PIETER'S BARROW

BY LOWLIFE
lowlife_@fastmail.fm

[ part 3 ]

Sunday Night

When he backed the Passat up to the door, she was already bundled up safely inside the blanket and he placed her gently in the trunk for the fifteen minute drive, away from the lights and noise of the promenade to the deserted dunes a few kilometres up the coast from the bustling Dutch seaside town.

Though it was now dark, Pieter could see his destination as soon as he pulled off the coast road on to the sand track that wound through the low hillocks: a derelict wartime coastal defence bunker that formed two sides of a small square. Completing the square were a motley assortment of ancient camper vans, tents and improvised shacks made of pallets and canvas. In the centre, an open fire of piled driftwood provided warmth and illumination for the half-dozen or more beach bums and drifters who had descended on this remote spot for the summer. It was a good location - there was a freshwater standpipe against the wall of the old bunker and the ever-tolerant local police had a tacit understanding with the travellers that meant they were untroubled provided they kept to themselves and didn't bother the locals or paying tourists.

He had discovered the encampment late the previous summer: one of the casuals who worked for the parks department had landed there and Pieter had gone back one night out of curiosity. He had located it again shortly after arriving in Katwijk for this summer and had been made welcome by the current assortment of oddballs who lived there. Bringing a case of cheap plonk and slab of canned beer had helped.

Though it went against the grain, for everything Pieter did was meticulously planned and calculated in the finest detail, this year he had decided to take a great risk and carry out a practical experiment: sharing. Which meant on Sunday nights, when he joined the guys around the fire for a drink and a spliff or two, he now brought along something else to make the party go with a bang.

The idea came to him over the winter and he had tested the water in the first couple of drunken evenings in June, waiting until the drink and grass had taken effect and then dropping into the conversation some comment about how much more fun it would be with a bit of skirt. Of course this opened the floodgates to much ribald banter but the next time he was more scientific, subtly leading the collective imagination, drawing out from the group their attitudes and preferences, and testing their morals. Even more discreetly, he also sounded out each one of them in separate boozy chats before making his decision: it would indeed be fascinating to see what happened if her shared her with his drinking buddies.

He had not been disappointed so far, with her first four Sunday Nights.

He parked and carried the bag of booze towards the fire. His real purpose was to check who was there tonight, for he was careful to share his secret with only the core long-term residents. Had there been any newcomers or drifters passing through, he would have left her in the boot of his car. It had happened three weeks before and then he followed Plan B: dropping off the booze and simply taking the Belgian guy back to the caravan site, where just the two of them had fun with her until the early hours.

But a quick survey of the men lolling around the campfire reassured him, as he greeted them and chucked a can to each.

"Yo, brother," drawled the thirty-something wannabe West Coast surfer from Delft, who had the orange VW camper van. "Brought the little pussy with you?"

The men chuckled and guffawed. Pieter laughed.

"But of course, my friend. She's not eaten for two days and is hoping you might let her earn a few scraps."

He set the cans and bottles down and dragged a PVC chair closer to the fire and sat, grinning around at the assortment of scruffy men. All the regulars were there, as he hoped and expected: the fat Belgian pisshead who shared his own sexual tastes almost to the letter and who was the only one of them to feature in both Plans A and B; Dude, the surfer who had asked him about the girl; and that unpleasant rat-faced biker from Bavaria, who pretended not to be interested yet who always ended up taking her away for ten or fifteen minutes and then sat there with a smug grin for the rest of the night. There were the two big Scandinavian dopeheads whom he hoped might repeat last week's cabaret; the spotty teenager, Sonny, with the pup tent and rusty Ford Taunus; and of course Griff, the de facto leader of the group, sprawled majestically in his ripped and faded denims across the remains of a car's rear seat, nursing a can and drawing periodically on a massive joint.

The men chuckled and Griff nudged the impromptu barbecue grill with his boot. It was made out of the side of a supermarket trolley, and was nestling amid the embers at the edge of the crackling fire. Some charred shapes that may once have been meat were stuck to the metal grid.

Sharing centre stage with the fire in the centre of the encampment was a large wrought-iron table, no doubt liberated from outside a seafront cafe somewhere nearby.

