Zelamir

Young Black Master

Chapters 15- 3;

Bobby hesitated. He felt he was at a turning point. If he got under the blanket with Simon he would be he knew identifying himself with the brat, showing and perhaps worst still, accepting that he was on the same level as him. Memories of the last few hours came flooding back to him. Simon servicing Mark, kneeling naked at his feet, his fair head buried in his Master's crutch, his bare bottom wriggling in enthusiasm as he sucked and licked at his cock and when the moment of crisis came swallowing his seed. Simon lying naked on the bed his bottom raised and open his fearful face looking up at him between parted knees and spread thighs. Worst of all when it was all over, Simon back on his knees, filth oozing from his arse hole licking the blood, shit and cum from Mark's cock. He had felt disgust and contempt back then. He felt them now. He said nothing but shuffled as far as he could away, which was not very far for the cage was a small one, from where Simon lay.

It had been warm in the bungalow but out here the night air was chill against his naked flesh. He sat hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm. From somewhere out in the darkness came the same strange animal cry, part howl, part maniacal laugh, that had jerked him awake in the bungalow. In the bungalow it startled him, outside in the darkness and the. cold it made the hairs on the back of Bobby's neck rise in primitive fear.

"What's that," he asked in a nervous whisper.

"Hyena Master Bobby Sir," Simon replied also whispering, "there's probably a few of them, they usually hunt in packs."

This did not leave Bobby much the wiser but he felt he had already compromised his dignity by betraying his ignorance and fear to an inferior. Luckily Simon was glad of an opportunity to talk and to show off his knowledge scanty though it was to someone who did not hit him or call him names.

"They're like dogs Sir. Big like guard dogs but they're not dogs. They're between cats and dogs. A separate sort of animal all together and they eat goats an deer an stuff like that. My Dad told me 3;"

Suddenly his mind shifted back to when his father was alive, before bitterness and disappointment had got the better of him and he was ready to talk and share knowledge and stories and for some reason he could not understand his eyes filled up.

Bobby heard the sound of muffled sobs coming from the darkness beside him. He shuffled towards the sounds and reaching out found a lump under the blanket and squeezed it trying to send a message of comfort and sympathy. After all he told himself you could feel sorry for someone even if you despised him. Then much nearer than before the hyena howled again and another and another. Bobby already shivering with cold began to tremble violently. Dignity forgotten he joined Simon under the blanket.

Simon had rolled onto his side and turned away from him. Bobby wriggled up close to the quietly sobbing boy and reaching over one narrow shoulder hugged him. Simon's sobs became quieter and less frequent and then finally stopped.

***

The two boy's sat, silent, huddled together in the furthest corner of the cage staring glumly across the yard to the back door of the bungalow. They had been sitting like that since the first rays of the morning sun had touched the bars of their cage. Neither had felt like talking, both were sick with fear at the thought of what the day ahead might bring.

Of the two Simon's terror was the more intense and mind numbing. Mark had badly ripped him. He still hurt and looking down between his legs he could see a dark red patch forming on the concrete from his bottom. Mark, he supposed would appear in his own good time and decide what should be done with him. Would he decide he was too badly hurt to be worth bothering about further and if so what would he do with him? Send him back to he big pit to bleed slowly to death as he laboured in the mud and filth or back to Gagool to dismember at her leisure for her ghastly spells? Or would he decide he was worth trying to keep alive? That meant sowing him up. The pain down there was bad enough already. The thought of someone, perhaps Gagool, stitching him up was almost as terrifying as that of being slowly dismembered by her as material for her witchcraft.

Bobby had less to fear, merely the prospect of five strokes of the cane across his bare bottom. Not much compared to being dissected alive or having his torn bottom down up without benefit of anaesthetics but enough to make him feel sick with fright. He was of a generation of British school boy's who had never known the cane. It featured in some old fashioned school stories that his father had recommended to him and very occasionally in grimly jocular comments by his elders. Otherwise he had not come across it until Mark had demonstrated its effect on Simon's naked rump scoring angry reds weals across the boy's deeply tanned skin. He had watched the rod bite into the boy's bare flesh, the stripes it had etched across the smooth curve of his bottom deepen as time passed and the blood flowed back into the broken vessels turning the welts from scarlet to deepest red and then to a blood flecked purple. He had seen too the dimples in Simon's bottom deepen as the boy tensed his muscles in anticipation of the pain to come, the open mouth and staring eyes, the quivering lips and glistening tears as the rod ripped down across the brat's tender flesh. He knew from seeing these that the cane was no joking matter, that it would hurt and hurt a lot but the precise degree of pain and how he would bare it he did not know and this ignorance increased his fear. He had seen too the enthusiasm with which Mark wielded the cane, his eyes glittering with excitement, the cold cruel smile that just touched his lips and knew he could expect no mercy from him.

As the hours dragged by the boys' fear increased. They could do nothing to escape, they could do nothing to ameliorate their fate, they could only wait for Mark and for their suffering to begin.

Mark on his side was in no hurry to begin his day. He had woken late feeling pleasantly rested and relaxed. Apart from the excursion to the yard that resulted in Bobby's incarceration in the cage he had slept well. If Bobby had been with him in the bed he would no doubt have pulled the boy to him and with no one to interrupt them they would soon both have been pleasantly aroused. But in the absence of Bobby he felt, after his brutal rape of Simon's bottom, no pressing need for a boy. He just lay in the big bed half asleep looking forward to the pleasures and excitements the day might bring, his naked body cocooned in softness and warmth.

Eventually a growing hunger urged him from his bed. Pulling on a pair of shorts and trainers he made his way to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock he saw it was just after ten; too late for breakfast up in the big house. He helped himself to a glass of fresh orange from the fridge and set about assembling himself a breakfast of cornflakes, toast and honey. There was a joint of cold ham and some tomatoes in the fridge so he cut four generous slices off that and added a couple of tomatoes.

He would have preferred a full cooked breakfast but this he thought as he gulped down his cornflakes would have to do. At least he would not start the day hungry unlike the two boy's in the cage outside. They would, he was certain, have woken at first light so they would by now have had over five hours of growing hunger cooped up in the cage waiting with fearful expectation for his appearance. The thought of the naked brat's hunger and fear excited him increasing appreciably his enjoyment of his breakfast.

At last munching on the final piece of toast he pushed his chair back and rose from the kitchen table. Taking a key from the glass fronted wall cabinet beside the back door he walked out into the scullery.

Pushing the scullery door open he stepped out into the sunlight. Across the yard now shimmering in the morning heat he could see the two naked boys huddled close together in a corner of the nearest cage. Even across the yard he could see the two brats tense and quail as they caught sight of him.

He turned to one side to rummage in one of two metal bins set side by side against the wall just outside the back door to the bungalow. It was half full of bits of chain of various lengths and weight; manacles, cuffs, collars and other bit and pieces, largely of metal but with some wooden or even plastic objects, some fractured and broken, others complete. It was in a way he reflected, as he searched through its contents, a memorial, the only memorial they would ever have, to the Ngeni slave brats who had served and died in that service at the bungalow and a testimony to the traditional frugality of their masters. These were collars, cock rings, butt plugs and so on stripped from the bodies of dead slaves before their carcasses were disposed of; either buried in a shallow unmarked grave or left as carrion for the hyena's and other scavengers. Chucked carelessly into the bin they lay there ready for collection as scrap.

He was looking for something he could use as a slave collar and also a butt plug and cock ring for Bobby. The old collars were useless a minority being broken having been cut from the neck of the dead boy. The rest were complete but locked having been recovered by the more expeditious expedient of taking an axe to the dead brat's neck. (1)

He eventually found a short length of chain that he thought would serve his purpose.

It took a little longer to sort out a suitable plug Bobby's virgin hole being a good deal smaller than the average well used Ngeni brat's. Indeed Mark would have spared himself the bother but to leave Bobby unplugged would have been to extend an open invitation to any youth or man who took a fancy to the boy. Eventually Mark found one that he thought would do. Probably he guessed it came from a young newly enslaved boy whose owner wanted to preserve his bottom for his own exclusive use. Its presence in the bin suggested that the brat did not survive its first penetration.

He dropped the hinged lid of the bin back in place with a loud clang.

The second bin was for waste food from the kitchen and was padlocked to prevent pilfering by the Ngeni slave brats? Mark unlocked the padlock with key he had taken from the cabinet in the kitchen and flipped its lid open. The bin was empty and its interior had been scrubbed scrupulously clean. He had been expecting this, the guest bungalow had been unoccupied since before he had returned from school and the bin would have been emptied and scrubbed out at the end of its last period of occupation. He slipped the padlock and key into his shorts pocket and slammed the lid shut.

There would be no need to keep the vat locked for as long as he was staying in the bungalow. With only one person,, you didn't count slave boys, staying in it there would be no great accumulation of waste with any waste that did occur going straight into the boys' brat swill. As soon as his father returned from chasing Arab bandits in the North the Master/slave game with Bobby would cease. Bobby would become a valued house guest. The padlock would be used once again to to secure the lid of the swill bin and the length of chain would become just so much scrap iron..

With the comfortable feeling that the problem of obtaining a collar for Bobby had been neatly circumvented Mark turned back to face the cage in which Bobby and Simon crouched uneasily watching him through eyes wide with fear.

He walked across the yard to the row of cages, not hurrying, deliberately taking his time, allowing the fear and tension build up in the two trembling slave brats.

He unlocked the door to the cage and gripping one of its iron bars, swung it open, allowing it bang back against the bars of the cage with a loud metallic clang. He saw with grim amusement that Simon was openly whimpering in fear and that Bobby though not crying looked very near to tears. He waited a few seconds enjoying the two boy's obvious terror.

"Bobby, here," he said pointing to the ground at his feet.

Bobby scrambled hurriedly to his feet and, forced to bend almost double by the irons bars of the cage's low roof, stumbled towards him.

"Come on Bobby," Mark snapped, "you should know better than to keep your master waiting."

Reaching into the cage he grabbed Bobby by the back of his neck guiding him through the door of the cage and down down onto his knees at his feet.

"Head down," Mark ordered reinforcing the order with a sharp clout on the boy's ear.

