Richard Perkins

Tunes

Chapters 6-9

Chapter 6

Turning the shower full on he stepped into it. The water, first boiling hot then bitterly cold, jerked him fully awake. He suddenly noticed that he was very hungry. Still naked he padded over to the kitchen. He didn't keep much food in the apartment but there was Weetabix and bread and Marmite. One of the odd things about Cyprus was that even the smallest shops stocked a mixture of Mediterranean and British food.

While the sliced bread browned in the toaster he hungrily shovelled cereal and milk into his mouth.

As he chewed he was surprised to find that his mind was absolutely clear.

All the doubts of the previous days had vanished. There was no uncertainty now as to what he should do about Mr Grade and his school.

The man must be stopped. He personally might eventually have come to enjoy some of the things that Mr Grade had done to him but that did not mean that the man should be allowed to continue to do them to other boys. This was especially so when they were accompanied by so much cruelty and when Mr Grade used the power he enjoyed as Headmaster over his intended victims to force them to comply with his lusts. The boys had no real choice and that was wrong. He would go to the school that evening, tell Mr Grade his decision and the next day seek out the appropriate official in the Cypriot Government to inform.

Crunching his toast and Marmite he rehearsed his conversation with Mr Grade in his own mind. He would be calm. He would not enter into argument or sink to recriminations. He would simply tell the man his decision, giving him a short warning of his intended action, so that he could, if he wished, make himself scarce. He imagined himself standing over Mr Grade as he coldly announced his decision, the man, frightened, ashamed, but pathetically grateful for the chance that he had been given to make his escape before disgrace overtook him, cowering before him.

Rehearsing the exact words that he would use to reduce his old headmaster to a grovelling supplicant he set off for his office. So buoyed up with self confidence was he that he had no doubt the interview would go the way he planned. It did not occur to him in his elevated mood that he had never in his life got the better of Mr Grade and was unlikely to do so now.

He was late arriving at the office but his confident mood carried him effortlessly through the morning allowing him to slice through problems that would otherwise have left him dithering for hours. By noon he had caught up with his work and he set off for his lunch with a clear conscience. He went, as had become his custom, to a restaurant near the old harbour. It was yet another sunny day and he was shown to his usual table on the terrace looking out over the bay.

As he ate he thought again of his coming visit to Mr Grade's school.

Pressure of work had driven this from his mind during the morning. He found now, that as the time for the meeting drew nearer, he was feeling slightly less self confident but his resolve to bring the man's career as a teacher to an end was unaltered. It was his duty, he told himself, to do so. How many other boys since he had been abused by him had Mr Grade, by a mixture of bullying and cajolery, bent to his pleasures? How many more , if he was not checked, would he similarly seduce in the future? It was all right to argue that the boy's once they were primed and broken enjoyed the thing, as indeed he had done but at what a cost did that enjoyment come. He thought of the desires that burnt so strongly sometimes within himself that he feared that they might take control of his whole being.

Had Mr Grade, Anthony wondered, already completed Vassilly's initiation.

Had those fires been kindled also within that boy's delicious body.

He would be having his dinner now. Anthony imagined Vassilly crowded with a dozen other boys along one side of a table in the school dining room, feeling the wooden bench hard against his bottom through his tightly drawn shorts, the edge of the bench pressing against the back of his bare thighs. The room filled with shrill boys' voices and the clatter of enthusiastically wielded knives and forks on china plates. Did the boy, even as he was eating, ache for the feel of Mr Grade's hand exploring his body, remember the taste of the man's precum on his tongue, yearn to experience again the painful but overwhelming ecstasy that came when the man drove his penis deep into his guts? Perhaps Vassilly's tiny prick was hard against the fabric of his shorts as he bent his blond head over his plate.

If these things were indeed so then Anthony felt for the boy. He would experience, when Mr Grade had been banished from his life, the same long years of emptiness and frustrated lust that Anthony himself had in his time. It was cruel to sentence the boy to that but necessary. For to do otherwise would be to lower himself to the same level as Mr Grade.

Anthony knew that he could revise his plan a little. He could try to find out how far Mr Grade had gone with his initiation of Vassilly. If it had been completed he could in some way manage to take the boy under his wing.

Even if he did that he would treat him very differently from Grade. He would be gentle and loving with the boy. In his care the boy would be for ever freed from the tyranny of the rod The cane would no longer score it's cruel marks across his tender flesh. Even so he told himself no revision was possible. To give way on one thing would only lead to his doing so also on another.

For instance the boy could have acquired a taste for the rod. That did happen. It had happened to him. Not a taste for the thing itself, for the pain, although that too could happen, but for the idea, the symbolic abasement of himself before the man he feared and loved, the offering of his bared bottom for chastisement as a sign of his surrender to the man.

To be beaten by Sir, to endure the pain and to the bare the marks, was a way of showing to him and to others that you were one of his boys.

Anthony remembered the pride with which he had exhibited his bruised bottom to his fellows. Pride because he had had the hardihood to take the beating and pride because he had been marked by Sir.

Not that Anthony didn't find the thought itself exciting even now; calling the boy to him, watching while with fingers made clumsy with fear has the lad undresses till he stands naked and shivering before him. Then the interrogation, the questions posed calmly and reasonably, the boy's replies, tearful and panic stricken. Sentence pronounced the boy bends over, lifting his bottom, clamped hard in anticipation of the cane's cruel bite, the goose pimples on the backs of thighs, clear symptoms of his terror. The rod hisses harshly as it descends. There is a cracks as it etches it's livid mark across the boy's pale skin. The boy whimpers and howls while the welts on his bottom increase and darken as the beating progresses. Finally, the last act, the boy with quivering lips, his eyes glistening, stands facing him once again. He speaks gently to the boy and reaches out to him. A second later the child is sobbing in his arms breathing promises of repentance and undying love. Attractive as he found this picture he would not enact it even if Vassilly seemed to crave it as much as he did. To do so would be to behave no better than Mr Grade. He might as well leave Mr Grade undisturbed if he was himself to act in that way or even to allow himself to be lured into indulging his kinder more loving feelings for the boy.

He regretted both these resolutions. The boy was an attractive one and his body seemed formed for love while there was something about a boy's bottom that seemed to invite the cane; something almost geometrical in the relationship between it's smooth curve and the straight line of the cane. A definition from his geometry lessons at school rose to the surface of his memory, "a tangent is a line that touches but does not intersect a curved line or surface." Or would the better comparison be, if the cuts of the cane were delivered with proper force, he wondered idly, with a 'chord' that did intersect with the curved surface. Then what would be the correct way to describe the process by which the tip of a rod at the moment of impact curled about a boy's to nip him painfully on the flank?

Anthony lingered over his coffee to allow the erection that these pleasing reflections had induced to subside.

He wondered what young Vassilly had had for his dinner. Something, if things remained as he remembered, pretty horrible he felt sure. He hoped for the boy's sake it was not cauliflower cheese, that nauseous foul smelling, semi-liquid, mush that only youthful hunger had enabled him to stomach. 'Cheesy puke' was the name given to it by the boys in his time and it thoroughly deserved it. And for pudding? perhaps prunes and custard whose alternative name he refused to call to mind so soon after his own lunch; or, just as bad, bread and butter pudding, it's taste and the few black raisins that graced it, bringing inevitably to young minds freely expressed thoughts of rabbit droppings.

Anyway the meal would be over by now and Vassilly would have been sent to lie quietly on his bed for his after dinner rest. The boys were allowed to read but talking was forbidden. Anthony wondered how good Vassilly was at reading and reading English in particular. Would he be reading about wizards and warlocks, following the most recent craze, or leafing slowly through some picture book unable to understand even the captions. It would be odd if Vassilly was thinking of him just as he was dreaming of Vassilly.

Anthony found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his work as the afternoon progressed. Images of Vassilly kept coming between himself and the papers on which he was meant to be working. In addition the confidence he had earlier felt in his ability to handle Mr Grade was beginning to drain away. He had not changed his mind about denouncing the man to his face but he was increasingly coming to feel that this would be an uphill struggle from which he would emerge with little credit. That, he told himself, did not matter, what was important was that he got his message clearly across to the man and equally important that he retained his own integrity by keeping his hands off the lovely Vassilly. If he gave way on one he knew he would give way on both. That morning he had made up his mind as to what he should do. He had determined on a simple straightforward course of action. He would only carry it through if he kept to it. He was coming though to realise that though as a plan it was simple it's performance would be far from that.

By the time that he started on his drive up to St Thomas's School he was in a highly nervous state. The prospect of bearding Mr Grade, that he had faced with such enthusiasm that morning, now frankly appalled him and his condition was not improved by the constant intrusion of Vassilly into his thoughts. He could not shake off memories of the boy at the church service, light almost silver hair, slim body and the firm tanned young thighs that combined in a kaleidoscope of erotic imaginings.

