The White Rat 7

The White Rat – Chapter Seven

In this chapter Stephens and Larkin will both discover that even when you think things are bad already, they can always get worse; Fielding (who once again has virtually hijacked the story – maybe I should re-title it “The Blind Mouse”??) starts to line up some more victims, as well as enjoying himself with the ones he’s already got; and Osterley tries to survive the last week of term unscathed. Fat chance…

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After school Fielding made his way to the bus stop as usual and checked that Stephens was there, and when the bus arrived he followed the older boy on board and plonked himself down in the seat next to him.

“Would you like to have the chain off for a bit this weekend?” he asked.

“Yes, of c… yes, please,” said Stephens, realising that if he was sarcastic the first-year would probably not let him take the chain off after all.

“Okay. Be at the usual place at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’ll expect to find you the same as last time, naked and lying on the ground. I won’t have the key with me: I’m going to hide it somewhere before I get to you – and I’ll probably do it tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning, so there’s no point in trying to ambush me on the way tomorrow, because I won’t have the key on me. I’ll chain you to the tree with a different chain and then go and get the key for the important one, and if you’re good I’ll take the chain off you for five minutes or so. If you’re disobedient, or if you turn up late, I won’t, understand?”

Stephens mumbled that he understood: once again Fielding had anticipated his plan – he had intended waylaying the younger boy before he reached the wood, searching him thoroughly and taking the key. His week had been so uncomfortable that he had decided to take a chance on being reported to Garrett. But now he couldn’t risk it: if he attacked Fielding and didn’t find the key he was sure the boy would carry out his threat to throw the key away, and then he would have to go to a professional to get the chain removed, and he simply couldn’t face having to do that.

He’d tried to find a way to remove it himself, of course, but no matter how he manipulated himself he simply couldn’t get the chain to pass over his genitals. Obviously Fielding’s suggestion of using a blowtorch was a complete non-starter, and he didn’t think his other suggestion, using a hacksaw, would work, either, because he’d have to cut right next to his most sensitive parts, and a single slip of the blade… well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He’d tried using wire cutters – not actually on the loop, because it was too tight and he couldn’t get the jaws of the cutters round the chain – but on the last link of the bit that swung uselessly below his balls, but the cutters weren’t strong enough and barely marked the toughened steel of the chain.

He had finally managed to break that link by using a sharpened chisel and a hammer, but it had taken several blows to do it and he had damaged the chisel in the process. Of course, he’d been able to put that link on the surface of the workbench, where he could hit it in safety: the links that mattered were all nestling right against his flesh, where a chisel would be out of the question.

The best solution would obviously be to break the padlock, but he didn’t dare try: first, it was right next to his balls, and second, if he damaged it but couldn’t open it he was sure Fielding would both lose the keys and take him to Garrett, giving him the worst of both worlds. So he had abandoned his attempts for the time being, in favour of trying to catch Fielding at a vulnerable moment at take the key from him. He had hoped that this weekend would give him a chance to do so, now it seemed unlikely.

After tea that evening Fielding got a phone call from Barnett: his mother had given permission for him to come and visit over the weekend.

“It’ll have to be Sunday,” Fielding told him. “I’m going to be busy tomorrow. What about Sunday morning?”

“You can’t come in the morning, because I’ll be in church,” Barnett told him. “Hold on, I’ll ask if you can come after lunch.”

Fielding held on, and a minute or so later Barnett came back to the phone.

“You can come in the afternoon and stay for tea, if you like,” he said. “And…” He lowered his voice. “If you dress nicely and are really polite, and Mummy thinks you’re nice, I think you’ll be allowed to come and stay in the holidays. I’m not allowed to have rough boys round, though, so do your best to be good – please? I’d really like you to be able to stay.”

“So would I, so I promise to be on my best behaviour.”

“Great! Oh… I don’t know what your first name is, and I think I should if we’re going to be friends, shouldn’t I? I know from the class register that it starts with J – is it John?”

“It’s Jordan,” said Fielding. “What’s yours?”

“Charlie,” said Barnett.

“Okay, Charlie, I’ll see you on Sunday afternoon.”

Fielding hung up, thinking that Barnett’s mum sounded a bit strict: church in the morning and only well-dressed and polite friends allowed to visit. He wondered for a moment if it was worth the effort, but then he thought he might as well go and see what happened – after all, he wouldn’t have to go again if Barnett’s mother was too much to put up with.

Somebody else with things to think about that evening was Larkin, because he’d made a mistake at the end of school: he was so keen to get away from the place that he’d made a run for it the moment the final lesson ended, and as a result he had just managed to catch the bus before his usual one. It was only as the bus pulled away that he realised his mistake: he was now on a different bus from Baker, and so there was nobody to help him with his bra.

As soon as he got home he ran up to his room, threw off his blazer, tie and shirt and started desperately trying to undo the bra, but he simply couldn’t do it: he’d hurt his left arm playing rugby a week ago, and he couldn’t bend it properly – at least, not without causing himself considerable pain – and consequently it was almost impossible to undo the hooks on the bra.

He stood in front of the mirror on his wardrobe door, looking over his shoulder and trying to reach the back of the bra, and eventually, after a lot of painful contortions, he got one of the hooks undone. But the other one simply wouldn’t budge (in fact Fielding had bent it a little when putting it on for him), no matter what he tried.