Bobby his ear smarting obediently bowed his head. He felt metal cold against his skin as Mark looped the length of chain round his neck. He shivered with excitement and his cock already hard jerked fully erect, its swollen pink helmet bobbing about just short of his belly button. There was a click as Mark secured the chain in place with the padlock, then a series of tugs as Mark checked that it was too tight to for him to pull off over his head but loose enough to get a hand inside it.

"Look up," Mark said and when Bobby did so continued in a mild, almost conversational tone, to ask "well how does that feel Bobby?"

Such changes in tone on Mark's part from fiercely domineering to mild and friendly had occurred pretty frequently in their fantasy master/slave enactments in the past but there had been such a step change in the intensity of the game since his arrival at Mark's home that it took him by complete surprise. He knelt for a moment his mouth open his face completely blank.

"It, it feels good," he blurted out and indeed it did.

It was the first time Bobby had experienced the feel of a slave collar round his neck. Mark had spoken about it often enough but they had decided they couldn't risk it. It would have raised so many awkward questions if someone chanced on them while Bobby was wearing such a thing. But now, wearing it, there was something about the weight of it, the feel of the iron links pressing against the side of his neck that simply felt right. It was as if a door had opened deep inside him and something previously imprisoned stirred sensing imminent release. It was very confusing this feeling of release, almost of freedom generated by what was after all a symbol of servitude and ownership. And as Bobby struggled to understand and make sense of it other emotions crowded in adding to the confusion, fear, excitement, affection and admiration for Mark, whose strength, intelligence and confidence held Bobby in awe, concern for poor little suffering Simon with his torn bottom. A complex jumble of conflicting emotions, feelings, hopes and fears that defied reason. Not something that a thirteen year old boy had much chance of making sense of even at the best of times and this for Bobby, naked, hungry and facing his first encounter with the cane, was very definitely not the best of times.

Mark older, more stable, more mature, more experienced and much more confident looked down at Bobby kneeling naked at his feet and smiled quietly to himself. He was accustomed to being the recipient of Bobby's admiration and took it as being no more than his due.

"I could tell it excited you Bobby and you look good wearing it. Maybe I should have you wear it all the time," Mark said laughing and speaking with all the very considerable superiority a well grown mature fifteen year old youth can feel for a small thirteen year old boy.

"It feels a bit heavy," Bobby said a little plaintively and raised his hands to ease the weight of the chain about his neck.

"You'll get used to it," Mark said unsympathetically.

"And," he added stooping and slapping Bobby's hands away from the chain, "don't touch. If I catch you touching your collar again I will beat you and it will be a real beating with the cane not a mere slapping of your bare bum with the flat of my hand. Have you ever had the cane Bobby."

"No 3;" Bobby began and broke off short as Mark clipped him hard on the side of his head.

"Don't you bloody 'no' me," Mark yelled at the startled boy and then continued in milder tones. "You must never say "no" or anything like it to me. Say something like 'if you cane me Master it will be the first time' but come to think of it would be better for you to say 'when' not 'if'." And he laughed again, his good humour restored.

Mark reached down and with a hand under his chin tipped Bobby's head back so he could look into the boy's eyes as he spoke to him.

"'When'," he said with grim relish, "because you already have five strokes coming to you. Maybe you thought I'd forgot about them but I haven't. i don't forget things like that Bobby nor your behaviour last night you ungrateful little turd; creeping off to be with your little slave friend so when I woke up and wanted you you weren't there."

"I'm sorry Mark 3; Master I mean. I didn't 3;"

"You'll be more sorry still Bobby when I get busy with the cane on that pretty little bottom of yours. It's meant to hurt and I promise you it will."

Mark stood silent for a moment enjoying the distress and fear which was so clearly written Bobby's face before urging him to his with his hand under his chin. He bent quickly to kiss the boy hard on his parted lips. As Bobby pressed his body against his he slid his hand down the boy's back to squeeze his firm little bottom, feeling his skin smooth and cool under his touch.

Breaking the embrace he pushed Bobby roughly away from him and slipping a hand inside the chain looped round his neck he set off briskly across the yard with the boy forced to follow him bent double in a stumbling trot. Mark led Bobby to the far corner of the yard where an open hole over a small fast flowing stream served both as a drain and a rudimentary lavatory.

"Squat," Mark ordered. Bobby hesitated and Mark raised his hand threateningly and Bobby quickly obeyed

"Now get on with it, don't keep your master waiting," Mark ordered prodding him on the side of one bare thigh with his foot.

Feeling ashamed and humiliated Booby squatted over the hole straining desperately eager to get the ordeal over as quickly as possible. He couldn't at that moment think of anything more degrading than being made to perform in this way with no privacy and with Mark standing over him watching.

Mark looking down with quiet satisfaction at the boy's fare head and tightly hunched shoulders. The boy's whole body, he thought, announced his shame and misery at what he was being made to do. He felt a rush of affection for the boy, so miserable and so very pretty. For a moment he wanted to reach down and take Bobby into his arms and tell him their 'game' was at an end.

"Look up Bobby," he said softly.

Bobby obeyed straightening his back to do so. With the boy squatting, his knees spread wide apart, Mark could see down into his crutch. He smiled slightly as he saw the boy's prick though merely a small tube of pale flesh was erect and quivering. It was clear the Bobby though feeling his humiliation to the full was at the same time excited by it. The 'game' Mark decided would continue. Anyway the misery Bobby was currently suffering was only temporary. In time he would cease to resent his servitude, he would see it as what it was for a true slave, natural and inevitable

. "I don't know why you're making such a big deal of this Bobby," Mark said speaking softly and reasonably, "I'm just trying to make things as realistic as I can. You' must try to think and feel like a slave then you wouldn't find it so difficult."

"I can tell you're finding it exciting," he added poking the toe of his trainers between the boy's spread thighs and gently touched his quivering little prick.

Bobby moaned softly and pushed his pelvis forward working his stiff cock against the rubber sole of Mark's trainer. Mark saw the boy's eyes loose focus and glaze over with animal lust.

"Of course," Mark added with apparent carelessness, "we could always stop the game if you wanted. If we do stop, though we'll have to do so altogether both here and in England. We can't just stop and start at will. I think it would be a pity though. That slave collar really suits you and you find wearing it exciting. But if you want to, like I say 3; You'd just go back to being an ordinary tourist sort of visitor eyeing lions and hippopotamuses and stuff, interesting enough but not half as exciting as playing master and slave. So really it's up to you Bobby. You can say 'stop' and we stop but it would be forever."

Mark paused and waited looking down with apparent unconcern at the naked boy squatting over the open hole at his feet. He thought he had crafted his offer in such a way that Bobby was pretty sure to reject it but he could not be certain.

Bobby though knew straight away what his answer had to be. He had never, he felt, been more humiliated than he was at that moment squatting naked, denied any privacy, straining to empty himself. He hated it and resented it but at the same time he found it very exciting. Even so he might have summoned up the resolution to stop this particular act his shame was so great but he certainly wasn't going give up the whole master slave fantasy thing for ever and with that, he was sure, Mark's friendship.

He lived in dread of that. He worshipped the older boy. Mark was everything he wanted to be and was not. Strong, confident, good at everything he turned his hand to. Look at the way he had taken to cricket. That throw in from the boundary was still spoken of in the village. Even Dad had been impressed by that; shaking his hand and congratulating him. Bobby had been so proud of him then. He knew Mark was going to be good, Mark always was, at everything.

But if the answer to Mark's offer was clear there was something that worried him beyond anything else at that moment. Something which he had been looking forward to with increasing fear. He had seen Mark lay the cane across poor Simon's delicious little bottom, seen the rod bite into the boy's tender flesh and the angry red weals that it had raised across the deeply tanned flesh, seen the tears glinting in the boy's eyes as he stood naked, trembling, hands clasped on the back of, his neck, the muscles in his rump tensed in anticipation, waiting for the next cut. If he accepted the role of slave surely there would be nothing wrong in suggesting to Mark that he could be exempt the cane?

"Mark please let's continue the master/slave gain but please," and the words came out in a nervous rush though Bobby struggled hard to keep his voice calm andI steady, "please can I be spared the cane."

Mark smiled down at Bobby. He was really very fond of the boy although that fondness was being increasingly touched with a degree of amused contempt as he came more and more to realise how complete and unqualified was his submission.

"Of course you don't want the cane Bobby," he said gently, "I understand that. I don't expect many people really want it, it hurts a lot, an awful lot. But you want to be a slave and part of being a slave is being liable to being beaten. If you don't want the cane you must try very hard too be a good slave and that means more than being obedient and working hard, it means working out what I want and doing it or providing it before even I tell you. Fearing the cane, and getting it from time to time, will help you be a better slave. You do see that Bobby don't you?"

"Don't you Bobby?" Mark repeated sternly insisting on a reply while the boy hesitated looking glum.

"I suppose so Mark," he said but there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

"Of course you do Bobby," Mark said briskly. "For one thing you thoroughly deserve it, sneaking off like that in the middle of the night to be with Simon. I woke with an erection and when I reached for you, you weren't there."

"But you seem a bit unsure so as to help you see it my way I will give you two additional cuts, seven not five, say 'thank you' and say it as though you mean it or I might feel obliged to put it up to the round dozen."

"Thank you Mark 3; sorry, thank you Master," Bobby added the last two words hastily. He was on the verge of tears and he could hardly get the words out and could not manage that above a whisper. For a moment, added to all the other fears besetting him, he thought Mark would decide he didn't sound sufficiently grateful and would up the tariff to twelve but that danger at least passed.

"You finished Bobby?" Mark asked, apparently satisfied by the boy's expression of gratitude, slipping his hand inside Bobby's collar and pulling him upright. He peered briefly into the hole over which the boy had been squatting and seemingly satisfied with what he could see dragged him by the collar across the yard in a half stumbling run to the stand pipe by the door to the scullery.

Placing the cock ring and butt plug on the top of the sturdy work bench that stood close by he released his grip of Bobby's collar.

