble yesterday. It was old and heavy, made to withstand years of weather and hard use. Quinn had to dig his bare feet in and use all his eighty-five pound [38.5 kg] weight to get the thing moving. He rolled it to a less than graceful stop in front of the two older boys who were now, effectively, his overseers.

"Good job, shit-head. Now follow us," Nate ordered. He then led Brandon and the penal slave over to the supply area. "He'll be harnessed and yoked while he's pulling the plow," Nate explained to Brandon, pointing the collection of thick leather harnesses and wooden yokes, all of them boy-sized, that hung from the wall. "And he'll need a hoe and a shovel today too. No point us lugging all that shit up there when he can do it for us. That's your job now anyway, isn't it, turd?"

47 nodded his head slowly. The thought of pushing all those things up the steep sides of the north face was not exactly appealing to him, and yet somehow the idea of spending the day up there with Brandon in charge of him made his heart race. His young cock was once again swelling painfully inside its metal cage.

Together Nate and Brandon piled all of the necessary tools and equipment into the cart. 47 watched them with ever-widening eyes as he tried to calculate just how heavy the cart and its contents together must be getting.

"You take him on up to the north face," Nate said. "I'll get a four-wheeler and meet you there with the plow."

Brandon took his flogger and gave penal slave 47 a quick sharp lash across his naked butt.

47 drew in a sharp hissing breath behind his muzzle and strained every lean young twelve-year-old muscle to move the heavily laden cart.

"Come on, 47," Brandon said, his young adolescent voice soft but stern. He cracked the flogger again across 47's back. "You've got a lot of work to do today."

IX. Hard Labor

Brandon had figured that with a good push, Quinn could just drive the cart right through them and clear the way, sadly that had turned out not to be the case. Eighty-five pound [38.5 kg] Quinn simply wasn't big enough or strong enough to push the ungainly cart with sufficient force to make it all the way through. Barely halfway into the thicket, the thistles and brambles closed around the poor boy's legs and he basically got stuck right there. He didn't scream or protest, but simply let out a defeated whimper and stared back at Brandon with big swimming eyes.

Brandon was forced to the unhappy conclusion that the only way to get the twelve-year-old penal slave moving again was to whip him. Hard.

"Move your legs, 47!" he shouted, lashing Quinn's sweaty back with the flogger several times. "Move it, you lazy slave, move it! Come on!"

Quinn thus had to choose between the tangled brambles and the flogger raining down blow after blow upon his back. With a loud shout into his muzzle and all his boyish strength he put his shoulders into it and finally pushed the cart through, earning more cuts and scrapes on his smooth shapely legs, to match the red stripes on his back from Brandon's flogger.

"I'll bring you back down here to clear this up later," Brandon said, as Quinn trudged free from the thicket, "so we don't have to do that again."

Quinn moaned, but he had to agree that it probably would be a good idea. He didn't want to have to deal with those brambles on the way back down.

"Now get up that hill, 47!" Brandon whipped his former master yet again, this time on his naked butt, but only gently, just enough to get the boy moving. One of the lashes landed right on the twelve-year-old's butt-plug. Quinn groaned and whimpered at this unexpected stimulation and his permanently imprisoned cock swelled inside its spiked cage, a glob of pre-cum oozing out of him.

Brandon wore a guilty smile, having not intended to hit the younger boy's butt-plug, but finding the results rather humorous. "Sorry, 47," he said. His own plug was driving him more crazy than usual and his frustrated teenaged penis had been painfully erect inside his tight jockstrap since they'd started trudging up the hill.

One might think that after all those years with his boyhood confined in a chastity device, that Brandon would have enjoyed his sexual freedom, but it was all so sudden, so unexpected, so overwhelming, so difficult, so fraught with risks and responsibility and consequences. Of course he wanted to jerk off, or maybe force Quinn to suck him, but there was real work to be done, and it was his ass on the line if Quinn failed.

Quinn had nothing else to lose. He was a penal slave now, and there could be no reprieve, no possibility of freedom for him. A boy could fall no further into the depths of degradation and slavery.

But for Brandon everything had changed practically overnight. The new responsibility of being a trustee, the challenge of being in charge of penal slave 47 when he'd spent the last five years taking orders from Quinn van Doorn. The chance to earn his freedom, and the terrible cost should he fail.

So, the handsome fourteen-year-old drove his younger charge on up the hill as his own cock throbbed and strained eager for release he knew he would not be getting. Secretly he found himself wishing that his penis could just be locked snuggly inside its little cage again. It was so much simpler that way.

Brandon wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed down at Quinn's lean fit naked form as the pre-teen boy pushed the cart up the hill, every step a strain on his fine developing young muscles. He stared at the 'GvDP' brand, which had been placed on Quinn's butt. It was the same place he'd been branded when he was eight. He could see the end of his former master's stainless-steel butt-plug as Quinn trudged forward with a soft grunt. Brandon looked in continued wonder and amazement at Quinn's balls, the twelve-year-old's sack stretched a full six inches [15 cm] by the weighted split-collars. They swung freely between the boy's smooth hairless thighs. Brandon didn't have a clue how much the metal collars around Quinn's ball-sack actually weighed, but it was obvious they were really heavy and caused the boy a certain amount of distress with every step he took.

Brandon wasn't really sure if he was gay or straight, but he'd always thought Quinn was very cute, and even now in the boy's thoroughly dehumanized state, he had a trim athletic body that definitely caught the fourteen-year-old's eyes and made the uncomfortable hardness in his jockstrap even more intense.

"Nice butt, 47," he said, flicking the flogger playfully against number 47's backside. It was hard for Brandon thinking of Quinn as only a number, but he was slowly getting used to it.

Quinn wasn't sure exactly how to react to that remark, but the thought that Brandon might want to have sex with him made his heart pound faster. And somehow the fact that Brandon had called him by his number rather than his name was really incredibly arousing.