By the time he turned off the road onto the drive leading up to the school buildings he was in a state of intense emotional and sexual excitement.

He heard the gravel crunch under his wheels as he brought the car to a halt outside the old house that formed the centre of the school buildings.

Dusk was falling and lights shone out through it's un-curtained windows.

Anthony got out of the car and looked around him. He had no idea of where in the school complex Mr Grade had his rooms. He would have to try to find some reasonably responsible person and obtain directions.

"Mr Llewellyn Sir?" a breathless young voice spoke to one side of him.

Anthony turned and felt his heart jump. Vassilly stood there barefooted his only clothes a tiny pair of grey shorts.

"Yes," Anthony managed, even to himself his voice sounded oddly strained.

"Please Sir Mr Grade sent me to show you the way to his study Sir."

With that the boy turned and began to lead the way round the front of the building walking rather gingerly on the loose gravel. Anthony followed him admiring the pert jut of his rump under the tightly stretched shorts, resisting the temptation to give it a friendly pat with his hand.

They turned a corner of the house and flagstones gave way to gravel.

Without stopping walking Vassilly lifted one foot after the other and brushed loose gravel from their soles giving Anthony delightful glimpses of his delicate insteps.

"Gravel hurts your feet," Anthony remarked, feeling he should say something to the boy but not knowing what.

"Yes Sir but Mr grade says that our feet'll harden over the summer and we won't notice it then Sir."

"It's not only you then Vassilly?" Anthony like using the boy's name. It seemed to him to create a sense of intimacy between them.

"Oh Yes Sir. Once the warm weather starts Sir school uniform is just shorts Sir. Cept for special days like Sunday or speech day and that Sir. Mr Grade says it's healthier and it saves money on our uniforms."

"And you're nicer to look at too Vassilly," Anthony found himself saying and then, remembering the boy's embarrassment when he had remarked on his beauty outside the church, wished he hadn't.

The light was not good enough to see if Vassilly blushed and anyway he was walking slightly ahead of Anthony so he could not see the boy's face.

It did seem to him though that the boy's shoulders tensed slightly and his tight bottom clad in it's tight pair of grey shorts gave a self conscious little wriggle.

They came to a side door into the building and the boy pushed it open.

There was a flood of bright electric light that made Anthony blink. He followed his youthful guide down a short corridor. He admired the smooth golden tan of the boy's shoulders. He noticed that the top of his shorts ran tight round his narrow waist just above the swell of his rump leaving a tiny gap between waist band and boy where the narrow grove that marked the course of his backbone ran. It was too small a gap to allow a glimpse of the delights hidden below the coarse grey flannel but it occurred to Anthony that a finger hooked there could, with a sharp downward pull, remove the shorts altogether.

He wondered if the boy was wearing underpants. The shorts were so brief and so tight that he believed it was hardly possible that he was doing so.

Indeed if Mr Grade had completed the boy's initiation it was highly unlikely that he would be allowed such a luxury. Mr Grade's view, strictly enforced, as all his views were on his charges, was that underpants were an unnecessary hindrance both to the disciplining and enjoyment of his boys, the need for them being obviated by the requirement of the highest standards of personal hygiene. These speculations, interesting in themselves, were abruptly brought to a halt by Vassilly stopping in front of a heavy wooden door and knocking on it. A familiar voice shouted "enter" and Vassilly, pushing the door open, stood to one side.

Anthony stepped forward and then halted abruptly. He saw Mr Grade sitting behind his desk, rising to greet him, a smile on his face. His lips were moving. He was clearly saying some words of welcome but Anthony could either hear nor reply to them for he was numb with shock.

The room was exactly as he remembered Mr Grade's study when he was a boy at his school, the heavy wooden desk, the leather arm chairs, the oar over the stone fireplace, the French windows leading out onto a terrace beyond, even down to the cane resting against the wall in a corner of the room and the worn cricket ball on the mantle piece.. The contents of Mr Grade's study must have been put into storage as soon as he began his prison sentence and then taken out and transported to Cyprus so that the room could be recreated there exactly as it was before.

"Sit down Anthony. Sit down." The initial shock was past and he could at least make out what Mr Grade was saying. "I can see you are surprised. Perhaps I should have warned you. A touching gift from some of my old pupils who took care of matters while I was unavoidably prevented from pursuing my pedagogic vocation."

Numbly Anthony moved forward into the room and sank into one of the two leather arm chairs facing the desk. He knew he should be taking charge of the interview but he had lost the power to do so.

"There my dear chap, have a glass of wine and compose yourself." Mr Grade lifted a bottle from an ice bucket on a side table and filled a glass with wine.

"You need not worry. It is not one of the domestic wines but a Chablis, a Vaudesir. I am sure you will like it. Very different you know from the general run of Chablis more powerful and scented."

"Vassilly, you stupid boy, stop hanging about by the door and take this wine Mr Llewellyn. You can act as our Ganymede tonight, a true cup bearer to the Gods."

The boy grinning happily carried a small silver tray bearing the glass, it's surface now beaded with condensation, across to Anthony. He took it from the boy. His hand was trembling so much that he almost spilt it.

Annoyed with himself he lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply. In fact for all Mr Grade's boasting the wine was so cold that it was almost tasteless although it seemed to him to have a slightly metallic after taste. The wine, whatever it's taste, certainly appeared to have a beneficial effect on his nerves. A feeling of well being flowed over Anthony. He lent back in his chair stretching his legs out in front of him, suddenly relaxed and confident.

He remembered with amusement that he had intended to warn Mr Grade that it was his intention to tell the Cypriot Authorities of his criminal record.

He could see now it was a ridiculous idea probably involving himself in all sorts of unpleasantness and effort. He had been much too judgmental.

Live and let live that was the thing. What if Mr Grade tastes were somewhat unusual? What business of his was it to interfere? He certainly wasn't going to abuse the man's hospitality by making life awkward for him.

He felt he had to explain to Mr Grade how he felt and how grateful he was that the man harboured no ill feeling towards him for having given evidence against him at his trial. He took a further deep swig of his wine and looked up.

He saw that Mr Grade had come round his desk and was sitting on it's edge looking down at him intently. Anthony tried to speak but somehow the words did not come.

"There, there Anthony," Mr Grade's voice was soft and almost mesmeric.

His eyes stared into Anthony's seeming to look deep into his mind.

"There's no need to say anything. I understand. There's no need to feel guilty about anything you have done or anything you will do. The first and only law is to do what you will; but to obey that law you must discover what you are. I am a teacher of men as well as boys. I will help you to know yourself."

"I said if you came here to visit me you might see more of Vassilly. You have seen more but that is not your full reward for obeying my summons."

Mr Grade reached out and taking Vassilly by the wrist drew the boy to him. The child it seemed to Anthony came willingly enough. The man turned the boy so he was facing Anthony. He watched fascinated as Mr Grade's fingers fumbled at the fastening of the boy's shorts. He loosened their waist band and drew them down over the lad's slim hips allowing them to tumble to the floor. Vassilly stood still throughout, his head slightly bowed, his hands at his sides. The child had clearly been well schooled.

Anthony saw he was not wearing underpants. The only part of the boy that was moving was his tiny penis that stood erect and quivering.

"Here Anthony is your reward."

Chapter 7

Anthony from where he was sitting could not see exactly what Grade was doing but he guessed from the way Vassilly caught his breath and his already hard prick quivered that the man had forced his index finger into the boy.

Mr Grade withdrew his hand and glanced down at his finger.

"The slut's ready greased for you Anthony," he said wiping his finger on the side of the boy's bare thigh, "and he's reasonably clean. He'll have been purged on Friday night and had his guts washed out Saturday so you can't expect him to be spotless now. Still I always think that fucking a boy without getting a bit of blood and shit on your cock is like eating a game that hasn't been hung 3; the dirt is part of the experience."

"Any way there's no need to hurry things. Plenty of time for a chat before you enjoy your reward eh?"

"This brat is a special one," Mr Grade remarked, speaking as though the boy was not there, while idly rolling his hairless balls between his finger and thumb. "There are plenty here that I and my friends can enjoy but the fact that there are parents or guardians in the background means we must always put limits on our pleasures. We cannot maim or mark them permanently, not physically anyway. This one though has nobody to care for him. He was picked up off the streets of St Petersburg or somewhere and given to me as a present. I can do whatever I want with him. And yet that imposes limitations, for once he is gone there is not another like him."

"And his voice, that is another worry. It is beautiful but in the nature of things that will not last. I don't suppose you know anything about castrati Anthony? Would gelding the brat preserve his voice just as it is or would it in time coarsen and loose sweetness and if I postpone doing it till his voice breaks would that have the same result as doing it now?"