"Stay there," he ordered turning his back on the boy and disappeared into the bungalow to return shortly carrying a bucket of steaming water with soap bubbles foaming round its rim. Placing this on the ground he stooped to fumble at the hose pipe that hung curled about the stand pipe's tap. A jet of water, lukewarm at first but icy cold as soon as the water in the sun warmed hose had been exhausted, struck Bobby full in the face.

"Stand still," Mark ordered as he played the jet over the boy's chest and down his body into his crutch.

Mark moved round the shivering boy. Water, silvery in the bright sunlight, streamed down Bobby's shoulders and gave a glistening sheen to his sweetly rounded little bottom.

"Bend over, legs apart."

Bobby yelped in surprise as Mark directed the stream of cold water into the cleft of his rump. The preliminary hosing down completed Mark set to work sponging the boy down with warm soapy water from the bucket before turning the hose on him again to was away the soap suds. Finally it was over and Bobby stood shivering, water glistening on his naked body.

"One more thing," Mark said, his rising excitement apparent both in the tightness of his voice and the growing bulge in the front of his shorts, "before I show you how much the cane across your pretty little bum feels. Come over here with me. "

Gripping Bobby by his elbow he led him over to the sturdy wooden bench on which he had left the butt plug and cock ring.

"Turn and face me," Mark ordered sharply releasing his hold of the boy as he heaved himself up onto the bench which was more a work bench than something designed to sit on and therefore was somewhat higher than an average garden seat. Sitting on the bench he slipped his hand inside his shorts and took a second or two adjusting the lie of his swollen cock which had been painfully restricted by the pressure of his shorts.

"That's better," he said, "now stand still."

Reaching out Mark took a firm grip of Bobby's small hairless balls between the index finger and thumb of his left hand and pulled down hard.

Bobby whimpered and shifted under his grasp but kept his hands down by his sides.

Mark smiled grimly to himself. The boy was beginning to learn.

Picking up the cock ring from the bench with his right hand Mark forced each of Bobby's tiny balls in turn through narrow metal ring.

"Stand still," Martin repeated impatiently as he pushed the head of Bobby's now only semi-tumescent prick down through the ring with his thumb.

A few seconds further struggle had the ring firmly fixed in place. Mark sat back on the bench and ran a critical eye over the trembling boy. He smiled coldly amused by the way the metal ring clamped tight above his balls lifted the boy's genitals provocatively. Leaning forward he caught hold of the short length of fine chain hanging from the back of the cock ring.

Satisfied the ring was securely in place Mark slapped the front of his thighs.

"Right get your bottom up and spread your legs," he ordered gripping Bobby by either side of his hips and heaving him forward over his knees so that the boy's bottom was raised and open to his touch.

Mark reached over Bobby's body, lying prone and naked across his knees. Picking up the jar of lubricant he opened it and dipped the tip of his index finger into the almost colourless jelly. Slowly, methodically he set about the enjoyable task of greasing up Bobby's hole running the tip of his index finger along the lips of the boy's anus, gently but steadily increasing its pressure, while the boy wriggled and whimpered with excitement on his lap.

For a brief moment Mark thought back to Noah, now presumably being slowly dismembered by Gagool to provide raw material for her spells and potions, remembering how he too had writhed in lust induced excitement as his bottom was prepared for penetration. He smiled to himself, amused at the similarity. He also wondered again at how completely and with how little resistance Bobby was accepting his slave roll.

He was sure he would never allow himself to be treated in such a way. He would die fighting rather than submit to anything similar. But then he was a Tsungi. That as his father had so often told him made him a warrior. A member of a tribe that had preserved its freedom and independence for hundreds of years, ruthlessly expelling any who fell short, maintaining the struggle even when the odds were stacked against it.

While Bobby was English and they, as his father often remarked, were a mongrel people. They couldn't help it he would explain being a fair man; Britain was an island and it was necessarily peopled by whatever the sea washed up on its shores. It was not surprising therefore that Bobby lacked the pride and unbreakable spirit of a Tsungi. That though, Mark hastily reminded himself, did not alter the fact that Bobby was his guest and that set bounds on how far they could take their master/slave game.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you Bobby,"Mark remarked laughing.

He could not stop his laugh having a contemptuous edge.

Bobby tried to say something but failed only managing a small animal sound, a sex charged cross between a moan and a whimper.

"This may hurt a bit but it will be a nice hurt," Mark said as he eased the tip of his index finger into the boy. Checked by Bobby's sphincter he increased the pressure.

"Push out just like you're shitting,". Mark ordered as he tried to force his way deeper into Bobby's guts.

Bobby grunted in pain and threw his head up as Mark's probing finger tip prized open the ring of grizzle barring its way.

Mark told himself that this part of his task had been completed. Bobby's bottom had been greased and sufficiently loosened to take a butt plug. It was time to get that job done and to move on. There was no need to go deeper into the boy nor to loosen him further. There was simply no possibility of him ever actually fucking the boy however attractive and exciting the thought of doing so might be. The immutable laws and customs of his people forbade such abuse of a guest.

There are occasions though when although you know you should stop, that it would be better in the long term for yourself and maybe other people as well that you should stop, you do not do so. Even as Mark was telling himself that the job was completed and he should get his finger out of the boy's bum he was probing deeper into him and twisting his finger as he did so.as Bobby moaned and writhed across his knees.

Mark had his index finger pushed down full into the boy, his knuckles pressing hard into his bottom. He knew he wasn't ever going to fuck Bobby, he knew it was wrong and stupid and pointless to even imply otherwise but with the boy face down across his knees, his hot guts clamped tight and working against his finger sheathed in his body, feeling his iron hard but childishly small prick pressing against his thighs, he couldn't stop himself saying, "think Bobby what it would be like if my cock was in you instead of my finger. That would really stretch you. You would feel that wouldn't you boy 3;"

At that stage Bobby moaned softly, his head jerked upwards, the muscles in his tight boy's rump convulsed and Mark felt warm dampness through the material of his shorts spread across the top of his thighs.

Mark pulled his finger out of the boy's bottom. It came away with a resounding plop. He moved to wipe it clean on the side of the boy's rump but then stopped himself. He would have done so without hesitation if it had been a Ngeni brat lying face down, naked across his knees, but some residual feelings of affection and respect made it seem wrong with Bobby. Instead he wiped it clean with the damp cloth he had used earlier when washing Bobby down and then used the same cloth to clean up the traces of filth that had leaked from the boy' s hole to stain his bottom and the inside of his thighs.

That done he stood up tipping Bobby off his knees back onto his feet. One leg of Mark's shorts pressed warm and sticky damp against him. While Bobby, trembling slightly, stood quietly waiting for whatever fate had in store for him, Mark unbuckled his belt and slipping his trousers and underpants down over his hips so that they fell about his ankles kicked them away from his feet. His cock released from constraint snapped upright standing stiff and erect, a thick column of throbbing dark flesh ribbed with knotted veins. He said nothing but reaching out gripped Bobby by an elbow and forced the boy round so his back was to him. Placing a hand on the back of Bobby's neck he pressed down hard forcing him to bend forward so his head was almost level with his knees. This brought Mark close up behind the boy, so close that the tip of his erect and swollen cock brushed against the taught flesh of his raised bum.

"Legs apart," Mark grated reinforcing his order with a sharp flick with the tips of his open hand against the inside of the boy's thigh.

Bobby remembered Mark's finger plumbing the depths of his bottom, the youth's voice hoarse with lust threatening rape. He had seen Mark's cock swollen and throbbing with lust when he dropped his shorts about his ankles and he remembered poor little Simon's agony as his tight little rump was torn open.

Bobby imagined that black swollen rod ripping his bottom apart and terror gripped him. He couldn't fight Mark, not with any chance of success, he was so much bigger and stronger than he was. He couldn't run away, there was no where to run to. There was only one thing he could do – plead with Mark – remind him that they were friends – that this slave thing was only a game.

Frantic with terror Bobby twisted away, the sudden movement breaking Mark's grip of his arm and dropped to his knees. Tears streaming down his face he gazed up at Mark towering over him. The youth's cock, swollen and demanding, assumed monstrous dimensions in his panic stricken eyes. Unthinkingly he clasped his hands in the traditional manner of a supplicant.

"Mark please Mark," he begged earnestly his voice choked with tears, "please don't. Please, we're friends, you've stayed at our house, you've met Mummy and Daddy, what will you tell them if you rip my bottom the way you did Simon's, you could kill me doing that, what will you say then 3;"

Mark stood looking down into Bobby's tear stained face staring up pleadingly into his. He felt once again affection mixed with amused contempt for the naked boy kneeling blubbing at his feet pride, dignity, self respect all lost in his fear induced hysteria. Part of him wanted to reach down to Bobby, to lift him to his feet and fold him in his arms, to kiss away the tears that glistened wetly on his cheeks, to restore things to how they were back in England. But at the same time he knew that was simply impossible. Nothing now could erase from his mind the memory of Bobby grovelling naked in the dirt at his feet. Nor did he want to forget it, it was too arousing, A crueller, harder self wanted to prolong and deepen the moment, to take pleasure in Bobby's tears and suffering. Perversely that the boy was pretty, even that he was fond of the boy, made the spectacle of his distress all the more exciting to him.

Bobby searched his tormentor's face for any sign of pity but saw none. He caught the expression in Mark's eyes looking down into his hard, glittering with excitement. Hopelessly he dropped his gaze and there before him only inches away from his face was Mark's cock, a swollen rod of ebony flesh, erect, demanding quivering with excitement a drop of pre-cum glistening in the sunlight at its end. It was not in fact all that large but in Bobby's fear crazed eyes it assumed monstrous proportions. He remembered the muscles in Mark's bottom working as he hammered his cock into Simon, the shrill screams of the boy and the blood and filth seeping from his violated hole when it was all over. Unable to help himself he burst into tears.

Mark thoroughly aroused by the spectacle of the boy's distress realised that he was on the verge of ejaculating spontaneously. Not trusting himself to say anything he grabbed the brat by an arm, yanked him to his feet and swinging him round forced him face down across the bench. Bobby bent over the bench, his feet on the ground on one side, his head hanging down on the other braced himself in anticipation of the coming assault on his bottom. He knew resistance was pointless and would probably only serve to incite Mark to even crueller practices. He would just have to endure and to suffer. He had no choice.