Quinn was slowly awakening to the fact that being a slave, being nothing more than a number was strangely exciting. Being treated like an animal with every aspect of his life harshly controlled by others held a fascination and allure to him that he could not fully understand. He hated it and loved it all at once. A difficult concept for a twelve-year-old to grasp, but at some level the boy knew this simply felt right.

His cock swelled inside its small constricting metal cage. He risked a quick glance back at the older boy and his sensitive blue eyes smiled at him.

For a just a moment it seemed like it was just the two boys, friends who'd known each other for most of their lives, freed from the rules and protocols of master and slave. Brandon smiled back, but then he saw they had barely progressed halfway up the steep slope. He swung his flogger and cracked it harder than he'd intended across 47's back.

The twelve-year-old penal slave hissed in pain and yelped into his muzzle.

"Get moving, 47. We got a long way to go."

Brandon was guiding his charge toward the top of the hill, where it leveled out a bit into a gently sloping treeless expanse perfect for viniculture. Little orange flags had been placed up there several years ago, laying out the general borders of a vineyard that, until now, had only existed in Greg van Doorn's imagination.

Strangely aroused and excited, Quinn pushed the cart forward with renewed vigor, calling upon and finding more strength in his lean twelve-year-old body than he ever knew he had. Every step caused his weighted balls to swing, the Stinger to sway perilously close to his thighs, and the butt-plug to press upon his pre-teen prostate, driving him into a frenzied state of sexual arousal and denial. He needed to cum so bad. It was really all he could think about. Any other thought quickly became fuzzy and overwhelmed by the boy's ever-growing need for sexual release that would not be coming.

And knowing it would not be coming was somehow even more arousing! He focused on the sexy feelings he was having, and the occasional snap of Brandon's flogger.

Brandon continued whipping him across his back, butt and thighs, light touches only, meant to encourage his pace and drive him forward like the obedient animal he was.

"Good job, 47!" Brandon praised him when they finally reached the area marked by the worn and weathered little flags. It was the first time Brandon had been up here, and the view was stunning. Below he could see the lower vineyards, some of them hundreds of years old, stretching out in neat rows, and the large centuries-old brick barn where he knew the wine was made and stored. He could see the slave stables, and the old Spanish style manor house that had been the Van Doorn home for five generations. The morning sun was bright and hot and a warm gentle breeze was blowing, just enough to cool his sweaty bare skin.

"Look," the fourteen-year-old said, pulling Quinn upright by his iron collar and allowing him to take in the scenic view as well. Quinn was breathing hard from his labors, but his intelligent blue eyes were alive and he, like Brandon, was struck by the silent beauty of this place so high above the harsh world below.

Quinn broke out of the cowed obedience of number 47 for a moment and gestured eagerly and desperately to his muzzle.

Brandon seemed to understand and with a sharp twist removed the cock-gag attachment, pulling the five-inch [12½ cm] latex penis from the twelve-year-old's mouth. It came out with a loud slurp and a large flood of drool.

Quinn's pierced tongue fell down over his bottom lip. It was hard for the boy to form words, but he spoke slowly and carefully, because he knew they were important, probably the most important things he'd ever said or ever would. His voice was high and soft.

"If I gotta do this 3; if I gotta be a slave like this 3; for the rest of my life 3; I'm glad you're gonna be my master, Brandon."

Brandon just stood there in shock for a moment. What could he possibly say? He just nodded softly, placed a gentle hand on Quinn's shoulder, then reinserted the cock-gag into the boy's muzzle and twisted the cruel thing back into the locked position, returning the boy to silence.

Quinn's blue eyes widened and filled with tears, but what could he have expected? He nodded softly in return then stood there with his feet spread wide and his head bowed, waiting for Nate to arrive with all the tools and attachments he'd be needing to begin plowing the earth at his bare dirty feet.

Nate appeared about five minutes later leading two of the plantation's pony-boys on leather reins slung casually over his bare sun-browned shoulders. Quinn recognized pony 21, the one they called 'Black Beauty'. He was fourteen, the oldest and strongest of the ponyslaves, fully and completely broken to his life as an equine in the shape of a human boy. His black skin glistened with oils applied by the groomers (boy slaves themselves) first thing that morning. His dark eyes stared forward and betrayed little emotion, but by his gait and his stance it was clear the boy had become fully adapted to his role. He moved with graceful ease in his bit, bridle and chest harness, allowing himself to be led and controlled in every step, turn and movement.

His partner today was pony 07, only twelve years old and already with a sturdy muscular frame. A boy built for drudgery and drayage. This boy was a relatively new acquisition, still learning the strict rules and unyielding requirements of being a pony-boy. Unlike his partner, his green eyes displayed his confused and tormented emotions. A pony slave for less than six months, 07 was still clinging desperately and stubbornly to his humanity. He still thought like a human boy of twelve and had yet, through coercion, force, pain, humiliation and harsh training, to embrace his status as an animal. This transition from boy to pony slave is, perhaps, the most difficult adjustment from resistance to acceptance that any slave boy has to make.

As unpleasant as their lives may be, other slave boys remain boys, they simply have to adapt to the harsh rigors of hard labor, physical punishment and discipline, and sexual use; they retain their essential humanity. Not so for the pony slaves, who must give up all vestiges of being human boys in order to fulfill their all-consuming role as beasts of burden.

Quinn stared at pony 07 and probably understood him better than anyone else at that moment. The two boys were enduring the same rigorous, relentless and merciless stripping of everything that made them who they were 3; or had once been. For the first time in his life, Quinn found himself actually wondering and caring what 07's real name might have been, where he'd come from, if his mom and dad had loved him, how he'd ended up in a bit and bridle and broken to pony service. It was all completely irrelevant now of course, but Quinn felt pity for the boy, even as he himself stood there bound in collar and shackles and chains.

The two ponies were pulling the plow that Quinn would be using to till the earth and create the furrows into which the vines would be set. It was big and it looked incredibly heavy. Quinn wondered how he was going to move it all by himself if it took the strain and effort of two strong and muscular young pony boys to get it up the hill.