Anthony mumbled something incoherently. It wasn't that he found the subject of conversation in anyway odd. It was just that he seemed to have problems in marshalling his thoughts at all.

"Ah I feared you would not and it is something one can hardly make enquiries about. The job could easily be done though in the woodwork class room. Hold the little fellow down on a bench. Tie a tight cord round the base of his ball sack. Make an incision with a Stanley knife and slip the things out. Cauterise with a hot iron. They're no size. That would be easy enough to do and educational for the other boys to watch.

"You may think me sentimental Anthony but I would like the lad to experience one full orgasm at least before castrating him. He hasn't yet you know. All the boys here start shooting sperm when they're eleven or twelve but Vassilly hasn't managed yet. It's something to do with being from what is effectively a third world country."

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"Come in," Mr Grade called while continuing to play with Vassilly's balls.

Tim appeared at the door. He nodded coldly at Anthony. He seemed quite unsurprised by being confronted by the sight of his Head Master fondling a naked and sexually excited youth.

"You told me to bring Brown here Sir," he said addressing Grade.

"Oh Brown quite right. I'd almost forgotten about him. Come in boy."

From behind Tim appeared a slim dark haired lad about fourteen years old wearing only a pair of very brief and very tight grey shorts. Anthony recognised the unfortunate batsman who he had seen bowled out so comprehensively for a duck the previous Saturday afternoon. The boy had been frightened then and he was so now, visibly trembling and clearly on the verge of tears.

"Anthony you'll have to excuse me for a minute or two while I deal with this boy," Mr Grade said apologetically. "I have to teach him lesson in perseverance and self discipline. You may anyway find my methods of moral instruction interesting. I do not think I had thought this particular method up when you were with me. One is always trying to find new and ingenious ways of motivating one's boys"

"Well Brown," the man continued his voice hardening, "you are a miserable cowardly little brute aren't you boy 3; Answer me."

"Yes Sir please Sir I'm sorry Sir I 3;"

The boys pleas were cut short by Tim clouting him hard on the side of his head. The boy began to sob openly.

"You lost the school the match on Saturday Brown by your cowardice. Just because you were frightened of being hit by a cricket ball you funked it."

Mr Grade as he was speaking had opened a drawer of his desk and had extracted what looked like an old football sock. He took the battered cricket ball from it's place on the mantelpiece and slipped it inside the sock. The boys sobbing increased in volume.

"You let down the school Brown. My school, your school, the school you should be proud of. You are such a shameless poltroon, so devoid of all feelings of self respect and duty, that you allowed your selfish fear of being hurt to take precedence over everything else."

The ball had now reached the toe of the sock. Holding the end of the sock in his right hand Mr Grade swung it catching the weighted toe in his left hand.

"Sir," Brown sobbed, "Sir please don't Sir 3;" It was clear that even if this was a new idea of Mr Grade's the boy had worked out what was going to be done to him.

"Take off your shorts boy," Wade commanded not even deigning to take notice of the lad's tearful pleas.

"Do as Mr Grade says Brown," snapped Tim. Anthony saw a leather strap had appeared in his friend's hand. There was a whirring followed by a sharp crack as he used it across the back of the boy's thighs.

"Fold them up neatly on the chair Brown. You should know the rules by now," Mr Grade ordered.

Brown too was not wearing underpants. Anthony could see that he had recently been caned. The rod had left its mark upon the smooth egg white flesh of his bottom in the form of three dark welts, deep red, almost black fading into blue at their edges with an underlying greenish tinge where the deeper bruising was coming out. Neither Mr Grade nor Tim remarked on these marks and Anthony assumed that, as in his day, the cane was used so freely in St Thomas's that a bruised bum was commonplace.

Brown turned reluctantly to face his tormentors. His teeth were chattering and Anthony could see his knees trembling.

"Have you been abusing yourself Brown," Mr Grade's voice was heavy with menace.

"No Sir," the boy spoke hardly over a whisper. He seemed to have difficulty in speaking.

"Then why haven't you an erection boy. You have been abusing yourself admit it."

"Please Sir 3; No Sir 3; I think it's because I'm so frightened Sir."

"You are a horrible little coward Brown 3; Come here boy."

Brown moved forward on unsteady feet to stand in front of Mr Grade. The man lent forward and took hold of the boy's flaccid prick He examined it carefully paying special attention to it's underside.

"Well there's no sign of soreness," he remarked apparently partly mollified.

"Turn round," he ordered, "and put your hands on your knees."

He spat on his right index finger and then thrust it brutally into the boy's upraised bottom ringing a howl of pain from the lad. Grade smiled grimly and pushed his finger in deeper. He reached round the boy and took hold of his cock which Anthony could see was beginning to swell in response to the man's intrusive finger.. There was silence apart from Brown's steady sobbing. The Mr Grade lent back pulling his finger clear of the boy's bum.

It came clear with an audible plop.

"All right," he said, "turn round and lick my finger clean."

The boy straightened. His cock was rigidly erect.

"Encourages personal hygiene," he remarked to Anthony with a smile as the boy took his soiled finger into his mouth and sucked on it.

"That's enough," he said after a few seconds wiping his finger dry on the boy's hair. "Now get outside on the terrace. I don't want you messing up my carpet."

The boy started to make his way towards the French windows stumbling slightly as he walked.

"Get a move on Brown 3; Mr Grade has more important things to do than dealing with you," Tim shouted at the terrified boy. His strap cracked down across the lad's narrow shoulders leaving a broad white stripe across the tanned skin that turned a deep and angry red as the blood flowed back into the bruised flesh. The boy broke into a shambling trot.

Tim moved quickly to open the French windows flipping the outside light on as he did so. The terrace was flooded with brilliant light. Anthony could see that Mr Grade and Tim were so confident of their power over the school and it's boys that they saw no need for secrecy.

The wretched boy balked at the window but Tim was on him in a second driving him forward with a heavy clout on the back of his head. The instant the boy was outside the room Grade was on him wielding the loaded sock. Anthony saw the man bring the weighted sock down on the boy's right thigh with a sickening thud. The boy howled with pain.

The violence and cruelty being visited on the poor boy both sickened and fascinated Anthony. He knew he should try and do something to bring it to an end, at least he should protest or walk out, but he was powerless to do so. He found himself following Grade out onto the terrace. He watched as the man drove the loaded sock into the boy, striking mercilessly at his naked rump and the backs of his bare legs with short vicious swings of his right arm.

Anthony found Vassilly standing close to him. He pulled the boy to him so that the back of his head was nestling against his chest. He slipped his hand over the child's shoulders and down his chest. Feeling a hard young nipple pressing against his palm he took it between his finger and thumb and gently squeezed it.

Grade caught the sobbing boy across the back of his right knee. The lad collapsed on the floor on all fours. Tim started forward and placing his heel between the boy's shoulders blades ground it downwards pinning the youth to the ground. Now Grade was standing over the prostrate body of the naked youth thumping the hard ball in it's sock down over and over again on his defenceless body.

Anthony felt Vassilly twist away from his grasp. He was about to protest when he found the boy kneeling at his feet, his hands fumbling at the clasp of his belt. He felt the boy's fingers on his zip and then the cool evening air against his bare skin as Vassilly drew first his trousers and then his underpants down over his hips. He felt the boy's breath soft against his crutch and then the tip of his damp warm tongue pressing against the underside of his throbbing cock at the point where it rose from his scrotum.

He saw that a pool of amber fluid had formed about the boy on the floor.

His screams had fallen to a low shrill keening and his body hardly moved except in direct response to the blows thumping down on it.

Anthony already excited by the spectacle of the boy being beaten was brought to a fresh peak as Vassilly ran the tip of his tongue along the length of his cock and began to toy with his enlarged urethra. He grabbed the boy by his hair and brutally pulled his head forward against his crutch driving his swollen cock deep into the child's gullet.

Mr Grade straightened and stepped back away from the other boy's battered body.

"Get him to his feet," he ordered. "I want him round facing me."

Tim started forward.

"Better get your trousers off," Grade advised grimly, "wouldn't put it past the slut to shit himself when you're holding him."

"Just like the filthy little brute to do it out of spite," Tim remarked pulling off his trousers and underpants.

Anthony saw that Tim was also in a state of extreme sexual excitement.

Looking at his old friend's thick cock and weighty ball sack with it's covering of coarse black hairs, his well muscled legs and heavy buttocks he wondered at how the years had changed a slight attractive boy into so forceful a manifestation of masculine power and cruelty.

Tim bent and slipping his hands under the Brown boy's arms hauled him to his feet and held him facing Grade with his hands behind the lad's neck.

The boy hung there in Tim's grip as Mr Grade set to work with the weighted sock on the front of his thighs and shins.