He was aware of Mark standing close behind him one hand on the small of his back pinning him down on the bench.

"Legs apart and push out like you're shitting. Come on boy this is going to hurt but it will hurt a fucking sight more if you try to fight it."

He felt fingers on his anus forcing its lips apart, then something cold and hard pressing between them. For a brief moment he thought it was strange, so very cold, he had expected Mark's cock to feel warm or at least not positively cold rather than anything else, Then the sudden tearing pain drove every thought out of his mind as his anus was forced. He was aware of nothing but pain, an all consuming pain that filled his mind and body, that tore at his guts and filled his brain with a roaring sea of dark red blood.

Mark twisted the butt plug and the gripping the small metal ring on its base between his finger and thumb pulled on it checking that Bobby's sphincter had closed tight about its narrow neck and that the thing was firmly seated in his hole. Satisfied he pushed his right hand between the back of the boy's thighs and gripping the catch at the end of the short length of fine chain hanging from the back of his cock drew the chain tight and locked it to the base of the plug. With Bobby still bent over the bench he forced his right hand under the chain and placing the palm of his hand on the back of the boy's rump pulled sharply. The butt plug shifted slightly in the boy's hole and then checked as the chain linking it to the back of the cock ring tightened. Bobby squealed and Mark, satisfied that the plug was securely lodged in his bottom, let go of the chain. Gripping Bobby by his shoulder he pulled him upright and turned him to face him.

Mark laughed as he saw surprise and relief flare in Bobby's eyes.

"No, I haven't fucked you," he said a hint of regret in his voice, "nor will I ever do so. That would make you a real slave under our laws and it's something you don't do to a friend and a guest."

"Not," Mark added hastily just in case Bobby was hurt by his rejection, "that I wouldn't like to. You've got a lovely bottom. Tight and round and firm just asking for a good hard fucking but you're here as my friend and a guest of my father's so I can't."

"I was just putting a plug In your bottom to stop anyone else doing so. We will have to go up to the lodge to get a few things there. I can't be sure I'll have you with me all the time and if you aren't plugged one of the soldiers or someone about the place would be sure to rape you. You're a pretty boy and being white you have the added attraction of novelty. Every man about the place will be eyeing up your bottom and wanting to give it a good hard fucking. I want to myself but as I said I can't"

"It's just it hurts so much," Bobby whimpered.

"You'd feel it a damn sight more if I'd rammed my cock up your arse and flooded your guts with my cum. Anyway I am not going to do that so I will have to make do with thrashing you instead. That'll be fun though not as much fun as fucking it and it'll take your mind off the pain of having the plug pushed into you. You can tell me afterwards which hurt the more, the plug or the cane."

"Now," Mark continued his voice suddenly sharpening and taking on a commanding edge, "you know where the cane I used on Simon is kept on the mantle piece in the television room. Go and fetch it here."

Bobby turned and reluctantly headed towards the bungalow's back door. A second later he was sent staggering forward as Mark landed a hefty kick up his back side.

"Run, run, you useless lump of dog shit," Mark screamed at him. "When I tell you to fetch something you RUN to do it. Now run – at the double."

With a half smile on his face he watched Bobby, propelled by his kick, scuttle across the yard towards the bungalow. The sun glinting on the metal disk set in the base of the boy's butt plug caught his attention. Bobby he thought made an attractive and realistic little slave brat. He would look even better when he had marked that sweet little bottom of his with the cane. A collar, a bruised bottom and a butt plug glinting in the sun those were the badges of servitude. It was a pity though that he would not be able to consummate his ownership by planting his seed in the boy's guts. He would have to make do with beating rather than fucking the boy. The one to his mind was almost as exciting and enjoyable as the other. He licked his lips and hugged himself in anticipation of the fun to come.

Bobby's mind as he set off at the run to fetch the cane was a jumble of conflicting emotions. Chief was of course was fear of the coming beating. He had given up all hope of escaping it. He accepted he was going to get seven strokes of the cane. He just hoped Mark would not decide to give him more. He had no doubt the crueler fiercer Mark that had materialised since his arrival in Africa would not hesitate to increase the tariff if he thought his behaviour warranted it or, more frighteningly still, if he felt it would be fun. He had never had the cane but he had watched Mark use it on Simon and the prospect of having it cutting into his own tender flesh made his stomach churn.

But while fear was the predominant emotion it was not the only one. There was also excitement. He had naturally felt this in the past with Mark but never with the same intensity as now when it was given extra edge by the fear the new more savage Mark engendered.

Nor was that all. With this much more intense excitement came a considerably stronger and more acute consciousness of his own body. He had as he approached his teens begun, as most boys on the verge of puberty do, to worry about how he looked and to take increasing of care about his appearance – even to the extent of brushing his hair most mornings. What he now felt though was very different in nature and kind. It was as if for the very first time he was aware of his body as a whole with every nerve alive and active.

He was also suddenly acutely aware of his body's potential to excite sexual interest in others. He had of course known that Mark found him attractive, as indeed he did Mark. The surreptitious bouts of mutual masturbation in which they indulged whenever circumstances allowed left no room for doubt on that score. But Mark's recent open avowal of his wish to penetrate and possess had given that interest an immeasurable harder and more exploitative edge. While Mark's insistence on plugging his bottom was a painful and continuing reminder to Bobby both of the existence of his boy hole and of its ability to provoke the interest and lust of his elders and as things were currently arranged, betters.

These emotions, fear, excitement, awareness of his body both in its own right and as an object of sexual interest to others, combined and worked on each other increasing their strength and intensity.

Bobby darted across the kitchen towards the door leading to the front of the bungalow.

A big solid table with a scrubbed wooden top occupied much of the centre of the bungalow's kitchen floor. In his haste Bobby misjudged its size and crashed into it momentarily winding himself. He bounced off the table staggered slightly and then ran on, his fear of the cane out-trumping the pain in his side.

Bobby grabbed the cane from the mantlepiece in the sitting room and carrying it tore back through the bungalow to the back yard. Emerging from the gloom of the house he saw that while he had been away Mark had been joined by another black youth of roughly the same age and of the same sturdy build wearing what he came to recognise in time as the standard leisure clothes of the young Tsungi elite of long sleeved t-shirt, conservatively cut shorts, neither too baggy nor over tight, neat ankle socks and discretely expensive trainers.

The two of them were standing side by side looking into the cage holding Simon. As Bobby burst from the bungalow holding the cane the two youths turned to look at him. Bobby momentarily hesitated uncertain what to do next, confused by finding himself suddenly the centre of attention. Mark had always been bigger and stronger than he was but it seemed that he had grown in size or he himself had shrunk over the last few hours and his friend looked to Bobby just as big and powerful and confident.

Bobby naked, scared and alone faced by the two big black youths felt very small and vulnerable. He was used to Mark. He had long since ceased to notice his blackness. He wasn't so far as Bobby was concerned a black boy, he was just Mark, older, bigger and stronger than himself and therefore an object of respect and admiration but in no way identified or defined by his colour.

The presence of the second youth changed everything, Bobby suddenly felt very alone, very isolated. And this was made more acute and more explicit by the fact that he was naked and while Mark was wearing only his t-shirt the other coloured boy was fully clothed, informal sports wear but smart and expensive. And he was not only naked but naked in a special sort of way that made obvious to everyone, including himself, his difference and his inferiority. The collar locked round his neck, the cock ring lifting his genitals and the plug so painfully lodged in his bottom were all identified him as a slave.

Bobby searched the faces of the two youths in vain for some sign of compassion or human sympathy, some clue to what he should do next. Mark, whose face usually lit up with a friendly grin when he caught sight of him, now returned his gaze hard eyed, a cold supercilious curl to his lips. Mark's friend stood eyeing him up,appraisingly, his head slightly cocked to one side, a knowing, calculating expression on his face like a farmer looking at a neighbour's newly purchased beast.

Bobby hastily dropped his gaze. Panic gripped him, his legs felt weak and unsteady, he began to tremble uncontrollably, tears flowed down his face wetting his cheeks. He was beyond rational thought. Then something deep inside him shifted. It was as if a catch had been released setting at liberty a simpler more primitive being that had been lurking unsuspected in the most obscure recesses of his mind.

Bobby freed from the multiple inhibitions that constrain the conduct of all but the very youngest in the prosperous West was at last free to react as his nature dictated.

He darted forward and still holding the cane in his right hand he drooped to his knees at Mark's feet and pressed his face to the ground in an ecstasy of self abnegation, trying desperately to signal his acceptance of the older boy's dominance.

He had long looked up to Mark and hero worshipped him. From hero and hero worshipper to dominant and submissive and thence to fantasy master and slave had been an almost imperceptible progression. But it was a progression nevertheless from the mild to the less mild. And the pace had quickened and the fantasy taken on a harder and more extreme edge since he had arrived in Africa. Bobby was faced with the choosing between resistance or abject surrender. For him that was no choice at all.

Mark's first reaction looking down at the white boy grovelling at his feet, the base of the butt plug, a small circle of bright metal glittering in the sun light in the middle of his raised and naked bottom was one of surprise. Mark would have allowed himself to be torn to pieces rather than enduring such humiliation and Bobby being his friend he assumed would have felt the same. It was only natural that Bobby being younger and smaller should defer to him and follow his lead. And only natural too, when Bobby had the temerity to argue with him to tip, the boy over his knee and spank his bottom.

But kneeling naked at his feet, kissing the ground, doing so with a strange boy looking on, uninhibited by any sense of pride or modesty was far, Mark thought, from natural.

Bobby's declaration of abject submission was impossible to misunderstand. It was something Mark had imagined many times in his private fantasies but had never expected to see in reality. Though looking back later he thought he could see that he should have foreseen it or some,thing very like it. It had been clear to Mark from almost the beginning that Bobby enjoyed being treated roughly and encouraged by this he became progressively more so and more demanding. Up to Bobby's arrival at Simla Lodge the change had been gradual but its pace had then quickened considerably.