Nate dropped the ponies' reins and sauntered over to where Brandon and Quinn were standing. The two pony boys stood completely still, offering no voluntary movement of their own. Sweat glistened on their chests and legs. Both of them sported throbbing erections. Each boy had a heavy gauge ring piercing his cock-head. Thin chains ran through this ring and attached to the boys' leather pulling harnesses. Every step thus led to ever increasing sexual stimulation, driving them both into a state of all consuming sexual arousal. 21 breathed heavily and snorted into his bridle, much as a real pony might have done. 07 wore an expression of hopelessness and frustration. His transition to his new life thus far had not been an easy one.

"Did 47 give ya any trouble?" Nate asked.

"No, sir. I just kept flogging him and he kept on moving."

"Good. Don't let him get lazy on you. He's a rich kid, remember, or used to be. Probably gonna have to beat him good every day to get any real work outta him."

Brandon didn't think that was the case. 47, if anything, seemed eager to obey and do his best, but he decided it was smarter not to say anything. Nate was a free boy, and Brandon had learned long ago to be careful what he said to them, when he dared to speak to them at all.

"Well, there's the plow. Let's get 47 all hooked up."

"Sir, why don't we just have the ponies do it," Brandon asked, "I mean, they're already pulling the plow. They could do it in like half the time."

Nathan laughed. "I like the way you think, Brandon," he said, "but I gotta get these two down to the barn. We're transferring barrels to the Cellars today. They'll be pulling carts all day. Besides my dad says this whole thing is like 47's job. He's gonna do everything up here all by himself, even if it takes forever."

47 swallowed hard and darted his eyes between the other two boys.

"You'll have to take off his muzzle so we can put the bit and bridle on him," Nate said. He pulled the master key to 47's restraints out of his pocket and handed it to the older boy.

Brandon stood in front of 47 and reached behind the boy's head to unlock the cruel steel muzzle that covered the lower half of his face. "No talking when this comes off," Brandon said softly. 47 blinked his blue eyes. With the locks gone, the straps were easily loosened and the muzzle pulled away from the twelve-year-old's face.

Nate then reached down and removed the little metal cap from the pee tube inserted into 47's caged penis.

"Go ahead and do your business," the lanky thirteen-year-old said.

Quinn instinctively looked around for a bush or some other private place where he could go pee.

"That's so funny," Nate erupted in cruel laughter. "He's still trying to find a place to go to the bathroom." He gave 47 a quick smack on his bare ass. "What, you think you get bathroom breaks like when you were in school or something? You're such a dumb-ass! You'd better learn to squat and piss while you're working, 47, wherever you are," Nate jibed.

Ashamed and embarrassed and sharply reminded of his new sub-human status, Quinn squatted down and started peeing right on the spot, a strong boyish stream that puddled between his dirty bare feet.

He looked on, curious and bewildered as Brandon helped Nate release the two pony-boys from the cart. The two sturdy lads just stood there motionless, knowing that no movement on their part was called for or allowed until ordered.

"So, is 47 a pony-slave like those two?" Brandon asked as Nate pulled the bit and bridle from the equipment in the cart.

"Not exactly," Nate replied easily, "but he'll work just as a hard as one and it doesn't take any real training to get him to pull a plow, does it?"

"I guess not."

"This is the bit and bridle he'll have to wear," Nate said, holding up the well-worn heavy-duty leather headgear. "Screw the cap back onto his piss tube and bring him over here so we can get him ready."

Brandon was back with a trembling and excited Quinn a moment later. Fear and arousal at what was about to happen were making the twelve-year-old's head spin. With wide blue eyes he stared straight ahead as the bridle shaped for a human boy was placed over his head and the thick heavy bit forced into his mouth. He finally understood why they'd pulled out his back teeth, as the bit sat right down on his bare gums right behind his front teeth. He heard and felt the pulling of the various belts and straps on the headgear, tightening all the leather around his head and pulling the bit even further back into his mouth. Then the tell-tale clicking of padlocks.

Two long thin leather cords where then attached to the large rings on either side of his bit.

"These are the reins," Nathan explained to Brandon. "You walk right behind the plow as he's pulling it, and you can control him with these." Nathan gave a quick lesson, tugging the left one, then the right one, both times with enough force to turn Quinn's head and illicit a yelp of surprise from the young penal slave.

"Pull back on both of them when you want him to stop. Try it."

Brandon took the reins in his hands and gave a sharp backward tug, forcing Quinn's head and entire upper body backwards.

"Good," Nathan said, clapping the older but smaller boy on the back. "Ya gotta be kinda rough with him, at least at first, 'til he learns what you want him to do. Now lets get him in his shoulder harness and hooked up to the plow."

The harness was identical to the one ponys 07 and 21 were both wearing. Sturdy thick leather straps were tightened around Quinn's shoulders, chest and waist. Cross-straps met at the boy's back, providing strong points to attach the chains for the plow.

"Pull them snug," Nathan ordered once the harness was in place.

Brandon tugged on the straps and buckled them all down. Quinn let out a sharp gasp as the tight harness took his breath away for just a moment.

"He'll get used to that, it has to be tight or he'll waste a lot of energy." The thirteen-year-old spoke with the assuredness of a boy who had grown up the son of an overseer. "Now we have to put him in the arm binder." Nathan pointed to the pair of pony boys whose arms were held bound behind them in tight bondage sleeves.

Quinn remained motionless as the two boys removed the chain connecting the shackles at his wrists. It felt strange, even confusing, having his arms free, but it didn't last long. Under Nate's instructions, Brandon yanked Quinn's arms sharply behind his back, bending them at his elbows. Nathan wrapped the sturdy bondage sleeve around the twelve-year-old slave's forearms and quickly laced it taut.

"Wow, you're fast at that!" Brandon whistled in admiration.