Anthony felt Vassilly's chest heave against his bare thighs as the boy fought desperately for breath. He relented for a moment and loosening his hold on the boy's head allowed him to pull back and gulp down a lung full of air. But only for a moment and then he pulled the child's head forward once again taking a perverse pleasure from feeling Vassilly's gorge convulse about his throbbing cock as the boy struggled to take it down his throat.

Grade brought the toe of the sock weighted with the hard cricket ball thumping down time after time on the front and sides of the boy's legs as Anthony thrust in and out of Vassilly's mouth repeatedly bringing the boy to the edge of unconsciousness.

"Watch out," Grade said, "this is when he'll shit himself if he ever does."

He straightened slightly and levelled the loaded sock with the boy's groin.

The lad gave out an agonised scream even before the weighted toe of the sock thumped into his crutch. Tim released his grip on the boy and stepped back quickly. Anthony heard the blood roar in his head. His world went suddenly dark. Then came the moment of release as his cock pumped load after load of cum deep into Vassilly's throat.

A few seconds later he became aware of the world about him again.

Vassilly was hunkered back on his heels at his feet grinning up at him cum trickling from his mouth down his chin. The other boy was lying curled into a ball of juvenile pain and misery his hands clutched to his crutch moaning softly. His bum and thighs were smeared with blood.

Clearly the force of the blows had broken his skin in many places. Grade prodded him none too gently in the bum with the toe of his shoe.

"Get him cleaned up and bring him into the study when he's ready please," he ordered Tim.

"Now Anthony," he continued we may as well go back to the study and have another glass of wine. Beating a boy and fucking one too, I always find to be thirsty work."

He led the way back into his study giving Anthony no time to recover his trousers from where they lay on the flagstones. Vassilly trotted around dutifully around filling the grown ups glasses. He then crossed to where Anthony, was sitting and without waiting for an invitation settled himself on his knee. Anthony felt himself harden again as the boy wriggled his bare butt tight into his lap. It was clear Vassilly was aware of the effect that he was having on Anthony, as he could not very well avoid being as there was nothing between his bottom and the man's stiff member. He twisted round, engendering further delicious sensations in Anthony's crutch and grinned up at him. Anthony kissed him hard on his lips slipping his tongue inside the boy's mouth, sensing the strangely metallic taste of his own semen.

He slipped his hand round the boy's waist and began to play with his small hairless balls and tiny but hard cock. Mr Grade sat sipping his wine, quietly watching them, a kindly smile on his face.

Time passed pleasantly.

Anthony was brought back to reality by the sound of a boy's sobbing. He glanced up to see the boy Brown hobbling painfully into the room. He had been badly marked by his beating. Anthony could see that the boy's legs and bottom were smeared with blood welling from the many places where the force of the blows hard torn the boy's skin. The blood seeped out over flesh that was horribly bruised, blotched with dark blue and reddish purple marks to which the deepest bruising gave a greenish yellow background.

"Ah Brown. Come over here boy I want to speak to you."

The boy tottered forward on unsteady legs to stand in front of Grade his head bowed, shoulders shaking with sobs, hands hanging despairingly at his sides.

"For God's sake boy stop that stupid row," Tim who had followed the boy into the room rasped.

"Look at me boy," Grade ordered his voice in contrast to Tim's gentle almost caressing.

The boy raised his head apparently startled by the sudden change of tone.

Anthony saw his face was wet with tears and snot that in his distress had dribbled from his nose.

"I know I've been hard on you Mark," Grade continued and Anthony realised that this was the first time he had heard the boy's Christian name, "but it was for a purpose. You were frightened of being hit by that cricket ball in the match last Saturday and it showed. Now you know Mark that I can hurt you a great deal more than a single hit from a cricket ball during a school match and you know that I will hurt you a great deal more if you ever let the side down again. Don't you boy?"

"Yes Sir," the boy sniffed loudly.

"So you won't behave like that ever again will you Mark?"

"No Sir."

"Good boy,"

"Well Mark," Grade's voice was if anything even softer and more gentle than before, "that makes sure that you don't behave in so despicable away again but that's not the end of the matter is it Mark?"

The boy shook his head again and a sob racked his body.

"No Mark it doesn't." Grade was almost cooing now. "You know it isn't. I know it isn't. You've behaved badly Mark. You let down the school and you let down yourself. What does that mean Mark?"

"The cane Sir," the boy whispered and sobbed again.

Anthony caught his breath. From where he sat he could clearly see the boy's bottom. It looked though it was formed of freshly basted raw meat.

The thought of the agonies that the boy would endure as the cane slashed down across his already broken flesh was somehow intensely arousing.

"Yes Mark the cane." Mr Grade said speaking gravely.

"You know Mark I never ask one of my boys to do something he cannot bear 3; Don't you Mark?"

"Yes Sir." The boy it seemed to Anthony sounded a little uncertain.

"Well now Mark I want you to show Mr Llewellyn here who used to be long ago a boy at this school that St Thomas's boys are as able now to take their punishments as they ever were. You've been a coward Mark 3; Now is your chance to show Mr Llewellyn and me that you can be brave."

"You're going to get six strokes Mark. With a bottom as raw and tender as yours I could have you held down across the desk for it. That would be the easy way but Mark I want you to take it just like you usually would, just bending down holding your ankles. Can you do that Mark?"

The boy swallowed hard.

"Yes Sir," he whispered.

"Mark the usual rules apply. If you stand up or fall over or anything we'll have to start again 3;"

"Yes Sir 3; I can do it Sir 3; Thank you Sir."

"Well get in position then. Quickly boy," Mr Grade was suddenly brusque.

Mark bent over offering his raw bottom to the cane.

Mr Grade picked up the cane and weighed it in his hand. He looked round the room a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Let me see," he said, "who shall I get to do the honours. Why Anthony of course how appropriate. The last time you were in my study you were at the receiving end now is your chance to dish it out."

Smiling he offered the cane to Anthony.

Chapter Eight

He thrilled at the chance of playing a leading part in that intense emotional drama that occurs whenever a man flogs a boy, the cowering fearful child, the fierce vengeful man, all accompanied by the cruel music of the cane well laid on; the hiss of the rod as it descends, the crack as wood strikes tender flesh, the shrill cries and broken pleas for mercy of the brat, the cold remorseless tones of the man as he does his duty by the boy and the rod. But still he hesitated. It was not pity or conscience that made him stay his hand for both these emotions, or perhaps they should rather be described as weaknesses, were strangely stilled but the nobler and more manly one of pride. He was fearful of making a fool of himself.

There was, he was certain, a skill in beating a boy. Mr Grade had half a life time in which to learn and exercise it. Tim while not as experienced would have served a long apprenticeship in the art under the older man's expert guidance. He hesitated to betray his inexperience before those two.

It was Vassilly who brought his indecision to an end. The boy, no doubt with his experience of life in St Thomas's, could not imagine any man would choose to reject the chance of thrashing a young bottom. In addition with his bare bum pushed tight into Anthony's crutch he would have sensed the man's increased excitement when Mr Grade offered him the cane. He had been nuzzling the side of Anthony's neck when the offer was made. Now, in an instant, he had slipped from his lap.

Anthony his decision made for him rose with a rueful grin to take the cane.

He had become so quickly used to the conventions, or lack of them, governing the conduct of adults in St Thomas's school that he was totally unembarrassed by the knowledge that his erect cock was sticking out from beneath the loose tails of his shirt.

"No nonsense now Anthony," Mr Grade remarked., "about being kind or merciful. The boy is there to be punished and you're to hurt him as much as you possibly can. Put all your strength and weight behind each blow.

I've tenderised his bum for you already. I want the whole school to hear the brat's screams and I want his rump well bloodied."

Anthony hefted the rod in his hand feeling it's weight. He laid it gently across the boy's raised bottom. The child shuddered at it's touch and whimpered. Anthony did not catch what the boy said but Tim did.

"No point calling for your Mummy now Brown," he sneered. "She's not here to help you."

"Not that she would if she were here," Mr Grade remarked. "She sent you here you know that boy. She wants us to make a man of you Mark and we'll do our best. Though whether you'll ever become one I doubt. You just don't have the equipment. I don't think I've ever seen a boy of your age with a smaller pair of balls. No wonder you cant get a hard on. Pair of garden peas that's what they look like. Tomorrow I'll take you into the junior boys' dormitory and see if any of the eight year olds have balls smaller than yours. I doubt if they do 3;"

"It's funny," he said raising his voice over the boy's wild sobbing to address Anthony, "how many of the boys call for their mothers when they are about to be flogged. Even Vassilly did when he first arrived and she was just some Petersburg tart who kicked him out on the streets as soon as he could walk."