Before Pieter collected the girl from the car, he reached in his pocket and tossed a handful of condoms on the tabletop.

"Just a reminder, gentlemen. The usual rules apply: do whatever you like but her cunt stays out of bounds, if you want a blow job be kind to her and have a rinse under the standpipe first and if you want to take her up the ass, please use one of these. Other than that, just have fun and remember don't give her any food unless you're satisfied she's earned it. Enjoy!"

There was a spontaneous cheer.

The night breeze coming off the sea whipped up under the short skirt of the cheap, white summer dress he had found for her on the market and the welts on her bottom stung when the skin had broken out in goose pimples. She was of course naked beneath. The wind permeated the thin fabric and her immature nipples shrivelled and hardened. Her heart was pounding with fear and her large, sad eyes were already rheumy with tears. She waited as he attached the chain to her dog collar and followed him miserably as he made the usual theatrical entrance.

Pieter stood back and adjusted her plaits. The final touch was to hand her a grubby teddy bear he had rescued from a bin a while before: it hung limply from her hand, as forlorn as the girl herself. She looked so frail and small and young and virginal and just begging to be harshly abused.

The girl scanned around anxiously, noting which men were gathered around the fire and associating each with her memory of what they had done to her before. She saw the one with the narrow eyes and leather jerkin and shuddered. He scared her the most.

Pieter cleared his throat and she suddenly remembered she had to curtsey before the grizzled older man on the car seat. He grinned at her and held out his hand and he pulled her to him and gathered her up and plonked her across his lap, sitting the small stuffed bear alongside him with a chuckle.

"Hello, princess, come and have a drink with Uncle Griff."

She choked and spat out the beer he tried to pour into her mouth and fought hard to suppress the tears as his rough hand slid up her thigh and under her skirt and fondled her pubic mound. His breath stank of beer and smoke and his grey bristles scratched when her pulled her round and pressed his lips over her own.

Yet the alternative to letting the man do what he wanted was too awful to contemplate.

Soon the novelty of the girl's arrival passed and everyone resumed their smoking and drinking and lazy conversation and card games. Pieter settled down next to the Scandinavians. He was passed the remains of a joint and was dealt into the next round of blackjack. Sonny, the lad with acne, strummed his guitar again and on the bench seat, Griff sipped from his can and grinned and stroked her plaited hair as her delicate young fingers nervously teased him to a highly productive climax that sent strings of yellowy cum streaking across the pure white front of her 'party' dress.

"She's all yours", he announced to no one in particular, pushing the girl off on to the sand. Sand stuck to her sticky fingers and she wiped her hands on her dress - it was going to get filthy anyway, she was sure.

Her skin crawled at his touch. The piggy-eyed man repulsed her, with his cold, clammy hands and rank breath.

She had barely landed on the grey sand before the Belgian had snatched her wrist and pulled her up. He still could not believe his good fortune - a weekly chance to play out an old fantasy with a little girl who dare not refuse him. He glanced at Pieter and winked, then led the girl away to his van.

It was the largest vehicle around the fire and was a homemade conversion from a delivery van. She wrinkled her nose at the overpowering odour of stale sweat. The sliding side door slammed shut behind her and her tummy tightened in anticipation of what was to follow. The fat man did the same thing each week.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stood her before him. His eyes twinkled and he licked his lips as he looked her up and down. Then he reached out and placed his hand on her inner thigh and slid it up under the hem of her dress. The Belgian's pleasure was all in the foreplay: those few outstanding minutes with a captive, helpless little girl, during which his hands and fingers could rove at will across her small, warm body, seeking out the soft curves, the nooks and crannies, the forbidden, private places.

She loathed the feel of his greasy, podgy fingers, up under her dress, squeezing her tiny, flat breasts and spongey labia majora. She thought he looked like a pig, licking his lips and slobbering as he stroked her inner thighs and kneaded her tender buttocks.

And she hated having to talk to him. Even his thick Flemish accent repelled her. When she had to call him 'Daddy'. He wasn't her Daddy. Her real Daddy wouldn't put the end of his finger into her little hole and make her gyrate her hips and smile.

Or tell her how sexy she was, how pretty was her front bottom or how cute her tiny, sensitive nipples.