"Years of practice. And sometimes, when I'm bad, dad straps me up in one of these things. So I'm sort of an expert!"

"Ouch."

"Yeah, he thinks I wank too much and it pisses him off whenever he catches me fiddlin' with my bits," Nate looked 47 squarely in the eye, and his lips curled in a malevolent sneer. "You'll never have to worry about playing with your junk again, will you?"

Quinn shook his head.

"Try to wiggle out of the sleeve," Nate commanded.

47 wriggled and strained, and twisted his fine young lean torso, but his arms remained hopelessly bound, bent at the elbows, and pressed against the small of his back.

Nate spent the next five minutes showing Brandon how to attach penal slave 47 to the plow. Chains from the front of the plow attached to steel rings on the boy's harness, two at his shoulders, one at the center of his back just above his bound arms, and two more on either side of his waist.

"How much does this thing weigh?" Brandon asked as he studied the plow. It certainly seemed far more than a single boy of twelve could manage on his own.

"I'm not really sure," Nate replied in his easy off-hand manner. "Enough, I guess. Now you get behind him, grab the reins and get him moving."

Nate pointed to a tiny little box on the plow. It looked to Brandon much like the fancy hand-held phone he'd seen his master and others using. Brandon had only the most limited concept of technology and the modern devices and gadgets free boys took for granted.

"This is a GPS tracker," Nate explained. "See the little flashing arrow thingy?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, peering at the mysterious device in wonder.

"That shows you where the plow is. See it sends this signal up into space 3; satellites and stuff, right?"

"Uhm, right."

"Anyway, just keep 47 on this heading," Nate pointed to a series of numbers flashing on the little screen, "and he'll plow in a straight line. It'll beep at you if he starts to go off, and it'll keep beeping 'til you're back on the right line. Straight lines are important."

Brandon knew that much.

"Try not to fuck it up too bad, okay? It's my ass on the line if you make a mess of things up here. I'll be back up to check on you later and bring you some food, and my dad'll probably show up sometime today too, so keep 47 working."

Nate patted Brandon on the back, then drew the leads for the two pony boys into his right hand. He whistled at them through his teeth and led them off back down the hill. The ponytails attached to their butt-plugs swung slowly from side to side as they stepped along behind him.

Brandon turned his attention to the task at hand and gave a firm tug and snap on the reins. "Get moving, 47," he said.

Quinn struggled for a moment against the weight of the plow, but in truth it was specially designed to be pulled by a single light-weight slave boy, and not as cumbersome as it looked at first glance. Once he dug his bare feet in and put his young legs and back into it, the plow started moving forward under his power. It certainly was not easy. It was not meant to be. But it was not the impossible task it might have first appeared. Monumental, yes. Impossible, no.

Brandon took Nate's advice to heart and kept penal slave 47 trudging forward in front of the plow 'til well past noon. The sun was high and hot, and the cool morning breezes had given way to oppressive stillness. Dark clouds were forming off to the south, promising thunderstorms before the day was out.

Sweat dripped from 47's nose, and his young muscles were starting to ache from constant use, but somehow hard labor seemed a welcome physical escape from the ongoing internal struggle between the free boy he had been just a week ago, and the lowly dehumanized penal slave he was now.

This was his new life, his new reality, and focusing on the pulling of the plow, the straining of his muscles, the continual stimulation of the plug in his butt, the constant sense of need from his perpetually leaking caged cock, the regular crack of the flogger against his backside, all of this drove home the fact that he was a slave, an animal to be controlled and worked like any other beast of burden.

And more and more, the boy found himself learning to accept that fact.

The hardest thing to deal with was his ever-increasing horniness. His twelve-year-old cock was leaking pre-cum all the time now, and every step he took caused his butt-plug to push on that special spot up inside him, sending waves of maddening burning pleasure through his groin.

'I'm never gonna get to jerk off again,' he thought as he leaned into his labors and pulled the plow forward with a soft high-pitched grunt. 'Never gonna cum 3; never gonna cum 3; never gonna cum 3; '

This surge of constant arousal seemed to give him more energy, and his single-minded focus on the sensations coming from his pre-teen cock and balls and butt was all consuming. As he pulled the plow in a straight line, the world around him seemed to fade into hazy shadows. His entire existence was focused on his need to cum, the low ringing of the cowbell attached to his collar, and the continual crack of the flogger across his shoulders. Nothing else was really of any further significance to penal slave 47.

By early afternoon, the clouds had thickened and light rain was falling. For both boys up on the northern slope, the cooler temperatures and the soft breeze were a welcome escape from the blistering summer sun. Brandon kept Quinn moving at a good pace. The twelve-year-old penal slave proved to have far more strength and endurance in his eighty-five pound [38.5 kg] frame than he'd ever imagined and they'd made fast progress, plowing five reasonably straight furrows for planting. The most difficult part was when they came to the end of a line and had to turn the plow around and go in the other direction. The plow was meant to move only in straight lines.

Nate had forgotten to instruct Brandon on how to raise the blades of the plow so it could be turned in the other direction.

When they'd come to that first turn, Brandon took several increasingly frustrating minutes trying to figure things out. Realizing that Quinn probably knew more about this kind of stuff than he did, he finally came to the conclusion that he needed his former master's help. He released the twelve-year-old from the chains attaching him to the plow and took off the boy's head-gear, freeing him from the cruel bit and bridle.

"How does this thing work?" Brandon asked his young charge in flummoxed exasperation. "I can't figure it out. I can't just turn you around in a big circle. That'd make a big mess."

With Quinn's arms still locked behind his back in the leather binder, Brandon led him back to the plow.

"You're smart. You can figure this out, right?"

Quinn's blue eyes flashed and he gave the older boy a gentle smile. He'd never seen this particular plow in use before, but he was possessed with a latent skill for all things technical and mechanical that Brandon clearly was not. Quinn squatted down, which was hard to do without the use of his arms, and took a good look at the plow and figured it out almost instantly.