And then there was a splutter of laughter from the doorway, and he turned in horror to see his little brother standing there laughing at him.

Billy Larkin was only ten, and so he was still at primary school, so he had no idea of what his older brother had been going through at school over the past week or so: he just knew that right now he looked really funny.

“Why are you wearing that?” he asked.

“Oh,” said his brother, blushing all over and struggling to find an excuse. “It’s… well… it was a dare.”

“Really? I wonder what Mum will say when I tell her you’re dressed as a girly? I’d better go and find out.” And he turned to go.

“No!” yelled Larkin desperately. “Please, Billy, don’t tell her.”

“What’s it worth?” asked his brother, grinning at him.

“Come in and close the door.”

“Tell me what it’s worth,” repeated his brother, not moving.

“Anything!” cried Larkin, desperate to avoid his mother catching him like this. “Please, Billy, close the door!”

“Anything? You swear?”

“Yes! Yes, I swear! Please, Billy....”

The younger boy grinned at him and came into the room, closing the door behind him. He advanced across the room and plonked himself down on his brother’s bed.

“Come on then, Stevie, tell me all about this dare, then,” he invited.

“Well… there’s this boy at school…” Steven Larkin’s problem was that he wasn’t very good at telling lies: he’d been brought up not to, and now he found it really difficult to lie without feeling guilty and therefore blushing or stammering. Billy, for some reason, seemed to have no difficulty telling lies at all, as well as being able to spot when his brother was telling a fib.

“Tell me the truth, Stevie, or the deal’s off and I’ll go and tell Mum,” he threatened.

“Well… okay, then: I got into trouble and this is my punishment. See, there’s this boy in my class who sneaks to the prefects, and he was the one who caught me – and if I don’t do the punishment the head boy’s going to report me to the headmaster, and then I might be expelled. So I have to wear this until the end of term. But the problem is that I can’t get it off on my own – normally there’s a boy who catches my bus who does it, but I caught the earlier bus today so I couldn’t ask him. So – could you do it for me, please, Billy?”

“Well… maybe.” The younger boy stood up and came over to where his brother was standing in front of the mirror. He reached for the catch, glanced down and caught a flash of pink: the knickers were just visible above the top of Steven’s trousers.

“It’s not just the bra, is it?” he asked.

“Yes, it is… well… okay, no.”

“Show me, then, or it stays on.”

“Look, Billy, just take the bra off. Otherwise I might have to thump you.”

“I don’t think so, not unless you want me to spill the beans. And the more you hit me, the more people I’ll tell. There are at least three boys at my school with brothers at yours – I bet they’d pretty soon make sure that everyone at your school knew about it…”

Steven’s shoulders slumped, because he knew that was true.

“Okay, then – but you’ve got to swear not to tell anyone.”

“Depends how you behave.” Billy was enjoying this: Steven wasn’t all that bad, as big brothers go, but he did tease the younger boy a lot, calling him names (‘Baby Billy’ was his favourite) and sometimes he’d ignore the younger boy completely, and sometimes he’d hit him – not that hard, but hard enough to hurt… Billy thought this was a great chance to get his own back for a whole heap of annoying behaviour on his brother’s part.

Steven realised he was stuck. He removed his shoes and socks and stood up, undoing his belt and letting his trousers fall to his ankles. Billy burst out laughing.

“You look really funny!” he said, slowly getting himself under control. “Okay, take your trousers right off and hang them up properly with the rest of your uniform, and then you can stay like that until tea’s ready.”

That would only be a few minutes, Steven thought, so he could probably survive his brother’s teasing for that long. He went and got the hanger from his wardrobe, put his trousers and blazer on it and took it back to the wardrobe to put away, and as he opened the wardrobe door again Billy spotted something on the top shelf. Oh, yes, he thought: this is perfect.

“Get the camera out,” he ordered.

“No! Absolutely not, Billy! I’m not letting you show a picture of me like this to all the kids at your school!”

“I’m not going to show it to anyone – as long as you keep your word, that is. It’s just in case you change your mind. Now give me the camera, or I’m going to see Mum.”

Once again Steven was trapped, because he knew that his mother would keep going on at him until she found out exactly what he'd done to merit this particular punishment, and there was absolutely no way he could risk that. Slowly he took down the camera, a brand-new Polaroid he had been given for his birthday just that morning, and handed it to his brother. Billy made him pose with his hands on his head and took a couple of pictures. Then he got up and went back to his own room, hiding the pictures in two separate places.

“Now I’ll take it off,” he said, once he was back in Steven’s room. “Come here.”

Steven obediently trotted across the room, and Billy wrestled with the bent hook until he finally managed to undo it. Finally the bra was off, but Steven’s ordeal wasn’t yet over.

“Now take the knickers off, and let me see your thingy,” ordered his brother.

This was a particularly satisfying moment for him: Steven had a habit of pulling Billy’s trousers and pants down when he wanted to annoy him, and sometimes he’d strip him bare and make fun of his private parts. Billy had managed to return the favour a couple of weeks ago: he’d burst in to the bathroom while Steven was in the bath and so had been able to get a good look at his brother’s body. He’d paid for it, though: Steven had been angry about it, and had hit Billy hard enough to make him cry. Revenge, thought Billy, is going to be sweet.

