Robert V. Walker-Smith

Home for Wayward Boys

1 Prologue

"As you know by now," he said smoothly, "we here at the Martin de Porres School for Boys operate a little differently than most private schools. We do not advertise, nor do we participate in governmental scholarships." Gesturing at the thick, luxurious brochure they were clutching, he continued. "We take only boys who, we feel, can benefit from our particularly rigorous methods. They must be at least fifteen, but no older than eighteen. " Mr. Banneker roused himself from his perusal, and offered nervously, "Our Tarynz is just sixteen, Mr. Douglass 3;" His wife broke in with, "I'm a little worried about this tuition figure, myself." Ah, yes, the Headmaster thought to himself. Now for the kill. He leaned back in his heavy wooden swivel chair, smiling benignly. "I have some good news for you, then." They leaned forward, expectantly. "The Admissions Committee forwarded your application to the Scholarship Committee, and you were approved for this year's Trustee Scholarship. This will cover all of Tarynz's tuition, including room and board."

They sagged with relief, broad smiles on their faces. He looked surreptiously at his watch. "Now, each new boy is given a video interview as a benchmark for future progress. Here's a sample of what I mean – you can compare it to your son's current circumstances." He flicked a switch on his desk, and a panel slid up on the wall. The large television revealed was frequently used to view privately made videotapes – rarely as tame or short as this one, though. Not that the Bannekers need ever know that, he thought. The tape opened on a medium close up of a youth who would have looked more at home in county orange. He snarled at the interviewer. Douglass watched the Bannekers, their dismay at the be-braided, goldtoothed thug on screen palpable. Was this what would happen to their beloved Tarynz? He let the tape run a few minutes, then cut it off. "Where are my manners?" he asked lightly. "Do let me offer you some refreshment – coffee, perhaps, or tea?" The shaken couple agreed that some coffee might be nice.

In response to the silent alert, a handsome and well-groomed student slipped into the room, carrying a sturdy wooden tray laden with silver coffeepot, china cups and associated items. Laying it down on the sideboard, he turned and spoke respectfully.

"Sir, ma'am, would you like some coffee? Cream, sugar 3;?" After they had been served, Douglass spoke casually. "Oh, Vesey, I was showing the Bannekers here your orientation interview." The youth stiffened momentarily. The couple gaped. This clean-cut young man in his crisp school uniform had been the trash-talking B-boy on the tape? "What would you have to say about how you appeared on that tape?" the Headmaster asked. "Sir, I am so very sorry for everything I put my poor parents through – and so very grateful that they didn't give up on me, but managed to find the Porres School. Back at the beginning, I would curse their names – but that's all behind me now, sir." The boy's shining ebony face was taut with intensity as he spoke.

"Thank you, Vesey. Please return for the tray – I'll want to speak with you about the upcoming Assembly. You may go." The boy ducked his head, and retreated.

After that little performance, the couple would have paid cash money to sign the contract. By now they knew that they would have no direct contact with their son for the first three months, and then only written correspondence for another three. Although Tarynz hadn't gotten into any real trouble (they kept repeating) it was clear that strong action was needed. Counseling, Boys' Club, ToughLove, mentoring – nothing had helped. Banneker kept up a soothing stream of reassurance, until every document had been signed. Finally, as he was escorting them out, he asked, "As you know, he's been waiting in the Visitor's Lounge – he won't find out until you've gone that he's staying. That's often a shock, so we try to cushion the blow by offering the new boy his favorite meal. What do you think young Tarynz would like?" The husband and wife had scarcely to look at each other. "That's easy – a big ol' messy In-and-Out cheeseburger with greasy fries. He'd eat that every day if we let him!" Now that the worst was over, they could laugh at that. He laughed with them, and showed them out.

Back in the office, Vesey was waiting, clearly anxious. Douglass walked over to the desk, and took out the remote control. Not the one to the television – the one to the eight inch [20 cm] plug wedged deep in the boy's plump, firm booty. Flicking it on, he was gratified by the change in Vesey's expression. Now that he was in the Third Form, he could only experience arousal from such indirect sources. Sprawling in his chair, Douglass smiled at him. "You did very well, boy – very well, indeed. You may kiss my feet." The now grinning student dove for the carpeted floor, and the Headmaster felt the familiar sensation of a well-trained slaveboy pressing kiss after kiss to his well-polished dress shoes.

Breaking in young Tarynz would be a pleasure, he thought 3;

Chapter 2

Despite its obscurity, the school was quite large, on what seemed like hundreds of acres. He had been parked in this stuffily furnished room, with a surprising assortment of magazines on the polished mahogany table – "Vibe", "EM", "Callaloo", and something called "Whazzup". He was leafing through them, when a knock came at the door. A black youth in a weird outfit – dark gray shorts, white shirt with red kerchief, and navy blue blazer – stood at the door with a covered dish on a tray. "You've been sent this as lunch – we hope you like it." Tarynz, confused, took the tray and set it on the table. Uncovered, it held a china plate with – a huge, greasy cheeseburger and a pile of crispy, salty fries. The smell reminded him of the hours since breakfast, before the long drive out from the city. He fell to with a will, and only when the burger was mere scraps and the fries much diminished that he realized what was missing. Nothing to drink, and he was powerfully thirsty. Just as he was wondering how he could remedy this, the door opened again, and the same bourgie looking brother was there with a large cup of something. Tarynz grinned and seized the cup. The cupbearer smiled back and withdrew.