Bobby's sudden exposure to the excitement and cruelty of a slave owning society confused and frightened him. Instinctively he tried to distance himself from Mark who reacted by tightening his grip on the boy and the crisis inevitably followed.

All that though was in the past. Mark had to deal with the present.

Bobby lifted his face from the ground and straightened, kneeling upright, lifting the cane, offering it two handed to Mark towering over him.

Mark stood for a moment looking down into the kneeling boy's upturned face seeing nothing but fear and submission in his eyes although the stiff little column of flesh topped with its small but swollen pink helmet quivering just short of his belly button suggested the un-acknowledged presence of more complex emotions.

"What do you think Michael of my English boy?" Mark asked his friend as he took the proffered cane from Bobby's hands.

"Difficult to tell kneeling with him like that Mark. Need to get him up on his feet for me to get a better idea. First glance looks nice enough , bit on the plump side for a slave though."

"Yes they do tend to over feed their boy's over there. That'll be easy to put right though. A week or two of hard work and near starvation will do the trick. I want to get the boy so he makes a matching pair with the other white slut."

"Anyway let's get him up so you can have a proper look at him."

"Come on up boy so that Mister Michael can have a proper look at you. Quickly now," Mark snapped prodding Bobby hard on the side of his thigh his toe.

Bobby scrambled to his feet. He saw Mark beginning to lift the cane. Panic stricken he wondered what he had done wrong or had failed to do at all. Then he remembered Isaac standing naked in the hallway with his hands clasped on the back of his neck. Quickly he assumed the same position.

"Good boy," Mark said with a cold smile, "you're learning," and he let his right hand holding the cane fall back to his side.

Bobby stood patiently his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground. Not looking directly at Michael but aware of his every movement. First he took a couple of steps back away from Bobby and then stood for quite a long time, for Bobby the subject of his scrutiny it seemed a very long time, looking at him thoughtfully his head cocked to one side. Then he walked slowly round Bobby pausing once or twice as he did so.

Bobby thought it was just the same way as he had seen his father behave at Appleby Horse Fair, except then his father was sizing up a pony not a boy.

Chapter 17

"It's not only over feeding," Mark continued as his friend, his preliminary inspection completed, moved in close and began to conduct a detailed hands on examination of the naked boy, "you'll never believe how they spoil and protect their brats. It's illegal to fuck them before their sixteenth birthday, either their mouths or their bottoms."

"Sixteen!" Michael exclaimed as he forced Bobby's head back with a hand under his chin. "Sixteen!" he repeated obviously amazed by the enormity of which he had just been informed, "what a waste. Dad says ten for house sluts, but that's only because having gone to the expense and trouble of house training the filthy little brutes he doesn't want to risk having all that effort wasted if It's torn too badly."

As Michael spoke he stared hard down into Bobby's upturned face. Bobby tried to look away but the youth tightened his grip on his chin. Bobby forced to look up into the older youth's face began to shake with fear as Michael's eyes cold and cruelly calculating bored into his head.

"Can't see anything much there beyond sheer terror," Michael remarked approvingly and clearing his throat directing a sizable gob of mixed saliva and phlegm into the centre Bobby's upturned face.

Instinctively he shied away and moved to wipe the filth from his face.

"Stand still fuck you," Mark snapped.

Bobby heard a hiss behind him followed by an explosion of pain in his bottom so intense that it momentarily emptied his lungs of air. Instinctively he dropped his hands, that a split second before he was moving to wipe the spit from his face, to protect and nurse his burning rump.

"Fuck you can't you do what you are fucking well told," Mark roared and cut him hard across the shoulders with the cane.

Mark saw Bobby's body jerk convulsively as the cane cracked down across his narrow shoulders heard him grunt as the pain emptied his lungs of air.

Grabbing the boy by the back of his neck chain he hustled him across to the bench and hurled him face down across it. He had other things to do that morning apart from thrashing young Bobby and he wanted to get on with them. Not that that meant he would hurry or skimp on his present task. Too much depended on it for him to do that.

It would in the short term at least define. the relationship between Bobby and himself. Administered with sufficient brutality it would banish any misconception on Bobby's part that he might hope for favourable treatment from his, at least one time, friend and give him a healthy and very proper terror of the cane.

Not that there was any chance at all that Mark would shirk the task in hand. For one thing he enjoyed the work too much to skimp it. Back at school in England occasionally upending Bobby across his knees and administering a series of heavy open handed smacks across his bare bottom as the boy giggled and squealed and wriggled delightfully on his lap was fun but no more than fun. Later when he was lying awake in the narrow dormitory bed with Bobby sleeping quietly beside him he would imagine a crueler more satisfying alternative where Bobby's cries were cries of real pain and the rod scored scarlet lines across the sweet curves of the boy's tight little rump. He was not going to allow the opportunity to put these cruel but intoxicating fantasies into reality to pass.

Finally if he needed further motivation to lend strength to his arm and weight to his blows there was the presence of his friend Michael who would watch him thrashing Bobby with a critical eye. He was not going to have him spreading reports that he was soft and couldn't flog a brat properly.

""Grab hold of his wrists and hold him down for me Michael would you please."

Bobby found his wrists firmly clasped and pulled forward so that he was forced face down across the bench his bottom raised and ready for the cane. He could hear Mark moving behind him as he positioned himself to begin the beating. He lay there across the bench feeling utterly helpless and vulnerable, his stomach churning with fear.

Mark stood looking down at Bobby, a cruel half smile on his face. The moment he had imagined so often lying awake in the dark dormitory had at last arrived. His cock, a swollen column of dark pulsating flesh, stood proud and erect, quivering in excitement.

Carefully measuring the distance between himself and Bobby, he gently laid the rod across the swell of the boy's rump. The dimples on either side of Bobby's buttocks deepened as he tensed his muscles in anticipation of the cane's cruel bite.

"Hold tight now Michael," Mark said quietly and raising his right hand high over his shoulder cut down as hard as he could across Bobby's raised bottom. The rich hiss of the descending rod ended in a sharp crack as the cane bit into tender boy's flesh.

Bobby jerked convulsively as pain momentarily emptied his lungs of air. His bare feet beat a frantic tattoo of agony on the yard's paving stones. It felt as though a red hot iron bar had been laid across his bare bottom. He threw his head back fighting for breath. Some last instinctive vestiges of pride strangled the scream of pain in his throat.

"Jesus he's a strong boy," Michael remarked somewhat breathlessly. "It was all I could do to hold him down. Didn't scream though."

"He'll be screaming by the time I've finished with him," Mark replied grimly who regarded Bobby's failure to do so at once as a challenge and a reflection on his competence as a flogger of boys' bottoms.

He paused for a moment watching the welt the cane had failed across the smooth pale flesh of Bobby's bottom change colour and darken as the blood flowed back into the broken vessels and the bruises began to form.

Gripped firmly by his wrists, held face down and helpless across the bench, the stripe across his bottom fiercely burning, Bobby fought to control himself. He shuddered and tensed as the he felt the rod rest briefly and lightly across his bottom. Then he sensed Mark move behind him and a second later heard the rich hiss of the descending cane. His nerve broke and he was screaming shrilly before the rod even touched him.

Once again pain exploded in his bottom and swelled and grew so that it filled his whole body. The world became one dark seething mass of hurt. He was drowning in a sea of all consuming pain. He was aware of nothing beyond the agony of his tortured flesh, not the hard bench he was lying on nor Martin's hands gripping his wrists nor Mark, naked and rampant, cum leaking from his swollen prick, scoring livid stripes across his writhing bottom with the cane.

Encouraged by Bobby's cries of pain and distress Mark wielded the cane with increased energy. He did not hurry the work in hand but deliberately spaced the strokes so that Bobby had time to feel each individual cut. Bobby in his distress abandoned all self restraint, his shrill howls of pain and broken pleas for mercy punctuated with the rich hiss of the descending cane and the sharp crack of wood striking taught boy's flesh filled the yard with sound.

"Last two," Mark said deliberately shifting his position slightly before laying the two final stripes so that they cut across the earlier welts.

"For the time being at least," he added with a laugh.

"You can let go of the brat's wrists now."

Bobby, released from Michael"s grip slid slowly from the bench finishing up on his hands and knees on the ground at his tormentors' feet.

"You've marked the little brute fucking good and proper!" Michael remarked.

Michael looked down at Bobby crouched whimpering at his feet the pale flesh of his bottom ribbed with livid welts. He saw with satisfaction lthe darkly glistening beads of blood beginning to well from where the stripes crossed or overlaid each other and the rod had torn Bobby's skin.

"White flesh marks easier than black," he remarked trying to sound dismissive but unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

"Anyway I've got to go up to the Lodge now and collect some supplies else we'll be running out of food here and I need to get some needles and stuff for sowing up the other slut's boy hole. I tore it quite badly last night. You should have heard the little whore scream. Even louder than young Bobby here just now."

Again he could not keep the faintest hint of pride out of his voice.

"You're going to do the job yourself?" Michael asked.

The two coloured boy's had strolled across the yard to the cage as they talked. Simon who had crawled into its farthest corner looked up at them eyes wide with terror.

"Can't see why not. I've watched it done a few times with the Ngeni house brats. Now it's my chance to give it a go. Perfectly straight forward job it seems to me. The only real problem is to keep the brat still while you're working on it's bottom. There's a rig Dad uses for that that seems to work pretty well."

"I can give you a hand if you want," Michael offered.

"Well that would be handy. Come on up with me to the lodge if you like. I'd be glad of the company. Now let's have a look at the damage. I wasn't in the mood to bother with the brat last night just turned him out into the yard. Dad always says leave a damaged boy over night, if it survives it's probably worth patching up, if it doesn't you've saved yourself a load of trouble."

As Mark was speaking he unlocked the padlock securing the cage door and swung it open. Simon's bare feet scrabbled on the floor of the cage as he tried to force his naked body even tighter into its furthest corner. Bending double Mark reached into the cage and grabbed the whimpering brat by the collar.

"Come here you useless lump of dog turd," he said hauling Simon from the cage and grinning fiercely at the boy's obvious distress.

"Now then let's see."

With his hand on Simon's collar he twisted the boy round so he was standing facing away from him and pressing his head down forced him to bend double exposing his bottom to the two youths' grinning inspection.