Of course, it was even sweeter than he had anticipated: Steven had forgotten about the pink bow, and Billy burst out laughing again, and then he noticed something else.

“What happened to the hair?” he asked.

“They cut it off as part of my punishment,” admitted his brother.

Billy fell about laughing, and then he picked up the camera again. He had to threaten Steven with passing the earlier pictures around at school before his brother finally gave in and posed for a full-frontal picture, and then one from the side, both of which clearly showed his face, his ribbon and his hairlessness.

“Okay,” said Billy, when he got back from hiding the latest pictures, “from now on you do what I tell you, or else. Kneel down.”

Steven dropped to his knees, still naked except for his ribbon.

“Swear to be an obedient slave,” demanded his brother, and reluctantly Steven swore it.

“Okay. >From now on, I’m in charge,” said Billy. “I’m going to make you strip for me every day, and I’m going to make you have your bath with the door open, so I can come and watch if I want. You’re going to give me half your pocket money every week, too. You’ll go to bed at the same time as me – you can tell Mum and Dad you’re tired, and you think it’d be a good idea if you spent longer in bed. You’ll do all my chores around the house. And when we’re on our own in the house it’ll be me in charge, not you, so you’ll have to ask my permission if you want to do anything, even if it’s just to go to the toilet, or something. Let’s see, what else… if you’re going out somewhere, on your own or with your friends, you have to ask if I want to come, too, and if I do you have to take me. And…”

Steven’s heart sank further and further as Billy’s catalogue went on. He wished he hadn’t been given a camera for his birthday – all in all, this had been the worst birthday ever.

On Saturday afternoon Fielding set out for the wood. He hadn’t in fact hidden the key in advance: instead it was on his wrist, tucked between a towelling wristband and his watch. He was confident that Stephens wouldn’t dare ambush him unless he was certain of finding the key, and he was right: when he got to the usual place he found Stephens naked and lying on the ground as ordered.

“Good boy,” he commented. “I’m glad you decided to be sensible. If you go on being good I’ll definitely take the chain off you for a bit later on. Now, kneel down with your back to the tree and I’ll show you something you’re going to need to do for me sometimes…”

Stephens backed up against the tree on his knees, and Fielding tied his hands securely behind the tree.

“Okay,” he said. “Now you’re going to learn how to suck on a thingy. I bet that’s something Page Seven Boy would like you to do for him, isn’t it? Actually, I looked at the magazine properly, and apparently his name is Nils, so we won’t have to call him Page Seven Boy any longer. Anyway, open your mouth and I’ll explain what you have to do.”

Stephens gaped at him. “Are you serious?” he asked. “There’s no way I’m letting you put your knob in my mouth.”

“Okay, then. I’ll just go and throw the key in the river, shall I?”

“No! No, please don’t… but… come on, Fielding, you can’t seriously expect me to let you put it in my mouth. It’d probably make me ill…”

“No, it won’t. I bet you’d do it for Nils, wouldn’t you?”

“No!”

“Well, you’re going to do it for me. Open wide…”

Fielding pushed his jeans down to his knees, lowered his pants and flourished his stiff penis in Stephens’s face. Stephens stared at it.

“Gosh, it’s big, isn’t it?” he said. “I reckon you and Nils would be almost the same size… maybe his is a little bigger, but not much.”

“Good, then if you close your eyes you can pretend I’m him, and then maybe you won’t mind so much. Now open up, or I’ll whip you and then throw the key away.”

Stephens could see no way out of this, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and he felt Fielding’s hot, hard organ slide in between his lips.

“Now close your lips – keep your teeth out of the way – and suck on it. Yes, that’s nice… now lick it, too… and now slide it into and out of your mouth… yes, right, but keep licking and sucking at the same time… brilliant! Keep going like that.”

Stephens did as he was told, torn between disgust and shame on the one hand and a sort of reluctant excitement on the other. He’d never fantasized about doing this with Nils or anyone else: he’d never even imagined that such a filthy act was even possible. But if he really had a boyfriend like Nils, and if Nils had asked him to do this… maybe he would have been prepared to give it a try. So he did exactly what Fielding told him to, and Fielding held his head, and Stephens fantasized that it was Nils who was holding his head and stroking his hair…

This turned out to be a mistake: he began to get an erection, and with the chain still on it hurt. He gave a muffled gasp of pain, and Fielding looked down and saw what the problem was.

“Oh, dear, maybe I’m too much like Nils,” he said, grinning. “Hard luck – and don’t let it interfere with what you’re doing, ‘cos you’re doing it pretty well.”

So Stephens had to try to ignore the pain and keep going, but it was a lot more difficult with the distraction of an aching penis. Fielding helped him a bit by not trying to draw the process out, and eventually he reached his orgasm, pulling Stephens’s head hard against him as it happened. At last he let go, stepped back and pulled up his pants and jeans.

“Not bad, for a first effort,” he commented. “I reckon Nils would come back for more – and I’m certainly going to. Now, let’s see – do you think you deserve to have the chain off for five minutes?”

“Please,” begged Stephens, hating the desperation in his voice but unable to stop it. “I’ve done what you told me. Please take it off.”

“Well… okay, then.”