Tarynz gulped the ice cold soft drink down, scarcely noticing the lack of ice. As sweet and cold as it was, it was not surprising that he didn't notice the slight bitter aftertaste. The staff at the School had tried many different formulas, but the combination of drugs – hypnogogics, antianxietants, euphoriants, and a few others – still had a noticeable taste. But a healthy teenage boy with a raging thirst could be counted on to have swallowed a critical dose long before noticing that taste. He plunked the almost empty cup down on the tray, and sat heavily on the chair. He tried to resume reading, but somehow he couldn't focus. He read the same sentence several time, until the print started blurring. The magazine slipped from his hand, and he slumped back. While not properly asleep, he was not quite awake, either, and did not respond noticeably when the men entered the room. They picked him up, and carried him out.

Between the movement and the increasing effect of the drugs, he became even more disoriented as they stripped his clothes off and placed him in what felt like a lukewarm bath. Although he had no way of knowing, it was a specially modified sensory deprivation tank. As he felt himself floating in the water, the cover was closed, and the darkness enclosed him.

In the darkness and silence, his altered nervous system began to work. Eyes and ears strained for input, and found none. His brain began to spin hallucinations out of the nothingness. When actual images and sounds began to reach him, he was so deep in delusion he could not distinguish them. The words – from speakers – and images – from a flatscreen mounted right above his head – were percolating directly into his subconscious. And the words began 3;

"What are you?" spoke a harsh, demanding voice.

"I am a slave," responded a strangely familiar voice. It was with a vague and swimming surprise that he realized the familiar voice was his own 3;

And his training began.

Chapter 3

Meanwhile, back in the tank 3;

Tarynz felt his head swimming. The voice, stern and commanding, barked out questions and commands. "What are you?" it had demanded first. Then his own voice, strangely subdued, "I am a slave." Then the pictures had started. A tall, strongly built white man stood, with a shirtless black youth in shorts kneeling before him. When the scene zoomed in, the youth turned and smiled. Tarynz moaned softly. The youth was him! The recitation went on: "What is your mouth for, boy?" Then he – could it really be him? – replied, "To serve my master's cock, sir."

He shook his head feebly from side to side. Could this be true? He couldn't remember how he got here; was this something he had really done or said? Then a different, but equally forceful, voice came through. "Tell us again – what are you?" He whispered through a dry mouth, "What – who are you? Where am I?" Suddenly, he was immersed in liquid fire. He thrashed weakly, whimpering as his muscles jerked and spasmed. The fire died down, and the voice came again: "If you do not answer, you will be punished. Tell us – what are you?" Tarynz licked his lips. "I – I am a slave. Sir." The fire did not return. The voice again: "Let us show you some of your favorite things to do." The pictures resumed.

He blinked as he saw himself, back on his knees, with the big white man's cock sliding in and out of his mouth. The picture looked blurry, but he could tell it was him. "What are you doing? Tell us what you see." His voice quavered as he replied, "I am sucking – sucking my master's cock." There was a satisfied noise. "Very good, boy – if you continue to behave yourself, you will be allowed to do it again soon. Now look at this."

The picture dissolved, then reformed. He – it was easier now to believe that it was really him – was bent over what looked like a padded sawhorse, facing the camera, smiling broadly. Behind him stood the same big man. As the point of view moved to show a profile, he saw that he was now completely naked, and the man behind him – oh God, the man behind him was thrusting a huge, reddened cock in and out of his round booty! "Tell us what you see, boy," came the voice urgently. Tarynz choked back a sob. "I see – I see my master fucking me!" he cried out. "Do you want him to fuck you again, boy?" Tarynz was paralyzed. Was that what he wanted? Had he ever wanted that?

Suddenly the fire was back, more fierce than before. In the monitor room, Vasa had turned the current up to 3 – just one higher than the first jolt. It was lucky that the same mineral salts that made the water in the tank provide the correct buoyancy also served as excellent conductors. He let the subject thrash for a good thirty seconds – which no doubt felt like as many minutes.

"Tell us! Do you want him to fuck you again?" Tarynz gulped. "Yes, sir! I want my master to fuck me again!" As seconds went by, with no more voice and no more fire, he began to relax. As he slipped further into semiconsciousness, the pictures resumed and his own voice began to whisper from the speakers. Images of himself engaged in behavior that just hours before would have revolted him, together with his own voice describing the delights that those acts brought, slipped in past the sleeping guards of ego and superego.

By the time the full program had run its course, he was all but asleep and dreaming. When the tank was opened and he was gently removed, he could scarcely tell. A dose of Sleep was poured down his throat – a proprietary School formula that resulted in four to six hours of uninterrupted delta/theta sleep. After being esconced in a Level One cubicle, on the simple cot that would be his only opportunity for rest until his graduation to Level Two, he was fitted with a set of earphones. They would send a constant stream of subliminal affirmations to reinforce the isotank programming.

When Tarynz woke up, alone and naked, several hours later, the earphones were gone, along with any conscious memory of the last half a day. He could remember sitting in the waiting room, finishing a meal 3; then, nothing. Whatever had happened, he felt great – rested, refreshed and strangely happy. Then the door opened.

The tall, muscular white man standing there was a stranger,and Tarynz's first reaction was to stand up and demand to know what was going on. But when he rose to his feet, he found himself on his knees instead. His head bowed and hands held behind his back, he said humbly, "What does my master require of his slave?"