Anthony glanced quickly across at Vassilly to see how he reacted to this description of his mother. He thought he saw a slight flush deepen the pink of the boy's cheeks but otherwise he seemed fascinated by the prospect of the other boy's imminent thrashing. He stared, lips parted, short breaths causing his naked chest to rise and fall, at Mark's naked body.

"Well, well" Mr Grade said a hint of impatience in his voice, "may as well get on with it. But don't hurry matters Anthony make sure the boy feels every stroke."

Obediently Anthony lifted the cane back over his head. He saw the boy's body tense, clenching his already bruised and raw bottom tight in anticipation of the blow to come. Gritting his teeth he brought the rod whistling down with all the power and strength at his command. It descended with a rich deep hiss to crack explosively against the boy's bare flesh. The boy staggered under the force of the blow and Tim jumped forward to grasp him by both shoulders steadying the brat. There was a moment of silence and Anthony watched the white line that the rod had scored across the boy's upraised rump fill with blood and deepen to an angry red. Then the boy screamed shrilly. Beads of blood appeared along the line of the wheal left by the cane and began to trickle down the back of the boy's bare thighs.

"Excellent Anthony. Well done," said Mr Grade raising his voice to be heard over the tortured boy's howls of pain. "Now give him time to feel that stroke to the full. Don't whatever you do hurry the beating and this time try to bring the cane down parallel to but slightly below the first cut. I don't want to rip his bottom up too much."

"Normally I'd advise you to strike at the junction between the top of a boy's thighs and his bottom. They feel them longest there. But that's hardly necessary this time he's been so thoroughly worked over already."

"Right I think he's ready for it now 3; Tim you'd better hang on to the brat he's clearly totally lacking in moral fibre and is incapable of even keeping in position by himself. He should be grateful for our assistance but I don't expect he is. Gratitude is something I am afraid that cowards like him sadly lack. "

Encouraged by Mr Grade Anthony wielded the cane with enthusiasm multiplying the stripes laid across the boy's naked bum. The room echoed with the sounds of the lad's screams as he writhed and twisted under the rods cruel caress. The whistle of the rod as it fell, the sharp crack as it struck home, the howls of the boy under correction, the panting of the men as they laboured one to chastise and the other to restrain their victim merged to form a cruel but exciting music.

"That's the sixth stroke," Mr Grade spoke sharply.

Anthony who had been carried away by the excitement of his task and would have continued to belabour the wretched brat indefinitely if he had not been stopped, lowered the cane to his side. He stood for a moment panting from his exertions looking down at the boy's bottom, now ribbed with bloody and livid stripes.

Tim released his grip on the boy's shoulders and Anthony could clearly see the bruises left by his old friend's hands while he held the boy down for his thrashing.

"You can stand up now Brown," Mr Grade said quietly.

The boy straightened and turned to face Anthony his shoulders heaving as he vainly tried to hold back his sobs. Blood trickled from his lower lip where he had bitten into it in his agony and mixed with the saliva and mucous and tears that flowed from his mouth, eyes and nose.

"What do you say boy?" Mr Grade spoke sharply.

Mark muttered something incomprehensible.

"Speak up boy or I'll have to ask Mr Llewellyn to give you a further dose of the cane to loosen your tongue. I'm sure he'd be eager to take a few more cuts at your bum."

So encouraged this time Mark managed a strangled "thank you Sir."

"I should hope so to boy. "

"No," Mr Grade said sharply as Mark made to pick up his shorts from the chair where he had left them. "Leave them there. I want all the boys to see what sort of treatment a coward who puts his personal comfort before the reputation of the school can expect to receive. You come back here tomorrow evening at lights out and if I feel you have earned them I'll let you have them back."

"Now go and see Matron and ask her nicely to treat the cuts on your bottom."

As the boy passed him on the way to the door Tim landed a sharp open handed slap on the tortured flesh of his rump ringing another cry of agony from the brat.

The men laughed.

"Damn," Tim said looking at the palm his hand with an expression of disgust, "I've got some of his blood on it."

He reached out and wiped it down Vassilly's chest leaving a dark stain across the boy's golden skin.

Anthony listened to the sounds of Mark's sobbing fade away as the boy made his way along the corridor. He know the lad's sufferings were far from over. He remembered the times he had lain face down on Matron's examination table, its plastic covered top cold against his bare skin, her fingers probing his torn and bruised rump with brutal efficiency while she sneered at a boy who was a cry baby and couldn't take the punishments he so clearly deserved. He also remembered the fierce way his bum burnt as she worked the antiseptic cream into his open cuts.

"I can see," Mr Grade said smiling slightly and looking meaningfully at Anthony's rampant cock thrusting about between his shirt tails, "that you are in no mood for a chat about the old days and I think you perhaps have drunk too much to drive home."

"Vassilly show Mr Llewellyn to the spare room and see that he has everything that he wants."

Smiling shyly Vassilly whose tiny prick, Anthony saw, was as hard and as erect as his own, took him by the hand and drew him gently from the room. Anthony was surprised to find that he was a trifle unsteady on his feet although he could only remember taking one or possibly two glasses of wine. Vassilly led him up a flight of stairs and along a short corridor.

Anthony followed the naked boy feeling the cool night air against his own bare legs, each step he took increasing the strength of his lust.

Vassilly swung a door open and stood to one side to let Anthony past.

Beyond the boy Anthony saw a bed its counterpane turned back in readiness for it's occupant. Without warning he grabbed Vassilly and hurled him bodily on to the bed. Quickly the boy rolled on to his back and pulled his knees up on each side of his head.

The sight of the boy's delectable bottom offered so invitingly for his enjoyment, the light glistening on the grease that coated pink lips of his anus, made Anthony hesitate for a moment, but for a moment only. Then he was on him. A grimace of pain disfigured Vassilly's face as Anthony drove into him. For a few seconds the boy's sphincter resisted his invasion but then gave way under relentless hammering of the man's cock head. Anthony thrust forward driving his cock ever deeper into the moaning boy. He could not tell whether the noises the boy was making were sounds of pleasure or pain and he did not care which they were. All Anthony cared about now was satisfying his own burning lusts. He thrust harder and deeper, feeling the boy's heat close about him. Now the fronts of his thighs were pressed against the boy's bum. His ever more urgent thrusting was punctuated by the sound of bare flesh impacting on bare flesh. The boy's body clamped tight about his cock seemed to be trying to draw him even further down into his bowels.

He saw Vassilly's eyes glaze over. The boy through back his head, saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth, his breath came in shirt rasping pants. A pounding darkness filled his own head. He felt the boy's guts move, squeezing and drawing on his swollen prick. Then he was conscious of nothing except his own blood surging within himself as he pumped his sperm deep into the boy's quivering bowels.

It is strange and perhaps it says something about the condition of man, that the greatest and most intense pleasure available to us culminates in a moment of total oblivion.

Anthony found himself bent forward over the boy as he panted for breath.

His hands were pressed into the mattress just above Vassilly's head. He prick now flaccid and inert was still buried in the lad's bottom. He felt a warm dampness against his stomach. He smiled down into the boy's face so close to his own.

"That's the first time you've come," he said softly.

"Yes Sir," Vassilly's whispered back and then a few seconds later in tones of surprised wonder, "and I think I'm going to do it again."

He felt the boy's body tighten about his own penis.

Anthony woke feeling sick and with a splitting head ache. He rolled away from Vassilly, who was lying with his back to him, his rump pressed tight into his crutch, and sat up fighting back waves of nausea. The single sheet that was their only covering fell back and he could see his prick soft and shrunken after the night's exertions but stained with a still damp mixture of man's cum and boy's blood and shit. A similar mixture had dribbled out of Vassilly's crack and formed a small pool on the sheet on which they lay.

The sordid sight filled Anthony with self disgust. He remembered the previous night with shame. He had failed completely to challenge Mr Grade's wickedness. Instead he had succumbed to it. He'd flogged the miserable and unfortunate Mark and then fucked poor delectable Vassilly.

How could he have so betrayed his own intentions and principles.

He remembered the wine that Mr Grade had given him. Even icy cold it had had an odd tang to it. He had felt unsteady after drinking only a couple of glasses of it. Now he had a headache and felt sick. Perhaps there was something in it that had served to break down his inhibitions.

But if so that hardly made things better. If it when his inhibitions were removed he behaved in that way it meant that such acts came naturally to him.

He remembered Mr Grade's words about teaching people to know themselves and swore. If that was what he was really like he didn't want to know himself. He wouldn't let Mr Grade win. He was a decent responsible civilised human being. He had behaved badly but that didn't mean he had to continue behaving so.