"You have to raise the blades with that lever thingy, sir," he said, gesturing with his eyes to the lever that would bring the blades up off the ground and allow the plow to pivot easily through a full circle.

"Is it that simple? Really?" Brandon squeaked, his adolescent voice breaking awkwardly. "Geesh, I'm such a moron!"

"No, you're not," Quinn replied, struggling back to his feet and leaning into Brandon's shoulder. Just that little bit of human contact felt so good.

Brandon worked the lever, turned the plow and gave Quinn a bright smile.

Quinn for his part marched back to the front of the plow and waited to be chained up to it again. The rain started to fall just as Brandon was putting the boy back into his head-gear and locking the chains in place. Moments later they were off again in the opposite direction, and from that moment on, they had made quick and easy progress in spite of the weather.

The rain falling on Quinn's shaven head felt funny to him at first, a sensation he'd never experienced before, but the cooling drops were welcome. When they came to the latest turn, he looked up at the grey skies then closed his eyes, allowing the gentle rain to fall upon his young face. He breathed in deeply and awaited the lash from the flogger signaling him it was time to start again.

X. Trespass

Weighed down by his collar, shackles and chains, the lean wiry boy hoisted the next wooden pole up across his aching shoulders. The muscles in his arms and back strained as he carried it over to the freshly dug hole and dropped it in. The boy then squatted down and used his hobbled hands to pack the loose dirt tightly around the pole, keeping it in place. Finished, he looked up at Brandon for approval. The young teenaged slave gave the newly placed post a quick test, making sure he could not pull it out or knock it over.

"Nice and solid. You're finally gettin' the hang of this," the fourteen-year-old trustee said, lightly cracking the whip again to get the penal slave back to his feet.

47 was growing accustomed to the constant lashings, and to working in his back-breaking irons and chains. Silently he stood up, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Sweat glistened from his lean muscular frame, and rolled down tracing the contours of the boy's tight narrow abdomen. The cruel spiked stinger swayed slowly between his smooth hairless thighs, his weighted balls were tugged low by the silver bands around his scrotum, and a long thin strand of pre-cum dangled from the end of his permanently caged cock. Just two weeks of backbreaking labor under the relentless sun had begun to bronze the twelve-year-old's skin and further tone and define his already athletic young body.

His stomach growled. He was always aware that he was hungry. Not a minute went by, day or night, when he didn't feel that particular ache. Behind the muzzle that covered the lower half of his face, his pierced tongue was swollen from lack of water, his throat dry and scratchy. It was starting to become difficult to swallow. Brandon had forgotten to water him once again, but rendered essentially mute by the muzzle and penis-gag in his mouth, 47 had no means of complaining and could only continue with his labors and hope Brandon would remember to give him a drink sooner or later.

His young shoulders bent by the weight of his burdens, the boy picked up the heavy post-hole digger and dragged it several feet forward to another little yellow flag in the ground indicating where the next wooden pole was meant to go. Having turned over the earth for the new vineyard in just few days of work, the building of the trellis that would accommodate the new vines was proving a much more technical but equally arduous task for the twelve-year-old penal slave and his novice fourteen-year-old overseer. A full week had passed and they were barely half-way finished.

47's first attempts had resulted in comical disaster, posts falling over like dominoes and rolling down the steep slope of the hillside, forcing the unfettered Brandon to chase after them and bring them back up the hill. Hobbled and helpless, 47 could only watch in horror and stand in his chains as a full morning's work rolled away from them. Since his transformation from free boy to beast of burden, 47 normally lived in a state of repressed emotions, but the devastation of having to start all over again sent tears streaming from his blue eyes.

Only in the last few days, after some harsh lessons from James Milstead, had the boys started to get the knack for using the post-hole digger correctly. Since then, they had begun to make notable progress and the trellis was finally taking shape.

Greg van Doorn stood at the end of the neat row of posts and slender beams already laid, watching the naked penal slave boy struggle at hard labor in the blistering summer heat. It was his first visit to the hillside where the new vines would be planted, and the first time he'd seen his enslaved son at work. It was still difficult, seeing the boy like this, naked, chained, thoroughly dehumanized, but Greg was getting used to the idea that Quinn was no longer his son. Quinn no longer existed. Number 47 was simply another slave on the Van Doorn estate, an animal no different than the others hard at work all over the property.

"Had some trouble getting the trellis started, boss," James Milstead explained 47's apparent lack of progress. "But we got him straightened out, didn't we, Brandon?" he shouted to the teenaged slaveboy.

"Sir, yes, sir, we did," Brandon called back, giving his young charge another light lashing across his butt as the twelve-year-old dropped another pole into its designated place.

"He's not sparing the whip I see," Greg observed.

James nodded. "Just like I taught him. Boy's a natural, Greg. Driven.Focused.Keeps 47 hard at work. Some days I find them out here after dark 3; still working. My Nate could learn a thing or two from that one. You picked a good one, boss."

Greg gazed at Brandon's slim handsome young form. "Time will tell. How long until the trellis is finished and I can get irrigation up here?"

"Two days, boss. One if we work the boy around the clock."

Greg again gazed at his naked son almost mindlessly engaged in his rigorous labors.

"Will that kill him?"

"Doubt it."

"Then do it."

James nodded. "I'll need to bring some flood lights up here so they can work through the night."

"I'll send them up with a team of pony-boys. I'm flying to South America tonight to select the vines. I'm taking Brandon with me. When I get back, everything needs to be ready for planting. That gives you a week."

"I'll take charge of 47 myself, boss. I'll make sure he gets it done. You have my word."

"I'm counting on that," Greg said as he turned to leave.

"You want to say goodbye to the boy before you go?"

Again Greg rested his eyes on young Quinn. The boy was just then wrestling the next wooden pole across his shoulders to carry it into place. His shapely young legs quaked and trembled from strain and exhaustion. His blue eyes locked with those of his father for just a moment and began to water. He may have mouthed a few silent words, but the muzzle hid any sign of it.