Fielding untied Stephens’s hands and ordered him to lie on the ground with his feet against the tree. Then he took another length of chain from his bag, looped it round the tree and padlocked the other end securely to Stephens’s left ankle. Then he trotted off into the wood, waited three or four minutes to give the impression that he was retrieving the key from a hiding place, and then strolled back holding it in his hand. He was also holding a birch switch he had cut.

“Right, now here are the rules,” he said, squatting down beside Stephens and inserting the key into the little padlock. “You can have the chain off for… let’s say ten minutes. That’ll give you time to rub yourself and think about Nils. At the end of that time you’ll let me put the chain back on – I’ve left the key to the lock round your ankle in the wood, so if you try anything you won’t get it back and you’ll be stuck here. And I’ll also whip you and go on whipping you until you obey me, and as you know you’ll have to in the end if you don’t want to be chained to that tree all weekend, you’d be sensible just to do what I tell you. Okay, your ten minutes start… now.”

He unlocked the padlock and removed the chain, and Stephens cradled his sore genitals gratefully. It felt brilliant to have an erection without the chain digging into the base of it, and to start with his simply held himself, feeling the temporary indentations left by the chain in his flesh.

“Fielding… I don’t suppose you’d let me do this in private, would you?”

“Don’t be stupid. This is going to be fun. Just close your eyes – I won’t say anything, so you can either pretend I’m Nils, or that there’s nobody here at all, whichever you like. But you’ve only got eight minutes left, so you’d better get on with it.”

Stephens hadn’t really expected a different answer, but he still felt uncomfortable masturbating in front of an audience. But this was likely to be the only chance he’d get to do so for at least another week, so he took hold of himself and started to rub it. At first he kept his eyes closed, but once he was well on the way he opened them to see what Fielding was doing. The younger boy was staring at his groin and smiling widely.

“You’ve got loads of time yet,” Fielding told him. “Slow down a bit. I like watching you do this.”

Obediently Stephens slowed down, feeling even dirtier than he had before: this was supposed to be a private activity, which was shameful enough when done in total privacy; out here in the open in front of a much younger boy it was utterly humiliating. But he kept going, knowing that he would only get this one chance for relief, and he hoped that maybe his thing wouldn’t go hard quite so often if he managed to unload some of his sperm.

“It’s coming,” he reported, and Fielding squatted down beside him to watch the final moments. Two or three spurts of whitish ejaculate burst from Stephens’s penis and splattered onto his chest and stomach, before petering out into a dribble that bridged the gap between the end of his foreskin and his groin.

“Let go and put your hands behind your head,” ordered his master, and Stephens obeyed. His erection disappeared and his penis subsided into the puddle underneath it.

“It’s really small when it isn’t sticking up, isn’t it?” commented Fielding. “Okay, ready for the chain again?”

“No, please don’t,” begged Stephens, piteously. “I’ve done everything you’ve told me – please can’t you just let me go now?”

“God, no – this is brilliant fun. We’re going to do this loads of times. Now, are you going to behave, or will I have to whip you?”

He started to wrap the chain around Stephens’s balls, but Stephens simply couldn’t face it. He shoved Fielding off and snatched at the chain, at the same time wrenching at the other chain around his ankle. The he lurched to his feet.

Fielding rolled away, stood up and gripped his whip, and when Stephens showed no signs of obeying him he swung it hard. It hit Stephens’s thigh and drew a yell of pain: Fielding wasn’t holding back. He swung again and again, hitting Stephens on the buttocks and on the ribs as the older boy tried to put the tree between them. Fielding simply followed him round, hitting him again and again, and skipping back out of range when Stephens tried lunging for him. After a dozen or so blows Stephens’s spirit failed, and he hunched down at the base of the tree, covering his head with his hands and sobbing.

“Now get back where you were and lie on your back,” Fielding ordered, and Stephens, crying and with spunk smeared into and running down his body, obeyed.

“Now keep still, or I’ll beat you till the whip breaks and then go and leave you here,” demanded his master.

Stephens hurt too much to fight any more, so he lay submissively and allowed Fielding to wrap the chain around his genitals once more. Once it was in place Fielding checked that it was tight enough and then ordered him to stand up, which he did, his head bowed.

“That was stupid,” Fielding told him. “I’ve warned you what would happen if you disobeyed. Obviously you still haven’t learned who’s in charge here. Bend over and touch your toes, and if you straighten up I’ll start again.”

“No, please don’t hit me any more,” begged Stephens. “I swear I won’t do it again… please, Fielding, I’m really sorry…”

“Too late. Now bend down or you’ll get twelve instead of six.”

Sobbing, Stephens bent over and Fielding whipped his bum, hard and accurately, six times. Stephens howled and clutched at himself, but managed not to straighten up until the six blows were over.

“Good – maybe you’re learning after all,” said Fielding. “Stand up straight and let me look at you.”

Stephens was a mess: his body was smeared with his own semen, there were angry red marks on his bum, legs, back and chest, and his eyes were swollen with crying. There was a trail of snot underneath his nose, running across his lips. Fielding looked at his victim, feeling absolutely wonderful: this was real power, he thought. He was aware that he had an erection again, and briefly thought about making Stephens suck it once more; but then he decided that the older boy had probably taken all he could for one day.