Vassilly disturbed by his movement stirred. He blinked and looked up at Anthony. He quickly rolled over onto his belly and lifting himself onto his hand and knees he lowered his head towards the man's crutch. Anthony mind went back to the times when he had to perform this task. He remembered his initial reluctance and the firmness with which that had been overcome. He remembered too the fowl smell and the rank taste that had assailed his senses when he had finally submitted to the task.

It was too much. He pushed the boy roughly away and staggered from the bed. There were two doors to the room and as luck would have it he got it right first time. He just made it to the lavatory before he vomited.

Kneeling on the ground retching into the pan he became aware of Vassilly nervously hovering behind him. After the first paroxysms had passed he turned his head to face the boy.

"Switch the shower on would you please," he said trying to smile reassuringly at the boy.

"Yes Sir Please Sir I'm sorry Sir. I didn't mean to do anything wrong Sir."

Anthony could see the boy was almost in tears. No doubt the consequences to him would be very painful if a complaint was made about his behaviour to Mr Grade. Anthony remembered from his own time the man had a short way with boys who failed to give satisfaction.

"You didn't do anything wrong Vassilly. You did everything right. Just get the shower on now like a good boy."

There was a hiss of water and soon the bathroom began to fill with steam.

Pulling off his shirt that he had not had the time or the inclination to shed during his exertions of the previous night Anthony stepped into the shower.

He felt his hand brush against velvet smooth boy's flesh and realised that Vassilly had joined him there. The boy was squatting on he floor of the shower supporting himself with his hands on either side of Anthony's hips.

It was obvious that he was once again going to attempt to do his duty and to take the man's shit encrusted prick into his mouth to cleanse it.

"No," Anthony said sharply pushing the boy away, "you're not to do that."

The boy lost his balance tumbling backwards on the shower floor his bare legs waving in the air. Anthony reached down and helped him to his feet.

"Listen Vassilly," he said more gently, "it isn't that I don't like you. I like you a lot. It's that letting you do that is wrong."

"I didn't like it at first Sir," Vassilly said slowly, "but I'm used to it now and anyway I wouldn't mind doing it for you Sir."

"It isn't a question of whether you mind or not Vassilly. It's wrong just as what what we did together last night was wrong and we're not to do it again."

"But you enjoyed fucking me Sir," the boy said with direct but puzzled simplicity.

"Well perhaps I did but it was wrong and we mustn't do it again."

"And I like you doing it to me too. I can't see how it can be wrong if we both enjoyed it 3;"

There was a hint of mutiny now in the child's voice. "You're too young to understand these things," Anthony replied wearily, taking refuge in that old adult tactic of claiming superiority of understanding on the basis of age alone, for he felt too ill to argue and was anyway uncertain how to answer the boy.

"Now turn round and I'll wash your bottom." He knew that by doing this he endangered his resolve to withstand temptation but the job needed to be done and perhaps it would divert the boy's mind from the subject currently under discussion. In that hope he was to be disappointed.

"That's not fair," Vassilly expostulated his voice now openly mutinous, "it's all right for you to wash my bottom that you like, I know you do, but I'm not allowed to wash your cock Sir and I like that just as much."

Anthony knew that he should take immediate action to quell this revolt but he simply did not have the energy or inclination to hit the boy.

"Oh all right Vassilly," he said weakly although he knew he was storing up further problems for himself, "I'll wash your bottom and you can wash my cock 3; Is that all right?"

The boy said nothing but with a broad grin turned his back on Anthony. He lent forward placing his hands on his knees presenting his tight little boy's rump to the man with an openly lascivious wiggle.

Anthony, studiously ignoring this impertinence, took a flannel and gently sponged away the encrusted filth. The boy's anus appeared to him be slightly reddened and somewhat sore, it could hardly be otherwise considering the use it had been put to during the night. He was relieved to see though that there was no sign of tearing. He tried hard to perform this task in an unemotional and purely clinical manner. He had to admit though that he was not wholly successful in achieving this. By the time the boy's hole was free of dirt his own prick, while it had not hardened, the previous nights efforts had effectively drained him, was, he had to admit, clearly in a less shrunken condition than when he had begun the task.

"All right that's done," he said giving the boy's bum a final pat.

Vassilly straightened and turned to face him a wicked smile on his face. If Anthony's actions had not reawakened the man's sexual drive it had certainly done so for the boy. Vassilly's tiny prick was fully erect, it's tip bouncing against the front of his tummy just below his belly button.

As the boy bent to his work the smile faded and was replaced by a look of almost reverential concentration as he sponged away at Anthony's cock.

A slight frown creased his forehead as he breathed softly through partly open lips. Anthony felt his blood begin to quicken but still the after effects of the previous nights exertions saved him from revealing any too obvious signs of excitement. It seemed to him that Vassilly was unduly prolonging his task.

"That's enough now," he said laughing, "I must have the cleanest prick in Cyprus the attention you've lavished on it. You're not going to get me hard so out you go."

Before he could stop the boy Vassilly bent his head and quickly kissed his cock on it's side. Anthony grabbed the boy and swinging him round drove him from the shower with a playful but firm slap on his backside.

It was when Anthony slipped on his shirt that he realised he faced a further problem

"Blast," he exclaimed, "I'd forgotten my trousers and stuff are in Mr Grade's study. Vassilly run along would you and get them."

Seeing the look of sheer terror on the boy's face he realised that asking a pupil at St Thomas's to fetch something from the head master's study was rather like sending a chicken on an errand to the local fox's earth.

"Oh all right then," he said cheerfully, "you show me the way and I'll get them."

Wrapping a towel round his waste to provide some cover to his nakedness he followed the boy down the staircase and along a series of corridors.

Just outside Mr Grade's study two junior boy's, their only clothing a pair of minuscule grey shorts that hugged the delightful contours of their bottoms, stood side by side their noses pressed up against the wall waiting for the fateful call that would summon them into the headmasters presence. They did not glance round as Anthony approached but when he drew near them he could see they were both trembling and he heard one give a muffled sob as he passed. No doubt they would both, he reflected, be sobbing a good deal louder once Mr Grade began to apply his cane to the seats of their tightly stretched shorts.

He knocked on the study door and walked in followed a little nervously by Vassilly. Mr Grade and Tim looked up at him.

"Ah Anthony," Mr Grade said cheerfully, "had an enjoyable night? I hope for Vassilly's sake that you can report favourably on his efforts to please you."

"Vassilly did everything that was required of him and his performance was excellent thank you," Anthony replied coolly.

"Good, good, I am glad he managed to give satisfaction. You must come and stay again."

"No. I am afraid I won't be doing that and I must tell both you and Tim that I think it would be best if you both made arrangements to leave Cyprus immediately. I intend to take action to close this place down."

"I told you he was a traitor," Tim exploded. "He betrayed you once and now he intends to do it again 3; I'm going to 3;," and he took half a pace towards Anthony.

"Tim calm yourself 3; Anthony I think you are being precipitate 3; I really do 3; Don't do anything rash 3; I feel you should put yourself in my hands. Remember what I said about this being an educational establishment 3; That we teach people to know themselves 3; Only by doing that will you find complete and true happiness 3; and think 3; Perhaps last night was the beginning of your voyage of self discovery."

"If it was I don't want to complete it," Anthony shot back. "It's no good this place is going to close."

"I really think you fail to grasp your true position Anthony," Mr Grade replied totally unruffled. "Video cameras recorded every act of yours last night and two copies of the various tapes are now in existence. One in my safe here and one in a private bank vault just in case you are tempted to try to do something rash like setting fire to the place to destroy the tapes.

If you involve the police or do anything similar the authorities will infallibly see the tapes. There is enough in them to put you inside for a nice long spell not to mention to completely ruin a promising career in the government service. Reconsider 3; take my advice 3; Place yourself in my hands 3; That way lies happiness and fulfilment for you 3; Otherwise I fear it is prison and disgrace."

Anthony stood for a moment thinking.

"Very well," he said considerably deflated, "clearly I can't force you to close. But neither can you make me take any further part in your obscene activities 3; I am going and I certainly do not intend ever to return."

"That is your privilege 3; I will not say that I am not disappointed but still 3; However that decides one matter over which I have been hesitating for a long time. I saw from the tape of your 3; er 3; enjoyment of young Vassilly last night that the boy has at last achieved an orgasm. That removes the one, admittedly very sentimental reason, for postponing his gelding. I was reluctant to take his balls off before he had an opportunity to experience a full orgasm. Now, since you will not be enjoying him again and neither Tim nor I have any further interest in the boy in a sexual way, I think I will find out if castration will have any effect on the quality of his voice."

"Perhaps Tim you would first secure the child. We don't want him doing anything rash like running away and then see that an announcement is made at lunch time for the senior boys to assemble in the wood work room after school to witness, what I am sure, they will find an interesting and perhaps amusing spectacle."