"There's nothing left to say, and he's got work to do. Make sure Brandon is back at the house by 5pm. I need to clean him up a bit before we fly out."

"You got it, boss."

Greg walked back down the hillside. James strode toward the two boys.

"You give him any water yet today?" he asked Brandon.

The young teen's face went pale and he hung his head. "I forgot, sir."

"Drop 'em."

Brandon immediately lowered his jockstrap, his small half-hard cock bouncing free, his hairless ball-sack dangling low in the midday heat. Without being told, the boy bent over and grabbed his slender ankles, offering himself for punishment. Milstead uncoiled the thick heavy leather whip from his belt and swung it hard and fast against Brandon's butt.

The fourteen-year-old was sobbing and sniffling after five well-placed lashes. When he stood up, he was sporting a full erection.

James just shook his head. "Pull 'em up and give the penal slave some water. Then get back to work. I want ten more posts in the ground before I come get you. Looks like you're taking a trip with the boss, but don't let that go to your head."

Red-faced, Brandon pulled his jockstrap back up and hurried over to the supply cart to get the bottled water. James smacked him on the ass as he passed on his way down the hill.

47 stood straight and still as Brandon unlocked the penis-gag from his muzzle and pulled it out of his mouth.

"Sorry I forgot to give you water. You should have said something."

47 gave the older boy a quizzical look. "Can'thgaggthh'd," he managed to say. With the huge heavy gauge ring piercing his tongue it was impossible for the twelve-year-old to form coherent words, but he eagerly opened his mouth to accept the water bottle. The water was warm from sitting in the sun, but it was the best thing ever to the parched and exhausted slave boy. He greedily grabbed the bottle with his hobbled hands and swallowed in large gulps. Brandon had to pull it away from him.

"That's enough for now, gotta save some for later, right?"

47's eyes watched forlorn as Brandon returned the bottle to the cart. The fourteen-year-old decided that since they'd already interrupted their work, now would be as good a time as any to eat his lunch.

"Come over and sit down," he said to 47 as he opened the little brown paper bag that contained a sandwich and an apple.

Chained and hobbled, with his heavily-weighted balls and the nasty stinger hanging between his legs, 'sitting' was something 47 could no longer do easily. Squatting on his haunches was now the best he could manage. He sighed in obvious relief as the spherical stinger and his stretched and weighted scrotum came to rest on the ground. This was the only position in which the boy did not feel their constant and painful weight.

Brandon unwrapped his sandwich and started eating, drinking freely from his own water bottle.

Quinn stared at Brandon with want and hunger in his soft blue eyes. Twelve year old boys are generally always hungry anyway, and his daily morning ration of cold mushy slave gruel was never enough to quell the ache in his young belly. The shiny red apple looked particularly compelling, but with all of his back teeth removed to accommodate a bit and head harness, chewing anything even remotely solid was next to impossible for him.

Brandon looked up and down the hill, just making sure they were alone, and then tore off a small piece of his sandwich and threw it at Quinn's feet.

"I'm hungry today, so that's all you get," the older boy said.

Quinn was grateful even for that small scrap of kindness. He picked it up with his gloved three-fingered hand and popped the small morsel into his mouth. He moaned in delight. Real food tasted so good.

His sandwich finished, and still sporting an erection in his jockstrap, Brandon got to his feet. Quinn followed Brandon's lead.

"Need to pee?" Brandon asked.

Quinn nodded. Even though it had been since morning that he'd gotten any water, it had also been since morning that he'd had the cap on his pee-tube removed.

Brandon carefully reached under the end of the boy's imprisoned cock and removed the little metal end-cap on the hollow tube that ran the length of the boy's urethra. The boy started peeing almost immediately, uncontrollably. Brandon did not replace the cap, but instead set it on the supply cart with the water bottles and the constantly beeping GPS unit.

"You can just pee while you work for the rest of the day," the fourteen-year-old said. He then screwed the penis-gag back into place, locking it to the muzzle with a final 'click'. "You heard what he said. Ten more posts in the ground today. We need to work faster or we aren't gonna make it."

47 picked up the post-hole digger and forced it into the ground with all of his twelve-year-old strength.

"See, I told you," Joey Ridgeway said as he and two other boys climbed the steep slope. "That's him right there." He pointed a long slender arm at the naked form of the dirty sweaty slave boy.

Like Joey, Austin and Tyler were twelve, and Quinn had counted them among his best friends. Austin was a short and skinny boy with a shaggy mop of black hair and pale skin. The kind of boy some might call delicate or even pretty. His gentle mannerisms got him teased a lot, often by Joey and Tyler. Tyler was the biggest of their little pre-teen gang, tall, lean and well-muscled as befitting the son of a field hand on the Ridgeway farm.

"The naked one? No way," Austin laughed nervously, staring at penal slave 47 as they got closer.

"Hell, yeah, that is Quinn," Tyler replied, his pubescent voice cracking awkwardly. "Shit they shaved his head 3; fuck, man, look at that, they got his cock locked up too!"

"Sure do," Joey said as they reached the spot where Quinn was hard at work setting the latest post into the ground. Brandon instinctively shrunk back as the three free boys came right up to them. The fact he was the oldest boy there made no real difference.

"He's got a plug in his ass too! Hey, shit-head!" Joey shouted at Quinn. "Brought some friends to see ya!"

47 looked up from his labors and his eyes betrayed his shame and embarrassment at being seen like this by boys who had been his friends just a few weeks earlier. Little Austin was the first to step up for a closer look.

"Is it really you, Quinn?" he asked softly, his voice still high and unchanged. His green eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and dread and sympathy. Coming from a poor family, deeply in debt, the specter of the prospect of ending up enslaved was a real worry for Austin. Seeing that it could happen to Quinn van Doorn, one of the richest kids in the area just drove it home even more strongly.

With sad blue eyes, Quinn dejectedly nodded his head.