“Okay,” he said, rummaging in his bag and finding the packet of tissues he had brought with him. He handed the packet to Stephens. “Clean yourself up a bit, and then you can get dressed, except for your shoes and socks. I’m going to hide the key. I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson, but I’m still not taking any chances.”

He unlocked the ankle padlock and tucked the chain into his bag, then strolled off into the woods and waited a few minutes. By the time he got back Stephens was standing waiting for him, dressed apart from his footwear, his head bowed submissively.

Fielding tucked Stephens’s socks into his shoes and chucked them into a thick bramble bush. “See you on the bus on Monday,” he said, trotting off along the path. He knew that he would get enough of a start to be out of range by the time Stephens had retrieved his footwear, but he didn’t hang about, all the same. It had been a brilliant day so far, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

The following afternoon he put on his best clothes – his only pair of long trousers (other than his jeans), a clean blue shirt and his school shoes, neatly polished – and rode his bike over to Barnett’s house. Barnett himself opened the door, wearing a big smile and a set of clothes that made him look about seven: a pair of pale yellow shorts, little white ankle socks, sandals and a white tee shirt with a picture of the Road Runner on the front.

“Come in, Jordan,” he invited, the smile getting even bigger. “I’m really glad you came… come and meet Mummy.”

'Mummy’ was at work in the kitchen, and didn’t look quite like the dragon Fielding had expected, though she looked him over in a way that made him feel a bit like a new recruit in front of a particularly critical sergeant-major. But apparently he passed muster, because after a moment she smiled at him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jordan,” she said. “Charlie’s told me all about you.”

I bet he hasn’t, thought Jordan, keeping his smile in place.

“Right, Charlie, take Jordan up to your room and play quietly,” she went on. “Or you can go and play in the garden, if you like.”

Jordan noted that the garden was just outside the kitchen window, which meant that she would be able to keep an eye on them while they were outside, and so was quite glad when Barnett said that they would go up to his room to start with.

Barnett’s bedroom was a bit smaller than Fielding’s own, and, like Barnett’s clothes, gave the impression of belonging to a much younger boy: there was a battered teddy-bear on the bed (which Fielding thought was OK – his own teddy still sat beside his bed, though he didn’t actually take it to bed with him any more), but there were quite a lot of other soft toys sitting on the cupboard beside the bed, and the pyjamas folded up on the pillow were decorated with cartoon ducks. And there wasn’t a single toy soldier or tank in sight: Fielding’s own floor was scattered with them. In fact, Barnett’s floor had nothing on it at all except for a rug beside the bed and a small litter bin beside the desk. Nor were there any posters on the walls. And the curtains were actually pastel pink, though maybe Barnett hadn’t been responsible for choosing that colour.

“So – what would you like to do?” asked Barnett, sitting on the bed and bouncing on it.

“I don’t know… have you got any soldiers?”

Barnett shook his head. “I’m not allowed things like that,” he said. “I’ve got some cars, though – would you like to see?”

He opened a cupboard and produced a number of Corgi and Dinky cars, which at least looked battered enough to suggest that they got some proper use, and so for a while they played an impromptu game of car chases. This lasted until Barnett overenthusiastically crashed one of his cars into the rubbish bin, at which point his mother called up the stairs for them to play more quietly.

“We’d better put them away,” said Barnett. “I’ve got some board games – shall we play Snakes and Ladders?”

They did that, and later they went out into the garden and threw a ball to each other. By tea time Fielding really did feel as if he had somehow acquired a little brother: Barnett seemed to be trying his hardest to keep his guest happy, agreeing with everything Fielding suggested.

“Charlie tells me you know some of the senior boys at your school,” Mrs Barnett said as they sat down for tea. “He says you spend some of your time helping them. Is that right?”

“Well, I run errands for the Head Boy sometimes.”

“You know Marcus Garrett?”

Fielding nodded. “Sometimes he gets me to help out with stuff,” he said.

“Really?” She looked sceptical. “I know his mother – I expect I’ll be seeing him at Parents’ Evening tomorrow night, too.”

“I’ll be helping him with that as well,” said Fielding, who had already volunteered his services to Garrett.

“I’ll see you there, then,” she said, looking marginally less sceptical.

And the following evening she did indeed see him there: he’d had a word with Garrett and arranged to take charge of the collection of boys in detention and other miscreants (including most of those he had helped to catch) who would be acting as guides and runners. Garrett sat in the classroom nearest the gates, greeting each parent on arrival and offering the services of a guide to show them where each teacher was stationed.

When Mrs Barnett arrived with her husband she said hello to Garrett and asked where her son’s form teacher was to be found. Garrett nodded at Fielding, who was marshalling the runners, and Fielding promptly snapped out, “Larkin – take this lady to 1C’s form room. I think you know where it is…”

Larkin, who wished he had no reason to know where 1C’s form room was, stepped forward and led the Barnetts away, and Fielding noticed that Mrs Barnett looked at him and smiled before they left. Later in the evening she came back on her own, spoke quietly to Garrett, watched Fielding issuing instructions to boys a lot older than he was for a couple of minutes, and then took him to one side.

“Marcus says you’re very responsible for your age, and I can see it’s true, the way those big boys do what you tell them straight away,” she said. “Charlie says you’d be prepared to baby-sit for him while we’re out. I didn’t think you’d be suitable at first – after all, you’re the same age he is – but now that I’ve seen you and spoken to Marcus about you I’ve changed my mind. So I know this is very short notice, but we’re going out on Wednesday evening, and we’d like you to look after Charlie while we’re out. Will you be able to?”