His eyes shot open, still looking down. "What the FUCK did I just say?" he raged inwardly. He could see the man's booted feet step closer, and felt a hand rest atop his head. "Your master requires that you offer your body for his pleasure. Follow me, boy." As the man walked briskly from the cubicle, Tarynz followed – on his hands and knees. The interior debate – most of his mind going along with his body, but a small, powerless voice screaming in disbelief – continued. Then he stopped. The man was standing beside a strangely familiar device, like a padded or upholstered sawhorse. He saw that it had leather cuffs on either side. Suddenly, he felt himself being pushed down – or his head, rather. Forehead to the floor, legs straightened, booty stuck high in the air, he felt incredibly vulnerable. This was amplified when a small plastic nozzle was slid into his tight hole, and a flood of warm water began to fill his ass.

He gasped as he felt his lower gut expand. Without a word, the nozzle was pulled out. In the absence of further direction, he remained in that position. He could feel his face flushing, and beads of sweat broke all over his sleek brown body. Finally, after many minutes, he was told brusquely to squat over a large chamberpot. The relief of releasing the quart of liquid made his legs feel shaky, and he staggered to the sawhorse. After bending over, he placed his wrists and ankles against the cuffs without being told; although he could not see, that willingness brought a tight smile to his 'master's' face. After he had been securely cuffed in place, he felt a slick protuberance prod his now warmed and slick bootyhole. "Do you want your master to fuck you, boy?" the man demanded. "Yes, sir, this slave wants his master to fuck him! Please fuck my black ass, sir!" he shouted, suddenly wanting this to happen. Deep inside, a fading voice howled in protest, but as the thick white cock began to force its way past the tight outer ring, the sheer physical pain drove Tarynz literally out of his head. All his awareness was centered in that circle of muscle that was being stretched as it had never been stretched before. He opened his mouth and howled like a dog, as inch after inch pushed relentlessly into him.

And yet, despite all that, his 'master' noted with great satisfaction that the boy's own cock was as hard as it could possibly be 3;

Chapter 4

From the book Boys For Sale, page 102-103, as quoted in the Martin de Porres School for Boys Handbook (for internal distribution only).

As the brutal thrusts continued, Tarynz's howls diminished to whimpers and hoarse whines. Not that the pain had noticeably diminished, or that his sprung rump was accommodating the trainer's bloated rod of flesh any more easily; no, he was beginning to lose any capacity to resist. Moreover, the aftereffects of the conditioning he had already begun had caused his own dick to spring to raging attention. With it trapped against the crossbar of the sawhorse, not to mention his hands being shackled, he was in no position to pay particular attention to that detail.

However, as his trainer succeeded in forcing his entire erection into the sweating, whimpering boy's now no-longer-virgin booty, he seized his subject's dick with one lube-slick hand. Tarynz jumped at the sensation – he was so hard, it felt as if all the nerve endings were an inch out from his skin. With his other hand, the man seized the boy's head and pulled it up. Directly in front, not a yard away, was a large mirror. Tarynz saw his face – drool down his chin, eyes wide and wild, mouth open – then saw it spasm as the man's hand began to caress his dick. The cock stuffed inside him was pumping short, relentless thrusts in and out, while the hand kept up a complementary rhythm. He heard his master's lust-thickened voice in his ear, "Show me how much you love having this big white cock in your boypussy! Come at my command!" His mind in a whirl, Tarynz could feel the cum boiling up from his balls. Something inside was striving to obey the command – and the slick fist wrapped around his straining dick was certainly helping. Forced by the hand on his head, he watched his face contort in a grimace he had made countless times but never witnessed before. A wordless ululation broke from his lips as his dick pulsed and leapt, spurting forth a seemingly endless series of cumloads. The hand stayed, stroking and palping his dick and balls until the eruption had completely subsided. Then the voice came again, "Now I will take my own pleasure in your tight little cunt, my pretty little slave!" Tarynz realized suddenly how much tighter his 'cunt' was, now that he had cum so fiercely. But tight or not, the man's cock came thrusting back, seemingly ever more brutal than before. He squalled and thrashed in his bonds, earning a chuckle from above. "Tell me, boy – when a master fucks his slave, whose pleasure is that for?" The boy gulped, and whimpered, "It is for the master's pleasure 3; sir!"

"Good, " grunted the man. "Then I will fuck your sweet ass for my pleasure, which will be – ahh! – considerable!"

It must have been at least as considerable as the time it took. Tarynz had no way of knowing that the man had, in fact, received a splendid blowjob from another of his 'subjects' just a few minutes before retrieving him from his cubicle. He took almost half an hour to reach his second orgasm – by which time the boy was limp, dazed and covered in sweat.

Finally, after the man had come with much grunting, growling and hard-handed slapping of Tarynz's sweet round behind, he pulled his slowly softening phallus from that sore, clinging aperture with a lewd plop. After releasing the boy from his shackles, he directed him to kneel before him. "Now, kiss my boots and tell me how grateful you are that I have honored you with my cock!" Tarynz looked up at him with wide, watering brown eyes. For a moment, rebellion flared up in his delirious heart – "No!" he whispered, louder than he'd intended, "No, I won't kiss your boots!" The trainer's eyes widened. "Do you know what happens to slaveboys who talk back? Do you, boy?!" the man demanded, pulling Tarynz roughly to his feet by the collar. The boy found himself being frogmarched through a dimly lit room, noticing for the first time other men – and boys – around them. He was halted in front of what looked like an empty doorframe, with hooks on the top bar and near the base on both sides. The man attached his wrist shackles to the top bar, and ankle shackles to the cross bars. His arms were stretched over his head, forcing him up onto the balls of his feet, which were stretched almost three feet [90 cm] apart.