"I have no previous experience of castrating a boy but I have read a number of excellent descriptions of the process on the Net and I have no doubt I will find it an easy operation requiring only a sharp knife and a length of string."

Chapter Nine

"You are perhaps reconsidering your decision Anthony?" Mr Grade enquired softly. Some at least of what Anthony was thinking must have shown on his face.

"If I do what you want will you let Vassilly alone?"

"Yes indeed we will. He will be your boy. We will keep him here for you for the time being. We'll take good care of him and no one else will have the use of him."

"But what am I to do?"

"What I want from you Anthony is that you should just learn to be yourself. You were a very promising boy, an eager sensual little animal capable of giving and receiving great pleasure. A boy who, if your schooling had not been interrupted, would have grown up to experience all the joys that only true freedom can bring. But you were taken away from me and your head has been filled with all sorts of nonsense about right and wrong, good and evil. You have become a prisoner of other peoples prejudices. I want to change that."

"Last night you experienced a moment of freedom. Now you are ashamed of it. Why?"

"What you did was unnatural? Nature has only one law. The strong will always take what they want from the weak."

"Or perhaps you have religious principals? If there is a loving, caring God would he have given you such appetites just so that you should live a life of frustration and misery? Would he have put boys with their slim bodies and lovely round little bottoms in the world just so that you should fight with temptation?"

"I told you earlier that I am an educator both of boys and of men and you are once again one of my pupils and I will teach you to be free."

Anthony shook his head.

"You cannot force a man to be free," he muttered.

"True but I can help you to want to be free 3; Anyway what I want you to do immediately is a very small thing. You are to cultivate the Renshaws."

"Cultivate the Renshaws?" Anthony exclaimed. This instruction after the high flown nonsense that preceded it was so mundane and so harmless as to be ridiculous.

"Yes," Mr Grade said apparently unruffled by Anthony's very apparent surprise. "You remember them. They were among the very first people you met at the Vicar's Garden party 3; Rather a dim couple with intellectual pretensions. Mrs Renshaw is a leading light in the Operatic Society. I think they are doing Iolanthe this year."

"But why am I to cultivate them and how am I to do it?"

"As to why 3; I think I will leave that for the moment to see if you yourself can discern the reason in due course."

"How is very simple. You surely remember that next Friday evening you are holding a reception to mark the opening of the exhibition by those two noted artists Bill and Ben. Your predecessor omitted to invite the Renshaws, whom he regarded as a couple of dowdy old bores, to it."

"You call on the Renshaws on the way home from your office tomorrow evening. You say you have been reviewing the invitation list and that you are surprised to find that, by some mistake, your predecessor had failed to include two of the most notable members of the ex-patriot society and you are setting that omission right. Mrs Renshaw will be delighted, Bill Renshaw, who is a sensible old buffer, would probably prefer not to go anywhere near Bill and Ben but will pleased for his wife. To cement the friendship just fill the old boy up with gin at the reception."

"If you are worried that asking two extra guests to the do will cause problems, dismiss it. I 'and partner' have been sent an invitation and I have no intention of going though I did promise to let Bill and Ben spend the night here. It was the major inducement offered by your predecessor to persuade them to come out to Cyprus."

Anthony stood for a moment thinking. It seemed that there was no obvious way open to him at the moment to free Vassilly from Mr Grade's power.

All he could do therefore to preserve the boy's balls from the knife was to comply and to try to manoeuvre to create a more favourable situation.

"Very well," he said slowly, "I'll do as you say but when can I see Vassilly again?"

"You will attend church on Sunday and you will be able to see Vassilly then. After the service we will all lunch together and you can tell me how you have got on with the Renshaws and we will discuss what is to be done next. Dependant on your achievements and attitude in this matter you may be allowed some time with the boy that afternoon."

"Now Tim will show you to your car. Vassilly put on your shirt and get to your class room. Life is not all play you know."

"While I 3; I have a couple of boys to flog 3; Unless Anthony you would like to watch or indeed assist. You did so well last night 3; No 3; I am surprised 3; I can think of no more invigorating way of starting the day then thrashing a couple of tender little boys' bottoms."

That evening Anthony drove out to the Renshaw's house, a large villa set on the side of a hill overlooking Pathos. He drove in through the open double gates and getting out of the car, holding the two invitations in his hand, stood for a moment looking down at the town spread out on the plane below him and the Mediterranean, it's surface ruffled by the evening breeze, glittering, blue flecked with white capped wave, beyond.

He rang the doorbell and after some time Mr Renshaw appeared.

"Mr Llewellyn," he exclaimed, "my dear chap what a pleasant surprise. My wife and I were just about to have our evening drink. Come in and join us. Please do."

Anthony found himself ushered through a large marble floored hall into a spacious sitting room whose picture windows, open to catch the evening breeze, looked out to the sea.

"Now let me fix you a drink and I'll just set off to find my wife. She's in the garden somewhere. I know she will be delighted to see you. Gin and tonic?"

As Mr Renshaw fussed about fixing the drink Anthony explained the purpose of his visit.

"That's really very kind of you Mr Llewellyn," Mr Renshaw said holding out a glass that so far as Anthony could see was one part gin to two parts tonic, " or perhaps I could call you Anthony? My name is Philip by the way. We will be delighted to come or," he added with a burst of honesty and a wry grin, "my wife at least will be delighted. I don't know if Bill and Ben are much in my line you know. I've read about them in the Telegraph. I don't really see what art there is in smearing such things on canvass 3; just rather smelly and unhygienic 3; while their personal life and the things they say about religion 3; I just hope they don't upset the Orthodox Church."

"They're only on the island for one night and they're being put up in private accommodation away from the town. The exhibition is only for a week. I think we might get away with it." Anthony said deliberately choosing his words to send a coded message to Mr Renshaw indicating that his own personal opinion of Bill and Ben's work was not very different to his host's.

With a word of apology Mr Renshaw set off to find his wife leaving Anthony alone in the sitting room. He wandered over to the fire place and glanced idly at the family photographs that stood on the mantelpiece. The pride of place was taken by one of a young boy about, so far as Anthony could judge, eleven years old. He was wearing a school uniform although it was not nearly as revealing as that imposed on the boys at St Thomas's. For one thing the lad was wearing long trousers not shorts. He was so immaculately presented that he looked as though he had been washed and polished and then packed in cotton wool to be taken out specially to be photographed. What struck Anthony most though was that he was a remarkably pretty boy. If it was not that his fair hair had a slight curl to it and a deeper golden tinge than Vassilly's close cut flaxen locks he could have been the mirror image of the latter boy.

Anthony began to have some suspicion of the task that Mr Grade wished him to perform to safe Vassilly from the knife.

There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway outside and Mr Renshaw returned with his wife, a thin tall woman with an intense manner.

"Mr Llewellyn," she said effusively, "I cannot thank you enough for taking the trouble of bringing us two invitations to Bill and Ben's private view. To have an opportunity of viewing their work and of seeing the artists themselves will be a very wonderful experience deepening and broadening our understanding of their art."

"I believe," replied Anthony who had read the publicity handouts, "that Bill and Ben's life is an integral part of their art. That the wildly subversive and questioning world view that their material works represent cannot be fully appreciated unless they are regarded as an integral part of a wider whole."

"Have another gin old man," Mr Renshaw suggested kindly.

"Well," Anthony said knowing that he shouldn't but badly needing one to carry him through an evening talking such pretentious rubbish. His glass was taken promptly from his hand and refilled.

"I thought you might be interested in reading the exhibitions catalogue in advance," he continue producing a copy from his coat pocket. "There is a most informative article by Sir Pomeroy Blat chairman of the Tate Modern on Bill and Ben and their pivotal position in the development of conceptualist art and a challenging and provocative one by the artists themselves." And if you can understand either of them you'll have done better than me – pretentious nonsense interspersed, in the case of Bill and Ben's offering, with gratuitous obscenities Anthony thought to himself.

"You are so kind Anthony," Mrs Renshaw exclaimed. "I will most certainly study the articles very closely before the private viewing. I do think a knowledge and understanding of the artists' philosophy so helps to enhance one's appreciation of their work."

Anthony took another sip of his gin and tried to think of something else to say but was spared the necessity by Mrs Renshaw who was now in full flow.

"Such a pity that dear George could not be with us. I know he is still very young but not so young as not to benefit from being introduced to the higher things of life. It is so important to stimulate the young mind. I am sure you agree Anthony. Perhaps Philip dear we could arrange to have him fly out a few days early I am sure if we explained to his school the opportunity that present itself 3;"

"I'm not sure my dear," Philip Renshaw interrupted hastily. "I'm sure art and all that is a good thing but 3; but 3; Well I don't expect the school would be too keen and George after all is only twelve 3; and it might be difficult for Anthony to take on yet another guest."