"Jeezus, man, what did they do to you?" Austin's voice squeaked. He was staring him up and down, his eyes fixed on Quinn's many piercings, his slave tattoos, the heavy iron collar and shackles, and the cruel contraption encasing the boy's genitals. "Your chains look so heavy."

'My chains,' Quinn thought. Funny Austin would put it that way, as the heavy fetters with which he was permanently bound had gradually become a part of his daily existence, an extension of his body.

Quinn nodded again.

"Fuck, Van Doorn, I can't believe it," Tyler said, stepping up behind Austin and towering over him. He was a good three inches [8 cm] taller than Quinn too. Seeing them all together, it would be hard to believe the four boys could all be the same age. And little Austin was in fact the oldest of the bunch. Twelve-year-olds are such varied creatures. "Ridge told us what happened, but I thought he was just shittin' us. Guess I owe you twenty bucks, Ridge."

"Sure do," Joey said, wearing a smug self-satisfied expression. "You can pay up now, or you can suck my cock later, your choice."

"I ain'tsuckin' nothin'! That's your girlfriend Austin's job, right?"

The boys laughed at Austin's expense while he just blushed beet red and looked down at his feet. His dick was starting to swell in his shorts and he adjusted it carefully.

"Ha! Check it out, Ridge," Tyler laughed and spun Austin around so Joey could see the growing tent in their friend's threadbare shorts. "He's got a boner! Guess he likes the idea of suckin' your big drooling meat. Or maybe you like the way Quinn looks 3; maybe you wanna be all naked like he is!"

"Yeah, I bet he does 3; want your little cock all locked up like his too, don't'cha?"

"No," Austin replied, ducking out from under Tyler's grasp and clenching his fists in impotent rage. He knew he stood no chance against his two so-called friends, both so much bigger than he was. Just a few weeks ago, Quinn would have quietly stepped in as he always did to end the relentless teasing and taunting, but there'd be no such help today. Tyler quickly had him in a headlock, and he struggled in vain as Joey reached around his waist and pulled his shorts down.

Austin's three-inch [7½ cm] boner snapped upward and throbbed and bounced in time with the boy's racing pulse. He was completely hairless. His balls were the size of grapes, dangling in a soft pink silken sack. His face turned even redder.

"Yep. Boner," Joey laughed. "But you can barely tell. Look at that pathetic little thing. Bet you'd like Quinn to suck it for ya! Hey, slave boy!" Joey acknowledged Brandon's existence for the first time. "Get your worthless ass over here and take that thing off Quinn's face so he can suck some cock. We all know he loves it!"

Joey and Tyler laughed, and even Austin started to get a little grin on his face.

Brandon wasn't sure if his new status would carry any weight at this point. One free boy he could probably have scared off, but three of them in a pack 3; he decided it was best to play things safe. He hurried over and unlocked Quinn's muzzle and penis-gag and pulled the cruel device away. All three of Quinn's former friends laughed when they saw it.

"Look what he has to have in his mouth all the time!" Tyler giggled as he stared at the big rubber cock.

"Good practice for fags like him," Joey howled with laughter.

Austin's little cock swelled even harder and throbbed even more at the sight of the penis-gag.

"Alright, 47," Joey barked, reading the number tattooed on Quinn's forehead. "Guess that's your name now. Get on your knees and start suckin'!"

Quinn hobbled forward and then dropped to his knees in front of his former friends. Joey had hold of Austin's shoulders and roughly pushed the smaller boy toward the chained and naked slave boy.

Quinn wasted no time and quickly engulfed Austin's three-inch [7½ cm] erection. Having grown accustomed to the enormous penis-gag filling his mouth and tickling the back of his throat, Austin's little prick was an easy task. In just a matter of moments Austin was groaning and moaning and letting out little high-pitched gasps and whimpers as his former friend's soft lips and warm pierced tongue played along the meager length of his skinny shaft. Quinn's cock was attempting to harden inside its cruel spiked cage, but his focus was solely on pleasuring the young free boy in front of him.

Joey still had a firm hold on Austin's shoulders, but Tyler had dropped his shorts, revealing an impressive thick five-and-one-half inch [14 cm] erection crowned with a sparse patch of pubic hair. Tyler's balls were big and full and heavy and hung low in a soft hairless sack.

"Okay, he's had his fun," the tall twelve-year-old announced, pushing his two friends out of the way. "My turn!" He glared down at Quinn and locked his hand around the ring on the front of the twelve-year-old penal slave's collar. "Let's see how you like having a real cock in your mouth."

Caught somewhere between embarrassment and frustration at not getting to cum, Austin pulled his threadbare shorts back up his skinny waist and watched with a look of dejection and jealousy as Tyler grabbed Quinn by the ears and began violently thrusting his cock in and out of the slave boy's mouth. Joey grabbed at the noticeable bulge in his own shorts, but thus far had managed to keep his pants on.

"God that's awesome," Joey said to Austin as they watched Tyler face-fuck their former classmate. "Quinn's such a fag. Look at him just taking it! Listen to him moaning 3; look you can see how his dick's tryin' to get hard inside his cock-cage 3; he loves it. What a freak!"

Austin felt only sympathy for Quinn, but decided it was best to laugh along with his bigger more dominant, more popular, more affluent friend.

Moments later, Tyler let out a surprisingly manly grunt and came into Quinn's mouth, coating the twelve-year-old slave's throat with his copious ejaculation of fresh creamy-white boy-seed.

"Swallow it, bitch!" Tyler hissed, smacking Quinn on the back of his shaven head.

Quinn obeyed. Slurping down his friend's spunk and then offering his tongue to lick Tyler's cock clean.

"If you like lickin' stuff, you can lick this," Tyler said, turning around, bending over and presenting his hairless twelve-year-old pucker to Quinn.

Quinn's imprisoned cock was throbbing madly inside its metal cage and a long strand of pre-cum dribbled out as he ran his tongue over and around Tyler's anus.