“I think so. I’ll have to ask my parents, but I should think I can – as long as Charlie knows I’m in charge, that is. As you say, he might not want to take orders from someone in his own year.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he knows he has to do what you tell him. Don’t take any nonsense from him – if he doesn’t do what you say he’ll be in trouble when we get home. But I don’t think he’ll misbehave: he’s normally a good little boy.”

“Okay,” said Fielding, trying not to smile. “I’ll phone you when I get home and let you know if I can come. I’ve got your number.”

Ten minutes later another lady came over to talk to him, a tall woman with her grey hair in an elaborate wave, and with a cigarette in her hand. She too had been talking to Garrett.

“My name is Helena Baxter-Cauldwell,” she told him, apparently expecting this to mean something to him. It didn’t, so he said nothing, and after a moment she went on, “Marcus Garrett says he relies on you to motivate a lot of the older boys into behaving properly, and I’ve watched you in action for a while this evening. I can’t really understand how you do it, but it obviously works, whatever your secret is.

“My problem is that I have a son, Philip, who’s in the Lower Sixth. He’s lazy: he scraped through his O levels, but he won’t get to a decent university unless he works a lot harder next year, and I can’t seem to find any way to get him to work. Marcus thinks you might be able to find a way, and because I can’t think of anything else to try, I’d like you to see what you can do. You’ll have absolute control: do whatever it takes to get him working. I’ll be happy to pay you – based on results, of course. His exam results last term were dreadful, and all of the teachers think he’s going to fail his A’s. Get him working again if you can, and if his results at the end of next term are better, I’ll pay you £50.”

£50! That was a huge sum of money to an eleven-year-old boy, and Fielding nearly fell over himself accepting the challenge. The idea of being paid to bully and dominate a sixth-former was brilliant, and he already had a pretty good idea of how it could be achieved…

Fielding’s appointments book was getting quite crowded: now he had Barnett and the hitherto unknown Philip Baxter-Cauldwell to order about outside school, as well as Stephens, and of course during school time he was busy with Larkin. This didn’t leave him quite so much time to go looking for new wrongdoers, but he did his best to do a certain amount of checking of toilets and bike sheds, even though this was now the last week of term. He had no reason to think things would be any different after the Easter holidays: this was his first year, after all, and he didn’t know how the school operated, and, unlike Little Collins, he didn’t have an older brother to keep him informed. But Little Collins knew what was going to happen after the holidays, and that was one reason why Ian Osterley looked a lot happier this week.

Little Collins had been round to visit him on the Saturday, dressed as he had promised in shorts (though he wore pants underneath his), and the two of them had spent most of the day going for a long walk in the country, during which they had more or less behaved themselves, and the latter part of the afternoon in Osterley’s bedroom, where they hadn’t: they’d stripped and wrestled and, eventually, wanked each other off. And it was after that that Little Collins had given his friend the glad tidings.

Of course, he still had to survive the final week, and the end of term prefects’ meal on Thursday evening promised to be particularly humiliating, but he thought he could get through it. On the Monday he managed to avoid Pope’s forces altogether by dint of arriving at school at the very last moment and then staying in his own form room at break and lunch time: the teasing of his own classmates was infinitely preferable to what Pope would do to him, given half a chance. On the Tuesday he had music last lesson before lunch and so was able to hide out in one of the practice rooms with Little Collins, as he had the previous week. And on Wednesday he got lucky with the weather; it rained on and off all day, so everyone stayed in his own form room during the breaks. But Thursday… Thursday was always going to be a problem.

The end of term prefects’ meal was held on the last Thursday evening of the Easter term, and by tradition it was organised and run by the prefects themselves. There would be a teacher on duty in the teachers’ common room in case of emergency, and of course there were adult workers in the kitchen, but there would be no adults present in the dining hall, which was exclusively occupied by the prefects – and their waiters. Or, in the case of this year, waitresses: Garrett had coerced a number of the term’s wrongdoers into attending the meal, and they would be dressed accordingly. Osterley wasn’t looking forward to it, but a much bigger problem was going to be working out what to do with himself between the end of school at four o’clock and the start of the meal at six thirty. He lived too far away, and his bus service was too erratic, for it to be feasible to go home in the meantime, so he would have to do something else, such as going into town and reading in the library – if he could get out of school unnoticed.

Because, of course, Thursday was also Games Day, and the previous Thursday he had been ambushed on the way out of the Games Hall, and he was determined to avoid a repeat of last Thursday evening’s horrors at the back of the rifle range. He knew it was no good trying to escape via the teachers’ door: Pope’s army had watched it last week and would no doubt do so again. He supposed he could just go out the front with everyone else and hope his own classmates would stick up for him – though he was very much afraid that they wouldn’t, given the amount of stick he was still taking about his shorts.

So he did the only other thing he could think of: once he had got changed he slipped into the equipment store, intending to hide until everyone had gone. Once the teacher turned off the lights and locked up he reckoned Pope’s crew would think they’d missed him and disperse, and he would be able to slip out of a window and make his way quietly and unopposed into town.