He unfastened the buttons at the front of her dress. Slowly, and unnecessarily as it pulled over her head easily without being undone. But it gave him more opportunity to touch her, be intimate, whilst his erection slowly swelled and hardened between his flabby thighs. He pawed and fingered her, whispering to her in baby talk that gave him a thrill.

"Let's just see how your botty-wotty is. Turn round, that's nice. Now lean over Daddy's knee. You've been a naughty little girlie haven't you? I think Daddy will have to give you a little spanky won't he?"

She had no choice. She played his game and cried for her Daddy to stop as the fat palm slapped her poor, sore young bottom.

And afterwards, when her short little fingers with the bitten nails had finished their toiling around his fat cock and he had tied them out of the way and made her bring him to climax with her mouth, she tried not to think of her real Daddy and her Mummy and the rest of her family. And like a good little girl, she thanked her Daddy once the strings of his spunk had stopped streaking across her upturned face and she smiled when he finally untied her hands from behind her back and as she wiped the sticky drops from her cheeks and smeared them over her little tits like she had been told.

Back at the bonfire, she knew to sit quietly to the side. She stared without emotion at the moth-eaten teddy in her lap.

Pieter played his hand successfully, and gathered his winnings: three Euro forty. He kept a proprietorial eye on his young pet and smiled inwardly as the spotty boy laid down his guitar and went across to the girl, looking around slightly embarrassed as he gathered up the end of her chain.

The others paid no attention as he led her to his small tent and followed her inside. Only Pieter had noticed him earlier slip away from the fire and use the standpipe, so he had some idea of how Sonny planned to use the girl.

Though he was still a little concerned by the boy.

The others he had few worries with. He thought they were happy enough to get a bit of free sex to keep their mouths shut. Even if they might not necessarily be completely comfortable with the concept of being sucked off by a nine-year-old acting under duress, a BJ was a BJ and he doubted these bums were offered too many of those.

But the boy was younger, more thoughtful, and probably less able to divorce emotion from physical gratification. Pieter was worried he might try to communicate with the girl, or worse. And that would ruin everything.

Pieter excused himself, muttering that he needed a piss and he wandered casually between the parked vehicles and out towards the dunes. But he doubled back and crept through the darkness, to listen at the boy's tent.

A narrow shaft of light speared the dark, from a small hole in the side of the canvas and so Pieter peered inside.

To his surprise, relief and then delight, he found his misgivings unfounded. For Sonny, far from taking pity on the girl and perhaps trying to befriend her, had in fact more than entered into the spirit of the evening. Pieter just had to watch what happened.

In the stark glare of the gas lantern, he saw that Sonny had rather ingeniously rigged up a small trapeze-like bar that was hung by two ropes from the ridge pole of the tent. He had suspended the small girl, inverted, with her legs bent at the knee over the trapeze part and wound some prickly flotsam rope around her them to pull her ankles and thighs tightly together, and thus keep her in place.

It looked splendidly uncomfortable for her: Pieter was impressed.

The lad had stripped her of her dress and was naked himself. He was knelt facing her, so that her pigtails fell between his legs, and her head, flushed from being upside-down, was at just the right height. Her mouth was clamped over the head of his penis and he could see her cheeks flexing as she sucked and licked him. And he had his own diversion, for in defiance of Pieter's stricture, his fingers were holding her upturned cunt wide open and his own mouth was exploring the little girl's cute little twat.

Pieter frowned, for he usually disapproved of anything that might give the little slut any physical pleasure, but he merely watched for a few minutes, glad that his fears were misplaced. Then the girl suddenly pushed herself away and coughed and spluttered.

Angrily, Sonny grabbed her head and shoved his cock back into her mouth.

"Do as you're told, you fucking little bitch," growled the lad and he reached down and gave her nipple a truly vicious twist, that had her bucking around on the trapeze and squealing in pain behind the thick mouthful of hot cock filling her mouth.

It was music to Pieter's ears and he found himself stroking his own cock, fascinated at the way the youngster was using the girl so effectively. He waited until the boy's semen had emptied into the back of her mouth before he rejoined the card players.

A few minutes later the boy returned. In his absence, someone had fired up a CD player and so he left his guitar alone.

Pieter had a moment of concern.