Tyler giggled, then gasped, and his spent half-hard cock twitched to life once again.

"Fuck! He's really doin' it!"

All this time, Brandon was standing off to one side, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible. But he could never be small enough to avoid Joey Ridgeway's cruel predatory glare.

"Quinn always told me you're a great cock-sucker, Brandon, but he never let me find out for myself. Now he doesn't have any say. Get over here and prove how good you are. I'm so fuckin' horny!"

Brandon nervously stepped forward, gazing down at Quinn who was still hard at work with his face and tongue buried in Tyler's ass.

Joey quickly dropped his shorts down his long shapely athletic legs, revealing a hairless cock only a little bit smaller than Tyler's. A nice thick healthy piece of twelve-year-old boy-meat, currently as hard as steel. His balls, good sized for a boy not yet thirteen, hung low in the warm summer heat. He was uncircumcised and slowly coaxed his foreskin back, revealing a glistening wet purple glans, currently dripping with pre-cum.

"Come on. On your knees and suck it."

Brandon obeyed. He'd sucked cocks every day of his life since he was enslaved, this one was certainly no different. He felt no shame or humiliation anymore. It was just a part of his life. He felt no particular arousal either. Just a job. Just like cleaning the bathrooms, or the kitchen, or taking out the garbage, or taking his master's cock up the ass.

That's not to say the fourteen-year-old was not talented. Joey's loud excited high-pitched moans and groans were testimony to Brandon's skills.

"Oh, damn 3; I'm not gonna last long 3;"

And he didn't, shooting his nascent clear spunk into Brandon's mouth after less than two minutes. He held Brandon's head between his hands long enough to force the young teenager to swallow it, then he angrily pushed him away.

"You did that too fast, dumbass 3; didn't let me enjoy it 3; I should beat the shit outta you for that!"

"I wouldn't, if I were you," came a calm but authoritative voice from behind them.

All the boys turned to see Greg van Doorn standing there with a look on his face somewhere between anger and bemusement.

Tyler quickly broke away from Quinn and clumsily pulled his shorts back up. Joey just stood there with his cock still half-hard and his shorts crumpled around his ankles. Brandon and Quinn both wisely remained on their knees and bowed their heads.

"So, we've started trespassing, have we?" Van Doorn said, addressing them all but with his eyes squarely fixed on young Ridgeway.

"No, sir 3; I mean, yes, sir 3; "Joey stammered, speaking as always for the gang.

"Bored with your own slaves you decided to have some fun with mine, is that it?"

"I 3; I guess so, sir 3; we just sorta wanted to see what happened to Quinn 3; what they did to him 'n stuff 3; you know. "

Greg pointed at penal slave 47, who was still on his knees. "Well, there he is. You've seen him. Now get out of here before I report this to the authorities."

"Yes, sir!" Joey stammered. Tyler and Austin quickly answered the same.

"Oh and for god's sake Ridgeway, pull up your pants!"

Joey did so while stumbling after his friends who had already taken off down the hill. Greg smiled as he started at young Ridgeway's cute pale white ass.

'A few months of hard labor would do that little shit good,' he thought as he turned his attention back to the two slave boys.

"Both of you stand up."

Brandon was on his feet immediately.

Carrying more than a third of his own weight in chains, collar, shackles and rings, it took Quinn a little longer, yet he accomplished the task with surprising grace. The boy was growing accustomed to his bonds, and learning to move with them, rather than against them. He'd discovered that if he imagined every movement happening in slow motion, he would not get tangled up in his own chains as he'd so often done in the very first days of his enslavement.

Both boys stood with their eyes cast to the ground.

"Look at me, Brandon," Greg said.

Quinn noted that he had not been so invited and kept his head bowed.

"I'm 3; sorry, Master," the fourteen-year-old offered, his voice cracking and breaking with fear.

"No need to be. Those three were up to no good the minute they stepped onto our property. The perimeter alarm went off in my office and I figured I'd come up here myself to see what was going on. They didn't hurt either of you, did they?"

"No, sir," Brandon replied.

"Or cause any damage?" Greg took a good look around at the developing vineyard. Everything seemed to be in good order, and he couldn't help be feel impressed and just a little proud that so much work had been accomplished by a twelve-year-old penal slave and a fourteen-year-old trustee. He allowed himself to rest his eyes on Quinn again, just for a moment.

Hard labor had quickly added even more tone and wiry young muscle to the boy's already athletic frame. Quinn looked up at him with his sensitive intelligent blue eyes. Freed of his muzzle the boy's sweet face expressed his exhaustion and his boyish resolve. There was a calm and purpose in the boy's eyes that Greg had never seen before. He risked a quick smile at the young penal slave who just weeks ago had been his son.

47 smiled back, only for an instant, his heart swelling with joy for the simple act of being acknowledged by his father, even if acknowledged only as a good well-behaved hard working slave.

"Muzzle him and put him back to work, Brandon. Milstead will be up to get you later. You and I are going on a little trip tonight."

"Yes, sir. I overheard, sir. South America."

"Eavesdropping on your Master's private conversations?"

Brandon flushed beet red and hung his head. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll punish you for that later," he tussled the boy's sweaty brown hair. "Now back to work."

Brandon picked up 47's muzzle and forced it gently back into the young boy's mouth, pulling the straps tight behind the penal slave's head and locking it in place, once more hiding the lower half of the twelve-year-old's face. Brandon next found his flogger and gently swished it against 47's butt to get him moving.

Walking back down the hill, Greg van Doorn pulled his phone from his pocket and placed a call.

"Yes 3; trespassing 3; and illegal use of private chattel 3; no, I don't want to start a war with Ridgeway. I need to send them a message though. Make an example of that Austin kid 3; his family are basically paupers anyway, they'll never be able to pay the fines 3; excellent. I'll have a representative present when he goes up for auction next week. I trust you'll ensure the bidding goes my way."