And it very nearly worked, and it would have done if it hadn’t been Mr Day on duty. Mr Day was young and conscientious, and so when he did his rounds to lock up after all the boys had gone he actually opened all the cupboards and checked everywhere, and so he found Osterley lurking in the equipment room.

“What are you doing here, Osterley?” he asked.

“I’m… I’m trying to avoid someone, Sir.”

“Well, you’ll have to avoid them somewhere else. Come on, boy, shift: I need to lock up.” And he ushered Osterley out of the front door, and straight into the arms of Pope and his gang, who had almost given up – almost, but, unfortunately for Osterley, not quite. Once again he was frogmarched down to the rifle range, but this time Pope had gone one better: one of his gang had managed to pop the lock to the range using a penknife. He was shoved inside and pushed over to the raised section where those shooting used to lie.

“Come on, Pope,” begged Osterley, “haven’t I been through enough of this? You know you won’t be able to do this stuff next term, don’t you, unless you want to get into real trouble.”

“That’s why we’re making the most of it now,” said Pope. “This will be our last chance to have some fun with you, and we’ve got… oh, I reckon you haven’t got to be at the meal for another two hours and twenty minutes. Plenty of time for lots of stuff, don’t you think?”

“How do you know about the meal?”

“The Rat told us. He said he’ll try to get to come and watch in a bit, but we might as well start without him. Strip him, boys!”

Osterley struggled, but once again he was hopelessly outnumbered: this time Pope and Harwood had been able to do a little advance planning, and so even more of their friends had been able to make arrangements to stay after school. Tonight there were eleven second years and nine first years in attendance, and that gave Osterley no chance at all. To make matters worse, one of Pope’s friends had a Polaroid camera, and everyone had chipped in with some money to buy a couple of films for it. Osterley hadn’t actually spotted the camera yet: so far he was too busy trying to hold on to his shorts.

Pretty soon he lost the battle and found himself naked, being held upright by a couple of hefty second year boys while everyone pointed at him and laughed. He still didn’t realise there was a camera present until the flash went off, and the he redoubled his efforts to get free, but to no avail. The boys holding him dragged him to the raised platform and forced him to lie face down across the edge of it.

“Who wants to go first?” asked Pope, flourishing a heavy leather belt he had pinched from his father’s wardrobe.

The predictable scrum followed, ending only when one of the second years laid claim to the belt and took up position behind Osterley’s bum. Everyone else stood back to watch.

“Just one each to start with,” said Pope. “We don’t want him passing out on us. But you can make it good and hard.”

The second year obliged, and Osterley squealed and bucked, but the boys holding him down – and there were four of them now – help him firm. The boy with the belt passed it on, and a second boy made the most of his moment in the spotlight by swinging the belt as hard as he could, drawing another yell from their victim.

David arrived just after the fifth blow had landed. “Carry on,” he invited them. “I’m just here to watch.” He leant on the wall behind Osterley’s bum and grinned as the next boy delivered his blow, and the next, and the next…

After all twenty boys had hit him Osterley was hurting far too much to struggle any more, crying openly and clutching at his sore bum when they finally released his arms. When he was given the choice of posing for half a dozen obscene photographs or being given another hundred blows with the belt he chose the photos, and the juniors had fun dreaming filthy and humiliating poses for him. Close-ups of his genitals and anus were taken, and he was made to pose holding himself and apparently wanking, squatting as if to shit and actually urinating (he was taken outside for that one). Of course, Pope knew there was a lot worse to come, so he limited the use of the camera: he wanted the film kept for the real action later on.

Next Osterley was tied to one of the wooden pillars that help the roof up, his back to the pillar and his arms firmly lashed behind it, and all the boys took it in turns to molest him, making him get an erection and then slapping it, twisting it, pulling it, forcing it down and then releasing it to slap into his body, and so on. By the time everyone had had a go it was really hard, and then – once a couple of photos had been taken – Pope picked up the belt again.

“We all know he’s a pervert,” he told them, “and perverts should be punished appropriately. Like this.” And he swung the belt hard against Osterley’s stiff penis.

Osterley yelled and struggled, but he was tied far too tightly. One by one the boys whipped his penis with the belt, and a couple of them hit his exposed balls, too, which was agony to him. By the time the tenth boy had hit him they had been forced to stuff his socks into his mouth to muffle his screams.

By the time everyone had had a go – and even Little Collins had been forced to ply the belt in order to maintain his cover – tears were streaming down Osterley’s face, and his penis was covered in black marks. The foreskin had been pulled right back, and the exposed head was also bruised and agonisingly sore. But Pope had barely started: next he ordered their victim to be cut free and bent over the firing platform once more, and once he was in position Pope pulled down his own trousers and pants, revealing an eager erection.

“Now we get to show him what happens to perverts,” he said, rubbing a little lubricant onto himself and lining up.

The boys who had not been there the previous week gasped and stared, though none of them raised the least protest. Pope forced his way in, and Osterley gave a muffled cry once more: not only did this hurt in itself, but now his aching penis – with the sensitive head still exposed – was being crushed against the rough wood of the firing platform.

Pope fucked him steadily, crying out in ecstasy as he came, and them wiped himself down, pulled up his trousers, picked up the belt, swung it against Osterley’s bum, and turned to the crowd.