Then the man was standing before him – even in this configuration, Tarynz had to look up at his face. He was holding a black leather paddle, perhaps two feet [60 cm] long, eight inches [20 cm] across and easily half an inch [1½ cm] thick. The smile on the man's face was chilling, yet the boy could not look away. "Now it's time for you to find out what happens to slaveboys who don't mind their manners," he said conversationally. "I'm – I'm sorry, sir – I didn't 3;" The man put a hand across the boy's mouth. "By the time I am done, you will no longer use the word "I", boy – I'm sure the rest will come to you. He stepped aside and around, and Tarynz realized with a shudder that he must be behind him. His legs spread so wide had pulled his firm, rounded bootycheeks further apart than they normally got – although he was beginning to think his definition of 'normal' was in for some serious revision.

Then a whistle of air, a thunderous *swat!* and a band of stinging pain spread across his behind. It had begun 3;

Chapter 5

The bare-chested man pulled his muscular arm back, and swung the black leather paddle down again, bringing it firmly athwart the chuddering asscheeks. The boy yelped, and yelped again as the blows rained down.

Pausing for breath, the man chuckled in the whimpering boy's ear, "You know, you can start counting any time!" Tarynz rolled his watering brown eyes. When the next smacking blow came, he threw his head back and wailed, "One, thank you, sir!"

By the time the count reached ten, the boy's eyes were scrunched tight, glistening tracks of tears running down his smooth cheeks. The man's chest was likewise glistening with sweat. As he put the paddle down by his side,he rested on hand on the boy's heaving shoulders. Relishing the involuntary flinch this produced, he said, "Is there anything you'd like to ask for, boy?" Tarynz stiffened,as his eyes shot open. "May – may this boy have another – sir?" he stammered out, obviously horrorstruck at the words coming unbidden from his mouth. "Not right now, boy," the man replied gently. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Now it's time to get your fed and watered."

He unfastened the boy's shackles from the frame. As Tarynz slumped, the man helped him to the ground, where he found himself on hands and knees – a position that now seemed strangely comfortable. As the man strode off through the dimly lit area, the boy scampered along, focusing on the man's boots. When they stopped, he almost ran into the man's legs. He heard the now-familiar voice from above. "That's right – we never finished what we started. Are you now ready to kiss your master's boots?" Tarynz almost lunged forward, then checked himself. "Yes, this boy wants to kiss his master's boots, sir!" "Then do it, boy," the man barked.

He lowered his face to the polished black leather, elbows out and booty up. While he still felt vulnerable, it now seems comfortable and right – even inevitable. He pressed his full lips against the man's boots, kissing them with frantic enthusiasm. Finally, he felt himself being gently kicked away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see others in this area. Several other black youths, also on hands and knees, maybe five or six, and as many booted, trousered legs. He knew that they were other men like his – his master. He felt a hand on the back of his head. "Time for you to be fed and watered, boy" the voice came. Yet another crumbling remnant of his earlier identity fell away – he did not eat or drink, he was fed and watered, like a pet or farm animal. Then he saw the bowls being brought in, and the other boys crawling into place.

The man – his master – pointed to a spot on the ground, and he saw two big dog bowls there. A big metal one with some sort of food, and a smaller plastic one full of water. They both had TARYNZ written across them. To either side, he could see the other boys crawling forward and lowering their dusky faces to their food bowls, and he knew that he would have to do the same. As he smelled the food, an upswelling of hunger began to drown out the crawling sense of shame he felt, and he put down his face and began to eat.

Chapter 6

The cavernous kitchen was sparkling clean. Every inch of exposed metal shone, every square of tile was pristine. The reason for this remarkable hygiene was evident as the team of Second Form students worked their way through.

In their regulation uniform – tight white cotton briefs, sleeveless undershirts, and chain collars – they were currently hard at work scrubbing the tile floor. As a concession to the rigorous labor, they had been given kneepads and elbow pads. All ten of them were down on hands and knees; the contrast between their various shades of skin, from cinnamon to cocoa, and the white fabric was being admired by the two supervising staff.

While the boys' attention was clearly fixed on their arduous task, every so often a pair of eyes would dart to one side, as if checking on the two men. One of the reasons for this vigilance was made clear when one of the men stepped across the expanse of wet tile. The boy, head bowed over his scrub brush, never saw it coming. The crop arced down to swat! smartly against one plump, rounded buttcheek. The boy jumped, yelping with surprise. "Keep up the pace, Garnet! Don't think we don't see you slacking," the man snapped. Then he grinned. "Of course, if you're tired, you can take a break. Is that it, boy? Are you tired?"

The boy looked up at him, cringing, his big brown eyes wide with fear. But his conditioning overcame, as it was supposed to. "Yes, sir, I am tired. May I – I take a break, sir?" His interlocutor looked across at his colleague. "Take Garnet here to the break room – make sure he gets a good rest, now!"

The boy shuffled across the tile floor toward the other man, who turned and led him down the connecting corridor. When they reached the break room door, the man opened it and held it while the boy shuffled in.

The other boys had ceased their work to stare in apparent fascination at their schoolmate's ominous departure. The first supervisor smacked the crop against his palm. "If you continue to lollygag, I can only assume you all want breaks. Am I understood, boys?" They nervously returned to scrubbing the floor, but even the susurration of nine brushes against the tile floor could not drown out the wailing from the 'break room'. The smacks rose in volume, as did the wails, until they suddenly ceased. The supervisor gazed wistfully down the corridor, then began scanning the sweating boys carefully. With a little advance planning, he could have his own break session planned by the time his colleague finished his own.