The boy's crack and the inside of his thighs were encrusted in filth, a noxious mixture of shit and semen streaked with blood, that had leaked overnight from his violated hole. Flies swarmed about filling the air with the sound of their excited buzzing.

"Christ what a mess," Mark exclaimed his disgust apparent in his voice. "Michael could you pass me the wet cloth from the bucket by the bench."

"Thanks," he said, reaching out to take the dripping rag from his friend and giving it a one handed squeeze to get rid of the surplus water.

He pressed the damp cloth into the cleft of Simon's bottom. The boy screamed and bucked as the coarse rag touched his raw flesh. Grinning broadly Michael moved in close and steadied the boy by taking a firm grip of his balls. A flood of dirty brown water tinged red with blood streamed down the inside of Simon's thighs.

Mark dropped the cloth on the floor and prying apart the lips of the screaming boy's anus bent down.

"Well," he said as he poked experimentally at Simon's torn flesh with his index finger, "there's no doubt he needs stitching up. No point though in wasting any more time on trying to clean the slut up now when we will have to do the whole job all over again when we start sowing him up. I'll cut away the scabs then and so we'll be suturing what amounts to a fresh cut which should heal with the minimum of permanent scarring."

"God knows," he remarked to Michael with a laugh as he forced the sobbing boy back into his cage and slammed the door shut on him, "how much noise he will make then. If he thinks what I did to him just now hurt that'll be much worse."

"Now Mark I'll just put some clothes on and we'll go up to the lodge."

"Bobby, you idle lump of dog shit, stop feeling sorry for yourself and make yourself useful. There'll be a bicycle in one of the out buildings, find it, check that its ready to ride with its tyres inflated and all the rest of it and bring it out the front. Come on move yourself boy."

He paused a moment watching Bobby scuttle off on his errand. A faint satisfied smile curled his lips as his eyes rested on the young boy's bottom, always pleasant to look at he thought it had been given added interest by the angry stripes etched across its tender flesh by the cane. The thrashing had been enjoyable to administer and had not only made the boy more exciting to look at it had also improved his behaviour. There was an urgency, an eagerness to please in the way Bobby hurried to obey him that had been absent before he had felt the rod across his bottom.

It could so easily have gone the other way and with a more strong willed boy than Bobby would have done so; the cane arousing resentment and a stubborn refusal to submit rather than terrified compliance. The former was the reaction of a fighter, a warrior the latter that of a slave. It further confirmed the conviction that had been growing in Michael's mind that his and Bobby's fantasy game of master and slave masked a deeper reality.

It did not take Bobby long to find the bicycle carefully oiled and cleaned standing balanced on its handle bars and seat to preserve its tyres in one of the bungalow's outhouses. With some effort he managed to tip it upright and wheeling it outside into the sunlight carefully looked it over. He was mindful of Mark's instruction to see that it was ready for him to use and did not want to suffer, his bottom still smarting painfully from the cane, the consequences of what he quite rightly thought would be the result of disobeying it. (1)

He pushed the bicycle out of the yard and along the gravel path that led through dark shrubs round the side of the bungalow. He thought of riding the bicycle but dismissed the idea because the stripes across his bottom still burnt painfully. Also because of a feeling it was just not right that he should do so. Normally he would have without any thought at all cheerfully hopped onto the bike but now naked with a chain locked round his neck and a bottom freshly marked by the cane he seemed to instinctively know that this was not any longer for him. Where that feeling came from and on what it was based he could not say but it was powerful and clear.

Sometimes back in England when playing slave to Mark's master he had had a similar experience. He would know suddenly what he should do. It was like that on the beach on the last day at school when Mark through the frisbee into the sea. He knew at that moment with absolute certainty that he was to run and retrieve it and bring it back and offer it on his knees to his pretend master. It was like that now with the bike although he somehow had doubts about the 'pretend'.

All at once he was out of the dark shadow of the bushes into the bright sunlight looking out over the carefully raked gravel in front of the Bungalow to the expanse of closely mown lawn dotted with flowering shrubs sloping gently down to the slowly flowing river beyond. He could he thought was it not for the heat have been in a more than usually luxuriant and carefully tended English garden.

His sore bottom and the feel of the sun hot on his naked body and the weight of the chain about his neck reminded him brought him back to reality. He turned away from the view down to the river looking for Mark. That same instinct that had brought him to his knees at Mark's feet on the beach back in England had been given added urgency and force by his recent experience of the cane and now summoned him unequivocally to the older boy's service.

There was no sign of Mark or indeed of his friend Michael although the latter's bicycle was standing propped against the side of the bungalow to one side of the broad flight of steps leading up to the verandah. It was not the bicycle, a very modern light weight machine with multiple gears, that attracted Bobby's attention but the black boy crouched on the ground immediately behind its rear wheel. Quite naked he squatted there, his arms drawn painfully out in front of him, his wrists secured to a horizontal rod, a couple of feet long, the end part of a stout metal bracket extending over the top of the bike's rear wheel. It was to this rod that the boy's wrists were secured, locked in place by a hinged bracket specially shaped for the purpose, one of three evenly spaced along the rod's length,

The boy half knelt, half squatted on the gravel drive, his head buried between his outstretched arms his body, whether oiled or damp with sweat Bobby could not tell, glistening darkly in the sun light.

Bobby stood for a moment hesitating holding Mark's bicycle, uncertain what to do and then deciding it would make sense to park the bicycles together started to wheel it forward. The black boy hearing the approaching crunch of the bicycle tyres on the gravel raised his head and looked towards him. Bobby caught a glimpse of a small frightened face the whites of the boy's eyes contrasting sharply with the surrounding darkness. The boy stared silently at him for a brief moment. Then as flies began to settle on his raised face he buried his head once again between his extended arms.

Bobby propped the bicycle up on the opposite side of the steps and squatted down beside it. Squatted rather than sat because his sore bottom made the latter option peculiarly unattractive. Discouraged by the other boy's silence he made no attempt to speak to the young Negro but just hunkered quietly down.

The flies, that he was rapidly discovering were the inescapable curse of the African countryside, quickly sensed his presence. Despite his efforts to drive them off they swarmed about him crawling over his skin.

The black boy he could see was suffering even more from them than he was. With his hands fastened to the bracket sticking out behind the seat of Michael's bicycle he could not even try to drive them off. All he could do was to bury his head between his two extended arms in an attempt to protect his face and ears. They crawled over his back his dark skin twitching occasionally in a reflex but ineffective effort to drive them off.

Bobby had had nothing to eat since the previous evening and was very tired after a comfortless night in the cage. He squatted quietly staring out over the closely cropped lawn to the river a glistening band of silver in the middle distance and the thick scrub beyond. His mind was in turmoil as he struggled to make sense of the last twenty four hours. In that time he had gone from being welcomed at the airport with military salutes and the banner bearing presidential Rolls Royce to squatting naked, his bottom striped and burning fiercely from the cane, waiting fearfully for what the future held for him. And looking at the black boy with his bruised body and hopeless eyes that future looked distinctly unpromising.

A confused jumble of memories and impressions filled his mind; Mark greeting him at the front door of the bungalow with out stretched hand and friendly grin, the same friendly confident Mark that he knew so well and admired so strongly back at school in England; the sudden shock as he caught sight of the blond white boy only a year or so younger than himself kneeling naked on the floor, with the metal collar locked round his neck and the brand mark burnt into the side of his bottom; the growing horror as he watched Mark's cruel video's; then Simon's rape, his own abortive and shaming failure to fuck the boy, Mark rampant, his cock erect, dribbling pre-cum, his muscles rippling in his strong dark haunches as he hammered his prick home, Simon's moans and broken pleas.

How could Mark do these things. How could Mark, who was meant to be his friend, who had come and stayed at his house in the holidays, turn on him, strip him, lock him up in the dark in a cage with wild animals howling outside, and then take the cane to him. Alright sometimes back at home Mark had been a little rough with him, pulled his trousers and under pants down, put him across his knees and spanked his bare bottom. That had stung but nowhere near as bad as the cane. He had enjoyed it and Mark had too. It was fun. But the cane was not fun, not for him getting it anyway although Mark appeared to enjoy dishing it out.

How could Mark change so much and be so cruel and harsh. Perhaps it was something he had done wrong. But if it was that what was it that he had he done wrong.

There was the sound of shod feet on the wooden floor of the verandah above him.. Bobby felt a stab of fear. The black boy crouched on the ground beside him stirred and whimpered quietly.

Bobby turned and looked up and saw Mark, now fully clothed, looking down at him. A cold contemptuous smile that did not reach to his eyes curling his lips. Instinct,assisted by memories of kneeling on the sand on the beach back in England at Mark's feet and of Simon kneeling naked with his face pressed to the hall floor greeting him on his first arrival at the bungalow, took over. Without hesitation, without really thinking Bobby went forward onto his knees and bent forward pressing his face down to the ground.

Why he wondered, kneeling there felling totally helpless and vulnerable, the gravel digging painfully into his bare knees, has my prick gone hard.

Bobby knelt naked on the gravel drive his face pressed to the ground at Mark's feet. He heard the crunch of approaching footsteps.

"Looks like your white slut is well broken," Michael's voice remarked from somewhere above his head.

"Wasn't a problem a little bit of rough treatment and a touch of the cane did the trick," Mark replied. "It's like Dad says, a boy has slave blood in him he's a slave and there's no doubt bout young Bobby here."

"Eh Bobby?" he continued poking the kneeling white boy none too gently in the ribs with his toe. "Come on boy tell Mister Michael here. What are you boy?"

"Slave Mister Michael, this boy's slave Mister Michael."

Instinctively Bobby adapted the same whining diction and fractured simplified syntax of a Ngeni slut he had heard used by Isaac. Somehow he knew, just as he had known a few minutes earlier to kneel at Mark's feet, that that was the way he had now to speak and indeed to think.

Michael hearing this thought nothing of it. To him Bobby was simply talking in the way he expected a slave boy to talk. Mark though who was accustomed to Bobby speaking with the accentless clarity of the British upper middle class recognised the change and appreciated its significance. That Bobby could so quickly and easily adopt the debased argot of the Ngeni was further confirmation of his slave nature.