“Who’s next?” he asked, and once again a clamour of voices erupted.

In the end he got everyone who wanted a go lined up in alphabetical order of surname. Some of the first years abstained: Barnett wasn’t there tonight, though his friend Sadler was and he declined the invitation; and a couple of the second years also decided not to reveal their shortcomings in public. Little Collins, of course, had no wish to take part, and David himself had no intention of undressing in front of anyone. But that still left fourteen boys who were prepared to give it a try, even though some of them were not big enough to be able to do it properly.

From Osterley’s point of view it was still horrible: even the smaller boys ground his penis against the platform, and the bigger ones hurt his bum as well. Fielding (who had been quite happy to sit back this time and let Pope run things) was of course big enough to cause him substantial discomfort, and so were some of the second-formers. The only plus point was that this took quite a long time: even before everyone had fucked him some of the boys were leaving, having to get home for supper, with the result that when it was finally over and he was dragged outside, there were only a dozen boys left to urinate all over him – which they did, this time soaking him all over, including his face and hair.

Finally they all trooped off, leaving him lying on the ground groaning. David and Fielding stayed with him, because now it was only about twenty minutes before the prefects’ meal was due to start, and they wanted him on his feet and ready to go by then. But Osterley seemed incapable of even standing up.

“He’s faking it,” said David, kicking him.

“I don’t think so,” said Fielding, squatting down and peering at him. “I think he’s seriously messed up.”

“Well… okay, let’s leave the bloody pervert here, then. We’ve got enough waitresses without him. But he can damned well stay here until we’ve finished - I don’t see why he should be allowed to sneak off home.” And David went back into the range and collected all Osterley’s clothes, stuffing them into his bag.

“You can wait inside the range,” he said. “We’ll bring your clothes back when the meal is over. Try not to play with yourself too much.” And he stood up and walked away.

Fielding followed him, wondering if maybe they had gone too far this time: Osterley looked in real pain. If he complained, there would be trouble… still, probably not for him, he thought. After all, it was David who had masterminded Osterley’s punishment, and Pope who had carried it out. He was confident that, whatever else happened, it wouldn’t be Jordan Fielding who got the blame.

Once they had left, Little Collins emerged from behind the cadet hut and ran back to the range. He had left with the others and then doubled back once the group had dispersed outside the school grounds. He knelt down beside his friend.

“They’ve all gone,” he said. “Can you stand up?”

Osterley groaned and used his friend’s body to help him struggle to his feet. He felt wet and cold, his penis felt as if it was about to fall off, and his arse ached far worse than it had the first time he had been subjected to this. He tottered back into the building, using Little Collins as a crutch, and sat down on the platform, immediately rolling onto his side: his bum hurt too much when he sat on it.

“They’ve taken my clothes,” he stammered. “The Rat said he’ll bring them back after the meal, but that could be hours, Bertie… I’m cold, and it hurts…” and he started to cry again.

“Wait here,” said Little Collins, taking off his blazer and draping it over Osterley’s shoulders. “I’ll see if I can get your clothes back.”

He made his way up to the dining hall, waited until noise from within suggested that things were getting under way, and then started to check the rooms on the level above the hall. The third room he looked into proved to be the temporary dressing room: there were a number of uniforms in various sizes scattered about. The ubiquitous labels helped him to establish that none of the clothes in plain view belonged to Osterley, but the Rat had left his bag in the same room, and eventually Little Collins got around to checking it and found what he was after. He made his way back to the range, where he found Osterley still sitting shivering; he had folded the blazer up and put it down next to him.

“I didn’t want to get pee on it,” he explained, his arms wrapped around himself. “My hair’s still dripping, I think.”

“God, you’re stupid. Do you really think I’d care about a bit of pee on my clothes if it stopped you getting pneumonia? Anyway, I’ve got you some paper towels from the toilet. Do what you can with them and then get dressed, and then you’re coming home with me for a hot bath. I live a lot closer than you do.”

Osterley tried to argue, but Little Collins insisted, and so Osterley did as he was told, gratefully. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life, and he really thought that if Little Collins hadn’t been there he would simply have gone out into the street and thrown himself under a bus.

Half an hour later he was lying in a hot bath at Little Collins’s house, his friend sitting on the side of the bath and pouring warm water over him, and he was starting to feel a little better. He’d found and removed a splinter that had been stuck into the underside of his penis, and his bottom felt a lot better now that he had had some time to recover; and having his friend there to look after him helped as well. And as his spirits rose a little he swore an oath: one day he was going to make the Rat suffer the way he had, only worse. And maybe he’d get a chance to do that sooner than the Rat was expecting…

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Bad news for the Rat there, especially as he still hasn’t seen the flaw in his plans… In the next chapter we’ll backtrack to the start of the week, to catch up with Larkin’s troubles at home and at school and to see how Fielding’s career as a babysitter gets off the ground. And maybe we’ll get to see a bit more of David himself in the next chapter: the roof is about to fall in on him, and there are a lot of people looking forward to being there when it happens.

So, is it still ringing your bell? You know where I am by now (though of course that doesn't mean I won't remind you again that the address is gothmog@nyms.net ) so by all means let me have your reactions.

Copyright 2009: all rights reserved. Please do not reprint, repost or otherwise reproduce this or any part of it anywhere without my written permission.

David Clarke