In the gym, Douglass, the Headmaster, was leading a tour of some illustrious patrons. While not themselves alumni, they were all intimately acquainted with alumni, who tended to have an excellent reputation in certain circles. Despite that acquaintance, they still eagerly accepted invitations to tour the School. There was something intoxicating about seeing the actual training process.

The current training involved Dunbar, a Second Form student. For the occasion, he was out of regulation uniform. Since it involved vigorous activity, he wore running shoes – new, white, and very stylish – and an athletic supporter – also new, also white – but retained the chain collar. Douglass noticed how warmly the visitors responded to Dunbar's appearance. Frankly, he felt much the same; the boy's long, strong legs, high-mounded ass and lean, symmetrical torso irresistably drew the eye. Standing as he was on a sleek electronic step machine, he was quite a package. Shaking himself, Douglass returned to his presentation.

"As you know, one of the differences between Second and Third Form curricula is the change from manual labor to an organized program of physical fitness. While the former keeps the students fit, the latter goes even further. For example," he said, gesturing, "this machine, while promoting cardiovascular health, has an added benefit. We discovered that when set at Workout Five, at a step rate of at least 140 per minute, it also tones and firms the muscles of the – ah – upper thigh," he gestured at a portion of young Dunbar the visitors rarely looked away from. Smiling broadly, he looked up. "Tell me, boy – how long have you been in Second Form?"

The boy looked at him apprehensively, then licked his hips and smiled. "Two months, sir, Headmaster," he offered. "And would you like to advance to Third Form?" "Oh, yes, sir, very much so, sir!" the boy replied, his words tumbling over each other. "Then show us what you're capable of," Douglass said smartly, slapping the boy amiably on the rump.

"You will notice a connection on the control panel here, which leads to this wire, which in turn leads to this electrode. Boy, be so good as to attach this small clip to your guiche piercing." He handed it to the alarmed Dunbar, who nonetheless did promptly as he was bid. Added to his ingrained and reinforced habit of obedience was his eagerness to advance to Third Form.

"Once the boy begins stepping on the machine, its system will register the rate at which he does so. If the rate goes below 140, an electrical impulse will travel through the wire and – well, you get the idea. It conditions the subject – or student – to maintain the correct rhythm." One of the visitors spoke up. "And how much of a shock does this impulse produce?" The others murmured assent. Douglass smiled again. "If any of you would like to sample it for yourself – - no? Well, you may judge for yourself. Boy, the machine is programmed. Push the Start button and begin stepping."

Taking a deep breath, Dunbar did as he was told. After a half dozen steps, he suddenly stiffened, gasping audibly. A buzzing came from the control panel. He picked up his pace markedly, and the buzzing ceased. His long legs kept pumping, keeping up the pace, making his full booty jounce and jangle most becomingly.

"Each session lasts a full twenty minutes," Douglass added, scarcely distracting the group from their rapt attention to the straining youth before them. "While this may not seem like much, when the boy does it every morning without fail, the effect on his physical development is most impressive."

The boy kept stepping, his dark copper frame glistening with sweat, frantically keeping ahead of the machine's implacable vigilance. Whatever thoughts he might have had, he kept within himself, and the men regarding him and his efforts so intently certainly did not trouble themselves to ask.

Chapter 7

Not that the occasional excitement was shunned – far from it. In fact, after the students had eaten their fill – emptied their bowls, in fact – and slaked their thirst from their water bowls, the instructors herded them into a demonstration area. Tarynz was beginning to adjust to moving about on all fours, and carefully kept his head down; somehow, he knew that craning his neck up to peer at the 'masters' would be a bad idea.

Even on all fours as they were, the students could see a low dais at one end of the area. There was a low slung, comfortable looking chair in its center. As one of the instructors began to remove his boots and trousers, another explained to the assembly the nature of the game they were about to play. Three students were chosen – Tarynz felt a momentary pang at not being one – and crawled up onto the dais. The instructor was now sprawled, legs spread, on the chair. Tarynz felt his eyes irresistably drawn to the man's swelling cock – he wasn't sure, but he thought it might be the same man who had – what?! He found himself wishing that the man who had so brutally raped his virgin boybutt would do it again, and soon. Whimpering softly, he tried to focus on the dais.

The game was simple – the three boys chosen would take turns sucking the instructor's cock. While one was so employed, the other two would be massaging the man's feet – no sense remaining idle, after all, the standing 'master' chuckled. Each would take one minute turns, alternating; the one who succeeded in sucking seed would be the winner, and would be rewarded. The other two 3; . it was clear that some amusing torment would befall them. Amusing to the instructors, at least.

The three boys knelt submissively before the seated man – a coal-black youth of perhaps fifteen, with a shaved head and big, round ass, a dark copper boy, quite slim and on the tall side, and a cafe au lait lad, perhaps seventeen, with long wavy hair. The first and third boys stooped, and began to kiss and rub the man's feet, while the slim boy put his hands behind his back and bowed his head over the man's now fully erect member. Tarynz could hear the slippery, liquid sounds of an enthusiastic blow job, and saw the man's big hands descend on the boy's close-cropped natural and force his head even further down. The minute passed with aching slowness, but finally the boy's head was pulled from its place, and, gasping, his chin covered with drool, he shuffled aside and bent to his appointed foot.

The shaved head boy took his turn, apparently doing an even more satisfactory job; after a few seconds, the man reached around and began slapping his hard on his round, protruding bubble-butt. This produced much squirming and muffled whimpering, but no apparent slacking of effort.

The light-skinned lad took his turn next; his good hair did him little good, but proved an excellent handle, as the man seized two great handfuls to hold him in place. Like the two before him, he held his hands firmly behind his back, even when, from the sounds he made, he was clearly gagging on the massive rod down his throat.