"If we are to go up to the lodge why," Michael asked, turning to the more important subject of Mark and his plans for the rest of the day, "don't you clamp your boy to the bracket on my bike along side my brat. It's a three boy clamp so there'll be plenty of room for both of them. Then you can ride behind and encourage them with the strap."

"Fine it'll be good exercise for young Bobby. Come on up with you slut boy."

Bobby found himself grabbed by the arm and dragged to his feet while Michael roused his own boy with a kick up the arse.

"This is Shem," Michael said slapping the naked Ngeni boy on the rump, "twelve year old. Dad's got great hopes for him as a runner and has given him to me to train so he's ready for the August meeting."

"Hang on a second I'll unclamp his wrists so you can get a proper look at him."

Michael bent to fiddle with the clamp securing Shem's wrists to the bracket behind his bicycle seat. A good proportion of the flies that had previously been crawling over Shem's bare flesh began to buzz the black youth's head.

"Bloody flies," Michael exclaimed straightening and slapping one handed at them in a vain attempt to drive them off. "Like Dad says Ngeni and flies go together. You can't have one without the other. Stand over here boy and let the young master look at you."

Mark cocked his head on one side and spent a minute or two silently studying the naked black child who stood patiently with bowed head and hands hanging loose by his sides. Bobby noticed there were two rings of raw and broken flesh round his wrists where the metal clamp had held them.

"Looks as if he might be able to run a bit," he eventually announced giving his verdict on the boy in an authoritative tone, "nicely proportioned little brute, well put together and balanced, stands well, good strong legs and well muscled rump and deep chest. Pretty promising I would say."

"Dad wants to run him over hurdles," Michael remarked, "says he's got the legs for it; nothing wrong with his ankles and knees. Dad says they are really important over hurdles. Got to put up with constant pounding and if either goes on a brat he's no use for anything and may as well be hit on the head.

Mark squatted down at Shem's feet and gripping him by his ankle lifted his right foot from the ground. He with a look of immense concentration on his face he twisted and manipulated the boy's foot forcing him to flex and bend his leg before repeating the process with his other foot.

"Very difficult to judge," he remarked pushing himself up from the ground and dusting his hands down on the side of his shorts, "seems sound enough, couldn't feel any stiffness or hear any clicking to suggest lack of flexibility."

He reached out and tweaked Shem's testicles.

"Steady boy, stand still blast you," Michael snapped as Shem started and caught his breath.

"Suppose you'll have these off," Mark remarked casually, "usual to geld a brat if you're going to run him over sticks. Gives him just that extra bit of clearance over the rails."

"Yes and Dad says cos he's my brat I've got to do the job myself."

"Cos you have Michael. It's like branding and flogging it's always best done by a brat's master or at least in his presence. Sort of thing a slave never forgets; marks the brute's mind same way as it marks its body."

"I suppose it's pretty simple you just need a sharp knife and a steady hand. Dad promised to let me watch the next time he did one but he hasn't got round to it yet."

"I think there's a bit more to it than simply cutting and slicing," Mark said thoughtfully. "We did a couple for some rich Arab prince or something down the Gulf and Dad let me watch."

"You slice into the brat's ball sack," Mark keeping a firm grip with his left hand of the trembling Shem's testicles and drew his right index finger along the base of his small hairless scrotum.

"You squeeze at the top above the cut," Mark continued suiting his gestures to his words causing the black boy to cry out, "and his balls simply pop out."

"Shut up you stupid little turd and stand still can't you. How can I explain things to your master if you're constantly fidgeting about and whimpering."

"Then you suture across his empty scrotum as near to his body as you can. Trim of any excess skin so as to make a really neat job of it and cauterize the wound. Dad used an electric soldering iron to do that."

"You should have heard the brat"s scream," and Mark laughed heartily at the memory."

"What about his prick."

"Oh that," Mark replied taking the little black tube between his finger and thumb and giving it a vicious tweak.

"You don't have to do anything with it. Just let it hang loose. It's hardly big enough to catch on anything and you can always put a wring through its tip and hitch it up like Dad's had done to Simon. On the other hand you might as well do the job thoroughly. Just cut it off as close to the brat's belly. There was surprisingly little blood the couple of times I've seen it done. You need to push a little tube well up his piss hole before you do that though and cut round it so he can still pee after the job is done. Turn the tube regularly two or three times a day while the flesh is healing round it and pull it out when that is done."

"Doesn't sound too difficult. I'll have to get on and do it. I've been putting it off in the hope Dad would give me a hand but he always seems to be too busy."

"My Dad's like that too," Mark replied sympathetically, "too busy or too tired. Tell you what though, I'll give you a hand with it if you want. We can get the gear we need up at .the big house when we go up there and do the job back here. I'm planning to sow up Simon's bottom anyway and you can help me with that. There's a good stout bench with restraints and stuff in the back yard we can use while we work on both brats."

While Mark and his friend chatted Bobby remained squatting in the shade at the bottom of the steps leading up to the bungalow's verandah. Instinctively he kept his eyes down only stealing occasional surreptitious glances at them as they stood discussing, as though it was the most normal thing, castrating Shem. He had seen enough though to recognize that the castration of Shem was mere routine to the two youths it was far from that to the naked black boy who stood trembling in front of them his eyes, their whites gleaming starkly in his dark face, wide with fear.

It amazed and frightened Bobby that they could even think of doing such a thing let alone discuss it so calmly and openly. Not perhaps Michael so much whom he had never met before and whom he recognized in a vague muddled sort of way came from a crueler and harsher culture and tradition than the soft platitudes of the West. But Mark, whom he thought he knew well, who had stayed at his parent's house, whom he had thought of as just like himself. How could he think of such a thing and discuss it so calmly.

You know," Michael remarked, "apart from the colour, seeing them together Shem's very like your boy. Same firm thighs and rump and deep chest. I wouldn't be surprised your brat would perform well over the hurdles.

Bobby suddenly found himself the centre of attention as the two youths turned to look at him. He quickly looked down but not quickly enough. He heard the crunch of approaching footsteps on gravel. He did not dare look up. He could feel Mark looming over him. He knew something bad was going to happen to him. He began to shiver uncontrollably. There was a sudden explosion of pain as Mark drove the heel of one trainer clad foot into the side of his head sending him sprawling on the ground.

"Keep your eyes down cunt boy," Mark snarled and then continued as though nothing had happened.

"Oh Bobby can run a bit,"Mark replied smiling at the memory of Bobby finishing , not first, but very well up the field, ahead of many boy's considerably older than himself in the schools cross country race the last winter term.

It had been a bitterly cold day. He remembered Bobby appearing out of the driving rain and sleet, his face contorted with effort, his legs liberally splashed with mud, his white shorts, the thin material rendered transparent by the wet, clinging close about his bottom. Then utterly exhausted in the showers, the steaming water cascading in glittering streams over his naked body, standing quiet as Mark sponged the mud from his legs. And finally back in the dormitory Bobby lying face down on his bed, half asleep, his pyjama trousers down round his ankles as Mark massaged his aching legs.

"Wouldn't be surprised if he were faster than that brat of yours," he said with a grin before adding hastily. "Though I can't castrate him, against U.K rules and anyway," he added as he saw the look of puzzlement on his friend's face. "Dad may well want to use him to cover a couple of our Ngeni breeding wenches in the hope of getting a light skinned pup or two. You know how he's always going on about wanting white slaves. It's a way of getting back for what he had to suffer as a boy."

It certainly wouldn't do to send Bobby back to his parents minus his balls Mark thought and not bad as reasons for letting him keep them; off the top,of my head too.

"Well you can always use a leather guard to protect him and force his balls up into his body. That shouldn't be a problem. They're tiny anyway. It's a pity though Dad says to get the best out of a brat over the sticks you got to crop it's balls."

"Well perhaps we can see if that is right sometime. We could race them your boy cropped; my slut entire; but that'll have to be after they've both been trained over the hurdles."

"Sure but why don't we match them now just on the flat?" Michael suggested, "down to the river and back. That would be about three miles (41/2 kilometers) all told."

".Right, there's the start line," Mark said scoring a line in the loose gravel of the drive with the toe of his trainer.

"Bobby," he continued speaking more quietly, almost whispering, and at the same time drawing the boy back to behind the starting line with a hand gripping him by the arm just above the elbow, "you heard that boy. Get your toe up to the line, down to the river, round the rock, first back here. Show Master Michael here you can run as fast as any brat. I know you can do it."

Bobby crouched down ready to start with Shem lined up beside him behind the start line. Mark released his grip of the boy's arm and began to gently massage the back of his neck still talking in that soft caressing whisper.

"And remember you are running for me Bobby. Show me what a good devoted slave brat you are Bobby. You are a lucky boy. It's your chance to prove to me you really love me the way a true devoted slave boy should love his master."

Bobby mesmerized by the low soft tones of Mark's voice tipped his head back responding to the pressure of the bigger boy's hand against the back of his neck. For a moment he forgot the fiercely burning stripes across his bare bottom, the humiliations and terrors heaped on him over the last twenty four hours, the hunger gnawing at his empty belly. Michael and the naked black boy, Shem, were banished from his consciousness. He was aware only of Mark's presence, of his hand squeezing the back of his neck, the sound of his voice gentle but softly insistent in his ears. It was as if he was back at school with Mark, alone in the darkness of the night, cuddled up close to him in the narrow single bed. The dormitory, quiet except for the soft breathing of the sleeping boys about them and the occasional rustle of movement as one of them stirred in his sleep. His hand under the blankets seeking and finding the older boy's rod happy and proud to be allowed to give pleasure to some one so much stronger and bigger than himself.

Feelings of deep gratitude and deep devotion flooded over him. He was indeed a lucky boy to be chosen by someone so strong, so darkly handsome, so quick and adapt at everything he turned his hands to. He hero worshipped Mark with all the unquestioning devotion a younger boy can give to an older, bigger and more confident companion. He had tried hard to please him and win his praises and affection back at school in England and he still wanted to do so now he was out with him in Africa. The rough treatment he had received at Mark's hands had only served to increase his love and to lace it with a heady dose of fear.