"George," he said turning to Anthony, "is our grandson. There's a photograph of him on the mantlepiece, there, taken about a year ago. He is in boarding school in England but spends most of his holidays with us. Our daughter is divorced and works in the City. She appears to make a lot of money but has very little spare time. She seems always to be flying over to New York or somewhere and we look after the boy for her."

"I would be delighted," Anthony said, "to include your grandson in your invitation but I must say I agree with you Mr Renshaw, Philip I should say. Conceptual art is not an easy concept to grasp and Bill and Ben are at the very cutting edge of it 3; Perhaps a little difficult for an eleven year old boy to understand. I agree though that it is never too early to introduce the young to art. I don't know if we have anything that would be suitable for him planned in the near future. It is the Council policy to show Britain as it is now not as it was in the past. But I have a contact in the Cypriot Ministry of Education and he was telling me of some further discoveries they have made in the tombs of the kings that are not open to the public yet 3; I cold arrange for him to see those 3; It'll mean him going underground but there are frescoes of very high artistic merit and other artefacts for him to see."

"I'm sure he'll like that," Philip Renshaw said enthusiastically, "much more in his line than a gallery of modern paintings.. We would be most grateful if you could arrange it Anthony. To be honest George is a bit of a problem to us. We're not getting any younger and he becomes bored here just with us. There's the swimming pool in the garden and he enjoys that but the British colony is by and large an elderly one and there is no company for him. There are the visitors but they tend to keep to themselves and are only here for a fortnight at the most, so he can't really make friends among them."

"Mr Grade suggested that he had him up to meet that Russian boy he has, Vassilly, when his term ends but we were a bit doubtful," Mrs Renshaw remarked. "We're no snobs 3;"

"I think perhaps we are a little bit dear," Philip interjected, "but in this case it wasn't snobbery. I just felt uneasy. I expect Vassilly is a thoroughly good boy and of course Mr Grade has him under his eye but 3; 3; Well so far as I can gather he was destitute and living on the streets of St Petersburg before he was brought here and goodness knows what the poor lad had to do just to survive. I don't judge him or anything but in the circumstances we felt he might not be a good influence on George."

Anthony's suspicions about the task that Mr Grade wished him to perform were confirmed. Having failed in his attempt to use Vassilly as a means of seducing George, Mr Grade now planned to obtain access to the boy through Anthony. Put in it's simplest terms the price of Vassilly's balls was to be George's innocence. That at least was the bargain Mr Grade was proposing. At the moment all Anthony could do was to go along with that plan and cultivate the Renshaws in the hope that given time something would turn up.

Anthony left half an hour and a further large gin later. He drove a little unsteadily back to town stopping at the first taverna he came to have something to eat. He left his car in the car park and walked back to his apartment.

His sleep that night was disturbed by dreams of two naked blond boys sharing his bed and competing for his attention. Lithe young bodies pressed tight against his. Soft lips moved from his mouth, brushed his chest and belly. He spread his legs and bent his knees to give access to the most intimate areas of his body. Two agile tongues explored his body and toying with his balls and cock.

He woke to find his bed empty but the front of his pyjamas wet and sticky.

He lay in the half light thinking.

The only course of action open to him was to appear to co-operate with Mr Grade in the hope that at some time he would let his guard drop and allow Anthony to spirit Vassilly out of his hands. That achieved he could defy the man. The more he could lull Mr Grade's suspicions the sooner that moment would come. Anthony therefore could no longer afford to reject Vassilly's body if it was again offered to him.

He was somewhat suspicious of this conclusion as it so completely suited his own strongest inclinations but examining it as closely as he could he could see no weakness in his reasoning. Anthony fell back to sleep with a contented smile on his face.

The exhibition was held in the library attached to the British Council Offices in Pathos that had a small picture gallery attached. It was crowded and noisy. Anthony was watching for the Renshaws and as soon as they arrived he led them over to the centre of the room where Bill and Ben, dressed in their trade mark blue overalls, as ever neatly pressed and laundered, and flat cloth caps, were holding court. He introduced them and then leaving Mrs Renshaw to experience the full effect of the famous dialogue, drew her husband quietly out of the admiring circle that surrounded the two lions of the evening. Something told him that Philip Renshaw would be happier away from the two artists.

"Crap," Renshaw exploded glaring at a picture where some brown material had apparently been smeared with either Bill or Ben's' fingers across a large canvass in the form of a cross.

"I do not know whether you are referring to the aesthetic quality of the picture or the substance out of which it has been created," Anthony replied mildly. "I would say though that in my opinion you are correct in either event."

"My dear chap, I didn't mean to insult your exhibition." Renshaw protested.

"If I were you," Anthony continued equably, "I would have a drink."

"That is local," he admitted seeing Mr Renshaw looking doubtfully at the glasses of white wine set out on a tray by the door, "but if you care to come with me I have a bottle of gin in my office. Nobody I am will notice that we are gone."

By the end of the evening Anthony had been invited to supper at the Renshaws the following Tuesday.

Tim was standing outside the Church the next morning chatting with the Renshaws and Major and Mrs Grey. The St Thomas's school bus with the choir had already arrived but to Anthony's disappointment Vassilly was not among the boys who scrambled out of it. Mr Grade drew up in his car.

He jumped out and opened the back door.

"Come along boys quickly now. You're late already, hurry up."

Vassilly and another slightly younger boy, whom Anthony could not remember seeing in the choir the previous Sunday, scrambled out. The two boys trotted of towards the vestry door. Vassilly for some reason was already wearing his choir boy's surplice. Mr Grade stood for a moment looking after them. Turning he walked over towards the group of adults.

"Boys," he said shaking his head and smiling wryly, "boys."

The group of adults laughed and soon he was standing with them chatting easily.

Again he and Anthony sat together during the service. Once more Anthony was struck by the beauty Vassilly's voice although at one moment it seemed to him that the boy lost concentration and was slightly late in beginning his part. It also appeared to Anthony that the boy who arrived with Vassilly in Mr Grade's car was not playing a large part in the choir. He simply stood in the back row looking rather miserable, moving his lips unconvincingly.

After the service Mr Grade took Anthony by the arm and steered him towards his car.

"You seem Anthony," he said, "to be on excellent terms with the Renshaws excellent work, excellent. You must lunch with me and tell me all that has happened on that front. Where are those two boys."

An instant later Vassilly and the other boy trotted up. Vassilly's face broke into an eager smile when he saw Anthony. The other boy looked on the verge of tears. For some reason Vassilly was still wearing his surplice.

"Get in the back you two. Quickly now." Mr Grade ordered briskly.

"I thought Anthony," he continued in much milder tones, "that it would be pleasant on so fine a day to have a picnic lunch. If you would take the passenger seat, I'll drive down to the yacht harbour."

"Take that surplice off now Vassilly," Mr Grade said once the car was away from the church, "no one will notice your stiffie now, not anyone who cares."

"You'll remember the rule I'm sure Anthony. Indeed I can remember flogging you when you were with me as a boy for transgressing it. A boy in whom an adult is interested may only cum with the express permission of that adult. Vassilly's cock has been almost permanently rigid from last Tuesday apart from one short period. When I told him I would take him to meet you today the little whore almost shot his load on the spot, he was so excited. The boys shorts are so tight that you can see in an instance when they have an erection and I couldn't have him arriving at the church like that. I had him wear the surplice to hide the bulge."

"Take off your blazers and shirts as well boys and put them on the back shelve. Make sure they're folded tidily now. And your shoes and socks."

"Who is the other boy," asked Anthony. It was easy he thought to speak about the boys in front of them as if they weren't there or couldn't understand what was being said. "I didn't see him in the choir last Sunday."

"Richard Perkins," Grade replied, "He's not in the choir. I've brought him along to fuck. I'm not going to spend all afternoon sitting around watching you having a good time with Vassilly."

"He looks pretty miserable," Anthony remarked lightly, turning in his seat and peering at the boy.

"Yes he is. It's the first time for him and ever since I picked him last Wednesday the other boys have been working him up telling him how much it will hurt; nice kind creatures boys."

"Mind you it will hurt. I could make it easy for him and give him a dose of GHB but I think that would be cheating both myself and the boy. The penetration of a boy, for the man, is given an extra edge when the man knows that his pleasure is matched by and even exceeded by the boy's agony. There is nothing to my mind to beat the thrill of planting your seed deep in the guts of a bleeding, whimpering child. As for the boy, his first penetration should be a climatic experience for him, not something comparable to his first cigarette. It is something he should remember to his dying day. I think I can say that my boys do and they remember too whose boy they are. No matter how often they are subsequently penetrated and by how ever many different cocks. They will always remember the first time and the feel of my cock inside them."

Richard Perkins, who had heard all this, began to sob openly.

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