The assembled boys knelt there, watching this spectacle. It cannot be denied that, frightened as they were by their classmate's ordeal, they were universally aroused to a fever pitch. Their conditioning was such that they could do no other. Each of the competing boys took turn after turn, as the instructor grew ever closer to eruption. Finally, the lewd sport culminated with the long-haired boy 'on deck' – the man clamped his powerful legs around the lad's slender torso, seizing his head in an iron grip. Throwing his head back and grunting fiercely, he jerked convulsively in the chair. Tarynz marveled that the hapless boy's spine was not broken by the ordeal. Gradually, bit by bit, the man's spasms died down. Finally, freed from the deathgrip, the boy slumped limply to the floor. The other two boys stared, a mixture of furious resentment and abject terror on their faces.

The 'winner' was pulled to his feet, where he gazed blearily at the other students. His hair was matted with sweat, his light eyes were glazed, and his lips looked puffy and swolled. As his 'reward', he was sat on the sated instructor's lap, the still turgid cock wedged in the deep crevice of his booty. The man reached around and took the boy's dick in his hand. Slowly, he began to stroke it. The boy stiffened – in more ways than one. He pressed back against the muscular man, his face a mask of agonized desire. The man prolonged the exercise, a sadistic leer on his face – bringing the writhing boy to within a few strokes of release, then subsiding. When the lad was red-faced and crying with need, the man relented and, almost casually, brought him all the way. The boy jerked and jumped, clamped down with one mighty arm – elsewise he might have wound up on the floor. The noises he made were the closest to animal Tarynz had ever heard – or at least since his own stint on the sawhorse.

Then the men on the dais turned their attention to the other two boys 3;

Chapter 8

When the penalty was announced, those fears proved far from groundless. As the 'winner' lay on the dais, still dazed from the force of his eruptive cumming, the assembled boys were led to a nearby area. Tarynz realized that he was becoming disoriented, with no clear picture of the layout of this maze of interconnected rooms.

This area was dominated by a large wooden wheel, apparently mounted on the wall. It was about ten feet [3 m] in diameter, with its lower third below floor level in a sort of trough. As the two sorrowful boys were brought forward, the instructors explained further. The 'losers' were to insert dildos in their bootyholes, then take their places on the wheel.

The dildos, when presented, were truly monstrous. At least ten inches [25 cm] long and three [7½ cm] across at the base, of realistically molded pink silicone, they were handed to the stricken lads along with large tubes of lubricant. As they frantically lubed their boypussies, the sound of running water came from the trough. The water rose to floor level, submerging the lower third of the wheel. The shaved head boy was lifted by the two instructors, and lain atop the wheel face down. His wrist and ankle shackles were hooked to pegs on the two foot [60 cm] width of the structure. Tarynz recognized what a picture of bound submission the boy presented, and how avidly the 'masters' took in the sight. With a pang, he hoped that someday – soon – he might attract such gazes himself. The small, strangled voice deep in his mind that screamed in outrage at such thoughts was growing every fainter.

The wheel was slowly rotated until the first boy's head was almost to the water. The tall, slim boy was then seized and put in place, opposite the first. Wrists and ankles likewise shackled, he formed a roughly equal counterweight. The wheel began to slowly revolve, submerging the alarmed big-bootied boy in the water. Its continued movement brought him back out, dripping and shivering, then in turn submerged the other boy. When one was on top of the wheel, the other was underwater. The wheel began to move a little faster, dunking each in turn. Tarynz began to wonder what was so terrible about this punishment – then the wheel stopped with the dark boy at the top. One of the instructors reached over to push his dildo back into his behind – apparently, the shock of the cold water had made him clench a little too tight. The boy gasped when the fat prod slid back in. Then the instructor took a small flogger – five or six slim leather thongs on a braided leather handle – and began to whip the boy's ample butt. He writhed in his bonds and began to whimper. Then the whipping ceased, and the wheel began to turn again. The slim boy surfaced, and took a long gasping breath. Tarynz realized that he had forgotten about his being underwater, and wondered how long he'd had to hold his breath. The other boy continued his descent, taking a desperate gulp of air before submerging. The dripping wet lad stopped at the top of the wheel; he too had his dildo forced back up his tight bottom, and he too had a brisk session with the flogger. He seemed ever more discomfited by this rough treatment.

As the cycle progressed, and 'Big Boooty', as Tarynz had privately nicknamed him, resumed his place atop the wheel, the instructor who had received the competitor's attentions entered the room, having donned his trousers and boots. He confided to the other boys that the theatrical response the two on the wheel were having to the flogging was no pretense – the water contained a normally innocuous chemical which, under these circumstances, acted as an aesthetic. That is, he chuckled, instead of deadening the skin's pain sensors, it heightened them. Each successive dunk increased the apparent ferocity of their posterior punishment. Thus, they could receive an appropriate chastisement without the risk of disfiguring injury. The boys knelt there, watching their fellows' agony with a fresh understanding – and an increased awareness of the keen and twisted intelligence that was arrayed against them.

And the wheel turned again and again, the instructors taking turns. The wheel turned, and the flogger came down, and young Tarynz gazed, the message of who and what he was carving itself ever deeper into his soul 3;

Chapter 9

He pressed his intercom. "Send in Toomer now," he said, then sighed. The young overseer came through the door, his fair face flushed. As he opened his mouth to speak, Douglass raised his hand. "Before you say anything, answer me this one question. Earlier today, did you hear two Second Form students speak to one another outside of the hour prescribed?" Toomer swallowed nervously, then nodded. "Yes, Mr. Douglass, I did, sir," he answered gloomily. "And yet, you neither disciplined them, nor reported them. Please explain." The young man looked at him directly for the first time. "If you please, sir, one of them was – was a student I've been with – a few times." The Headmaster smiled. "So, you were inclined to show partiality – lenience in his particular case. Is that it?" Toomer nodded.