He wanted to tell Mark all this and to promise him that he would not spare himself in the race against Shem. That he would run as fast and as far as his legs and his lungs would allow him. That if he had it in him he would beat that long legged black boy.

The same instinct that brought him to his knees at Mark's feet, that had prompted him to present himself for inspection naked, head bowed, and hands clasped behind his neck, told him now that it was not for him to make long speeches protesting his devotion and readiness to sacrifice himself in Mark's service.

It was for him to prove his devotion by his actions not to protest it with empty words. But he also knew that he should give some sign, some unspoken acknowledgement of his devotion and his submission. Pushing back hard against Mark's hand gently squeezing the back of his neck he turned his head and brushed the black flesh with his lips. Mark tightened his grip silently acknowledging Bobby's unspoken homage.

"Your boy ready?" Michael's voice demanded.

"Ready."

"Right the I'll start them."

"On your marks."

"Get set. Go!"

Mark landed a hard open handed smack across the back of one of Bobby's bare thighs as the boy darted off down the short steep slope at the edge of the drive. Shem too had thrown himself at the sharply falling ground and the two boys reached the bottom of the bank, bare feet pounding the hard earth, side by side. Now the ground levelled out, falling away gently to the river shimmering silver under the hot sun just under a mile and a half away (2.25 kilometres).

Bobby had thought over his tactics for the race even while Mark was talking to him. He knew nothing about how fast or how strong the other boy was. His own successes at school, such as they were, had all been at distance running. His best chance he thought would be to postpone challenging Shem till the final mile when distance and the steadily rising ground from the river bank back to the bungalow might have been expected to have sapped his strength. Till then he would concentrate on trying to keep in touch with the other boy., running at his shoulder, constantly pushing him, wearing him down.

The grass underfoot, carefully watered, and closely cropped, was ideal for running. Shem, Bobby running just a couple of feet behind his left shoulder was moving well, setting a fair pace and showing no signs of shortness of breath. The two boy's came to the rock on the river bank and rounded it splashing though the shallow water that lapped its base sending showers of glittering drops into the air.

They began the long pull back up the gentle slope to the bungalow. Still Shem was showing no signs of fatigue. Bobby began to wonder if his plan was adequate to beat the lad. He quickened his pace and lengthened his stride. For a second or two he closed the gap on the coloured boy but then, Shem realising responded and drew ahead again. Bobby lifted his pace again and again Shem fought off the challenge. They were getting nearer and nearer to the bungalow. Bobby realised he was running out of time and distance. The bank up to the drive was just a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. Shem it seemed to him was still running easily but his own legs were aching with tiredness and his pain tore at his lungs as he fought for air.

Then he felt a spurt of hope and excitement as Shem swerved sharply to his left. Bobby could see no reason for this. An oddly shaped tree stood away to the right with a thick canopy of leaves and twisted branches shaped like an inverted saucer giving the impression of an oversized mushroom. Its branches though were spread out well clear of the ground giving plenty of room to pass under them.

Anyway he told himself it didn't matter why Shem had made this mistake, he had and it was his opportunity to catch up,and get past the other boy.

The ground under the tree was littered with broken twigs and small fragments of branches. He could feel them rough under his bare feet although they were too small to slow him down.

Glancing over to his left he could see he was running level with Shem or even perhaps slightly ahead of him. He was almost out of the shadow cast by the spreading branches of the tree under which he was running. The start of the steep bank up to the grove in front of the bungalow was only a couple of yards ahead of him.

Then as his left foot struck the ground driving him forward a searing pain coursed through his body. He half fell, recovered himself and went down again as the pain tore through him again.

He was down on his knees.

He could see Mark standing at the top of the bank looking down at him. He was shouting but the black youth's words were drowned by the roaring of blood in his head. He was running down the bank towards him unbuckling his belt as he came. It took Bobby a second or two to grasp the implications of what he was seeing. Terrified he tried to force himself back to his feet. He cried out in agony as his left foot leg buckled under him. At the same moment pain exploded across his shoulders as Mark slashed the buckle end of the belt down across his back.

Mark saw the metal clasp raked the boy's thin shoulders splitting the tightly drawn skin. Blood welled from the broken flesh and flowed down his naked back.

"Please, please, I can't .....please my foot ....," Bobby cried out.

But Mark was oblivious to his pleas without compunction or pity he swung the belt back over his right shoulder, screaming at the sobbing boy, to "run, RUN" and smashed it down a second time across the boy's already bleeding back.

So far as Mark was concerned the instincts of a master inherited from his ancestors over generations of slave ownership had taken over. All fondness or sympathy for the younger boy had vanished. At that moment Bobby had ceased to be anything more than an instrument of his will. An object to be exploited, whose failure to win the race reflected on his own honour and standing.

He had told the boy he was running for him, that it was the brat's opportunity to show his devotion and that his own honour and reputation, the honour and reputation of his owner and master, was at stake. And yet, despite all this the boy had given up showing him how little the ungrateful little turd cared or valued or respected him and even worse shaming him in front of a friend. And even worse it wouldn't stop there. He could imagine Michael recounting the story to his parents and his other friends and the laughter and giggles it would excite. General Obutu's son, the son of the President of the Republic, allowing himself to be defied by a miserable little slave brat.

And worse still Bobby had shamed him in front of Shem a Ngeni brat. If Bobby was allowed to get away with it the word would quickly spread among the Ngeni that he could be defied with impunity and his authority would be destroyed. He would, become a laughing stock and an object of contempt.

He would not tolerate it.

It didn't matter if Bobby was injured. He couldn't care a fuck he told himself if it hurt the brat to run. It would hurt the little brute a fuck sight more not to. His face contorted with rage he swung the belt back over his shoulder to lay a third stripe across Bobby's already bloody shoulders.

Bobby, who a moment or two earlier had thought he was crippled by pain somehow managed to gather his legs under him and get himself forward. Shem sensing Bobby's presence close behind him glanced back over his left shoulder. Exhausted and struggling to keep his balance as he laboured up the steep grass bank he slipped and lost his balance. Bobby, frantic to avoid a further cut across his shoulders cannoned into him and the two boys went down in a flurry of naked limbs.

They rolled down the bank and finished at its base an apparently inextricable muddle of thrashing limbs as they fought to break free of each other.

Cursing loudly Mark pivoted on his toes. Reversing the hold on his belt he lashed out at the frantically writhing bodies of the two boys, the leather strap raising dark welts indiscriminately across black and white flesh.

Michael launching himself from the top of the bank hurtled past him. Grabbing the two naked boys by their collars he ripped them apart. He stood with arms spread wide as they struggled in his grip, squealing and wriggling, trying to get at each other. Blood flowed down the side of Bobby's neck over his right shoulder and glistened darkly round Shem's mouth and chin. "Fraid you're slut is bleeding pretty bad. It looks like Shem managed to get his teeth into him before I could get them apart and the way he went down there's something wrong with his foot too. Probably a thorn he picked up running under that acacia tree,". Michael called up to Mark.

"Bugger," Mark replied, "let's have a look at him."

He scramble down the bank to stand beside Michael. The thorn in the boy's foot didn't bother him too much. It might take some getting out, acacia thorns were vicious things, very sharp and several inches long, but it could be pulled or cut out. That would be painful but cauterised with a hot iron Bobby would recover fast enough and the scar on the bottom of his foot would not show. This did not apply to the bite on the side of his neck. Taking hold of Bobby by the shoulder feeling the boy's blood warm and sticky under his hand, he turned him and tilted his head sideways to get a clear view of the wound on the side of his neck.

"It's not going to kill him," he announced, "but it may have marked him permanently. Oh shit."

Privately he thought to himself, how the hell do I explain that to his mother when I get him home after all this is over. He did not care too much about Bobby any longer. The boy had submitted too easily and too completely. There was little to distinguish him in Mark's eyes at least, apart from the colour of his skin, from Shem or any other Ngeni brat. However he had stayed at his house, been the guests of his mother and father who had both welcomed him and treated him kindly. Because of that he was obliged at the least to return the boy to them without suffering permanent physical damage.

Of course it would have been easier to ensure that if he had just been content to treat Bobby just as he would any other casual guest. Showed him some of the country and wild life, maybe if he was interested and his father agreed take him out into the bush, accompanied by a couple of rangers to see they came to no harm, for a few days. But it wouldn't have been as much fun and anyway Bobby had been asking for it for ages; looking at him with those big blue worshipping eyes of his, wriggling his tight little bum at him.

Bobby had only himself to blame. It was all his fault, just as the present problem of the wound on his neck was also. The boy, if he had had any sense at all, would not have got involved in a fight with a Ngeni slave brat like Shem. Now, as a consequence of Bobby's thoughtlessness he was landed with the long term problem of explaining to his parents what looked like being a permanent scar on his neck and also having to take time off to clean and dress the wound. He wanted to get on. He had plenty to do, Simon's bottom to stitch up for one thing, he had really been looking forward to trying his hand at that, and now everything was on hold because of Bobby's stupidity.

Mark felt anger and frustration well up inside him. Bobby, naked, trembling and on the verge of tears, cringed away from the black youth. Mark seemed to be growing larger and fiercer and if that was possible more aggressively black before his eyes.

"You stupid little cunt," Mark roared aroused to a frenzy by the terror in the boy's eyes and levelling a heavy open handed slap against the side of Bobby's head.

Caught off balance Bobby staggered and fell to his knees. Clapping a hand to his ringing ear he burst into tears. It was not so much the pain of the blow that brought the tears, though that was bad enough, but the terror and confusion and feeling of rejection, perhaps even betrayal induced by Mark's words.

"Stand up turd and get your hands down by your sides when I'm hitting you," Mark screamed loosing all restraint in the face of Bobby's abject terror.

The transition from mentor to master and acolyte to slave was all but complete. What started as a game of make believe had assumed a cruel and frightening reality. Indeed an ever crueler and more frightening reality with Mark demanding more as Bobby yielded more each feeding off the other in a Faustian pact that which seemed destined, unless broken, to destroy them both.