Douglass leaned forward across his desk. "You have been an exemplary overseer of students here for almost three years. It is for that reason, and that reason alone, you will not be terminated on the spot." Toomer relaxed slightly. "However 3; " the Headmaster smiled grimly, "you must make a decision. Either the student in question is to be punished for this infraction, or he will be tanked and sent down to First Form. The decision is yours to make." Toomer bucked up, almost smiling. "Why, sir – it is clear. Punish him for the infraction as you deem appropriate."

The smile he got back was chilling. "The details of what I consider appropriate will reach you in due time. You will administer the punishment yourself. As further discipline, you are to refrain from any sexual contact with Second Form students for a period of seven days – beginning today. That is all, Toomer – and you may consider yourself most fortunate. The next violation of staff conduct regulations may result in your separation from School employment." He ostentatiously went back to his papers until the overseer left the office.

Damn the man! This would have to be reported, and a videotape of the punishment session forwarded to the Board. With access to all the Second Form students, some of the staff still formed specific attachments – despite all warnings and prohibitions. It wasn't safe to single a boy out like that until Third Form – which reminded him 3; .

Back in the gym, Dunbar had removed his non-regulation gear. Now in his tight cotton briefs and T-shirt, he had gone through a full post-workout stretch. Removing the athletic shoes and socks had given him a strange feeling; long-buried memories of a time when he had routinely worn shoes and socks came bubbling up. He knew that promotion to Third Form would mean the full school uniform – shoes and socks every day! The idea excited him with its strangeness.

After three repetitions of a yoga routine – Salutation to the Sun, Yoke, Half-Lotus, and the others – he settled down on the mat, legs spread to ninety degrees, and began his leg stretches. Forehead to right knee, then left knee, then straight ahead, arms stretched. He could not yet get forehead to floor directly ahead, but knew he would in time. The cameras mounted on the gym's walls were capturing all of this, full color from three angles. The tapes would make stimulating viewing later. He was distracted by the arrival of a Third Form student – frequently entrusted with tasks such as this – who smiled and wordlessly handed him a folded note. Trembling slightly, he unfolded it. It was from Headmaster Douglass, requesting that he report to the office immediately. Pausing only to return the shoes, socks and supporter to his locker – ironic name, seeing as it had no lock – he padded almost noiselessly from the gym, through the long corridors, ascending from the institutional linoleum of the levels frequented by Second Form to the wood parquet and carpeting of those where Third Form predominated. The students, true to their training, scarcely looked aside at him; the staff were under no such compunction. One instructor, striding to his classroom, stopped Dunbar. "Explain your presence on this level, boy," he said peremptorily. The boy wordlessly handed over the note, lowering his gaze. The man looked at it, a slight air of disappointment coloring his features. "Yes. Well, hurry along, now – mustn't keep the Head waiting!" He took the liberty of smacking Dunbar's cotton-sheathed behind as he hurried by.

Arriving at the office antechamber, he was met by Cullen, the Headmaster's redoubtable assistant. He held out a hand, wordlessly. The boy handed it over, and did not get it back. Cullen switched on his intercom. "Sir, the boy is here. What do you require?" The response, inaudible to Dunbar, brought a smile to the man's bleak face. "You are required to make a thorough cleaning. The washroom is through that door." Shivering, the boy complied. The washroom was similar to those he had used before, but with a posher air. The fixtures appeared to be highly polished silver, rather than steel, and the lighting was gentler. However, the drill remained the same. Sighing softly, he climbed into the irrigation tub and crouched, head down and booty high, reaching back to take hold of the long silver plug. Once inserted deep inside his well-trained hole, he had only to flip the switch and a steady stream of water – already set at body temperature – would flood into him. After he was full, a thick buttplug would hold the water in place while he showered and washed his hair. Only afterwards could he release it and complete his ablutions. Despite the shivers of fearful anticipation that accompanied these acts, he was inwardly jubilant. This was the beginning of his graduation to Third Form, the recognition of his painstaking progress. From the dazed day he had awoken in the huge, confusing room where First Form students received their rough and demanding training, he had worked toward this moment. Taking a breath, he flipped the switch, and moaned softly as the warm water filled him.

Chapter 10

Or had it only been a day? He recalled his brutal introduction to this strange twilight world, the savage rape and even more savage ass-whipping that had so terrified him. But why did he yearn, even now, for more such treatment. As he recalled the other things that had happened, he realized that his dick was starting to stiffen. Looking down at his crotch, he realized with a distant, muffled shock that his pubic hair, which had never been abundant, was completely gone. As his hand began to creep toward his swelling erection, one of the 'masters' appeared at the cubicle's entrance.

"So, the boy's thinking nasty thoughts, is he? Well, time to start the next phase of your training. Follow me, and keep that hand where it belongs." He strode briskly away, and Tarynz scrambled off the cot and followed on all fours. As he trotted after the man's retreating boots, he felt a sudden spasm of rage. Who were these people, and why was he doing as they said? Then a bolt of lightning shot through his brain, and he almost sprawled on the floor. Something deep inside his mind didn't react well to such thoughts.

The man stopped in a middling size room. Halting at his heels, the boy realized that once again, the puzzling layout of this place had confused him – he could not have found his way back to his cubicle without assistance. Looking at the apparatus before him, he suddenly wanted to go back there.

It was a man-sized X shaped wooden frame, with hooks at the extremities and an obscene-looking silicone prong at the center. The man pulled him to his feet and positioned him with careless brutality. Tarynz bit his lip with shame at how meekly he submitted to this treatment – then bit it harder as the prong was introduced into his tightly clenched bootyhole.

Although it was thoroughly lubed, it was still thick, and stretched him. As he settled onto it, his ankles and one wrist were affixed to the frame.

Slumping against the rough wood, he felt his face being lifted, and gazed for the first time into the eyes of a 'master'. The mocking grin and cold pale eyes burned into his soul, and he had to look away. A small chuckle met his ears. "Now, your education is about to continue. Feel this, boy?" A large, strong hand, slick with lube, closed around his now-flaccid dick. The closeness and smell of the man, combined with this powerful stimulus, made it spring to life. A few strokes, and it was raging full and hard. The hand moved away, prompting a soft whimper. The man said, "If you want to touch it yourself, go ahead." Tarynz hesitated, then lowered his hand. As soon as his hand closed around his straining dick – the rod of silicone erupted in flames! The electrical shock made him jump and howl, partly tied down as he was. As soon as his hand left his dick, the flow of current ceased. His gasping breaths slowed. Then he felt the man's hand back on his wilted manhood. The fondling and slow stroking resumed, with the welcome effect. He was relaxing and enjoying the sensation, feeling his boypussy clench and relax around the prong, when the man leaned in close. "Boy – put your hand on your dick. Now." Tarynz, trembling, lowered his hand, clasped it, stroked it – and then the fire came again. He almost bruised his hand flinging it away, sobbing with panic. The burst of electricity left him shaking.

The man repeated this procedure more times than the boy could count. By the end, Tarynz was weeping uncontrollably, and not even the man's severest tones could compel him to touch his privates again. The man stroked his sweat-soaked head gently, murmuring meaningless noises of reassurance, as if he were gentling a skittish horse.

Finally, he released the fastenings and pulled the boy up off the thick prod on which he was impaled. Tarynz, unable to stand unassisted, sank awkwardly to the floor, resting his tear-stained face against the man's rough boots. The 'master' didn't seem to mind at all.

Chapter 11

As he was licking the last morsels from the bowl, he felt rather than heard a 'master' approach him from behind. Hurriedly, he lowered his forehead to the floor, just as the crop switched his ample rear. "Boy, time to come along, you've got a task." The stroke of the riding crop would have made him jump and yelp when he had just begun his training; while it still stung, he had become accustomed to such things. Wiping his face on the rough cloth mat on the floor, he scurried after the man's retreating boots. Somehow, as many times as he was led through this maze of passages and rooms, he never got a clear picture of the layout in his head. Given the quantity of mood-altering substances in the food and water, it would have been remarkable if he had – not that he had any way of knowing that.

The room into which he had been led was somewhat brighter lit than usual. He saw a wooden board on the floor – apparently, the top of a writing desk. On it were two pieces of paper – one with writing, one without – and a pen. "It's time for you to write to your parents and let them know how you're doing, boy. The text is all ready; you just have to write it out in your own hand. Get to it!" This last remark was reinforced with a gentle boot in his behind. Tarynz scrambled forward, and peered at the papers. The letter read:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I have been doing very well here at the school. Although it's only been a few weeks, they're letting me write to you. I'm learning a lot about myself, and have been behaving myself. There's still a lot to do, but if I keep working hard, I should be telephoning you in another month or so. In the meantime, I'll write every week to let you know how I'm doing.

Love, Tarynz

As he read, he began to recall flickering memories. Him at home, his parents, what life had been like. Suddenly, the pressure of the crop against his shoulder brought him back. "You're here to write, boy – if you do a good job, you'll get a reward. Start now!" He balanced himself on one hand and both knees, picked up the pen, and began to write. His eyes started to tear up, and by the time he was done there were shiny tracks on his brown cheeks. The man picked up the letter brusquely. It would be compared with samples of the boy's handwriting from before; if there were no significant discrepancies, it would be mailed out that day.

"Now, boy, time for your reward," said the man gently. He walked over to a large chair against the wall. "Come over here." Tarynz shuffled over on his hands and knees, still teary-eyed. Even though,he could clearly see the swollen cock the man was pulling out of his trousers. "Come here," the man said, pointing between his knees. Despite himself, Tarynz felt his mouth begin to water. The prospect of taking the man's thick rod down his throat was exciting him. As he knelt, he put his hands automatically behind his back. He felt the man's rough hands on his nappy head, pulling it forward, and smelled the strong man funk of his crotch. Closing his eyes and opening wide, he took it into his mouth. Sliding across his thick lower lip and soft wet tongue, it filled his mouth. The small voice of panic and outrage in his head had died down to a faint buzz, and he felt his own dick begin to stiffen as he began to suckle the delicious treat his 'master' was giving him.

When the thrusting began in earnest, and the blunt mushroom head began to prod the back of his throat, he could not overcome his natural instincts however. The man noticed the gagging – although he also noticed how the boy did not take his hands from behind his back. He slowly pulled the spit-slick dick from the boy's sweet mouth. "Was that making you choke, boy?" he asked solicitously. Tarynz nodded shamefacedly. "Well, then it's time to break you of that habit. Would you like to be able to take a man's cock all the way down your throat without gagging?" Tarynz looked up, eyes shining. "Oh, yes, sir, very much so!" "Then come with me, boy," the man snapped, and stood up to fasten his trousers.