"She all right?" he asked Sonny casually, concealing his true thoughts.

The boy smiled widely and blushed. "Very good, thanks" was all he replied then he realised that Pieter was asking more than just a simple question and so he explained that Ralf, the mean-looking biker from München, had led her away.

Pieter nodded. He smiled too, for the girl had told him about Ralf, and what he did in the ruined bunker the week before, and he knew she was going to be earning her keep: the Bavarian had actually had a quiet word with him earlier and received Pieter's assent to his request.

At that precise moment, she was cowered in a tiny ball, pressed right into the dank, mossy corner of the concrete chamber, against the rough cold wall, as if she hoped she might just disappear and the terrible man with the leather clothes and narrow eyes wouldn't find her.

It was very dark, and cold, and the walls smelt foul from piss and mould and salt water, but after her weeks inside the barrow, she hardly noticed the stench, so used was she to being immersed in filth. There was faint illumination from moonlight through holes in the walls and her eyes had gained their night vision. The short, nasty man had dragged her roughly to the bunker entrance by her chain and then literally kicked her inside, ordering her to wait for him to go and fetch something.

He kept his bike in the bunker - she could make out its shape - and she knew he had returned when his dark silhouette passed silently in front of it, briefly obscuring the moonlight glinting off the chromework.

Momentarily she lost track of him and then the leather belt cracked just in front of her and she cried out. He laughed and switched on the battery lantern, looming over her and waving the long length of leather in her frightened young face. Leering, he ignored the chain on her collar and instead took a handful of plait and tugged her across to the bike.

Though it was very cold in the bunker, she instantly hauled the flimsy dress over her head when he ordered her. With mounting dread, she watched in the dim, eerie glow of the lantern. The man poured something from a tube, on to the top of the saddle.

"Sit down," he snapped. She sat on the scratchy concrete. It hurt her bottom when he roughly tipped her to one side and bent her leg doubled, winding a length of rope around her thigh and ankle and binding her leg tightly. The grit grazed her calves when he repeated the action on her other leg, so that she was in an enforced kneeling position. But then he picked her up by the waist and the oily stuff felt cold and wet on her skin as he laid her face down along the saddle, with her chin resting on the chilly metal of the fuel tank. With her feet unsupported and tightly-folded legs hanging each side, her body pressed down on the length of the saddle, from her chest to her crotch and she was sure she was going to slide off.

"Hold on to the handlebars"

She reached out unsteadily and curled her slim little fingers around the handgrips.

"You're going to use that cute little pussy of yours to polish my saddle, make it all shiny like new. You better make a start because I'm going for a smoke and when I come back, I'll expect to see my face in it. If not..."

She winced as he snapped the belt against his hand and the crack echoed around the reinforced concrete walls.

She didn't know it, but she didn't even have a fighting chance of getting any form of sheen on the worn, cracked leather, for the slippery stuff coating the front of her cold, tired body was nothing more than baby oil. And though she gripped the handlebars with all her strength and hauled herself up and down the saddle, all that was in fact happening was that she was exhausting her already weak arms, and tenderising the soft flesh of her tummy and pubic mound. With her feet bound to her thighs, had no way of using her legs to assist and again and again she had to push, then pull, her own deadweight along the surface of the motorbike's saddle.

In spite of the cold, her face soon broke out in perspiration as she slid herself up and down.

She had had a brief introduction to the man's belt the week before and so she thought of nothing else, other than the awful prospect of him lashing her poor bum, which was still sore and lightly bruised from her earlier caning and the fat man’s spanking.

The chill was easily ignored. And though the soreness of her skin was nasty, it was surely preferable to the sting of the belt. She was panting. She willed herself to continue, hauling her body along towards the tank, even though her arms and shoulders were throbbing. She even forgot the constant dull ache from her empty stomach.

She smelt the tangy smoke of his spliff and her heart began to race.

Again she pushed hard against the handlebar and slid her body backwards over the slithery saddle, lest he should see that she had all but given up through exhaustion. He stood in front of the bike, watching her pitiful effort with an amused expression.

"OK, sit up," he said.

She tried to push herself up but her tired arms just would not straighten and she suddenly tumbled down, narrowly avoiding hitting her face on the petrol filler cap. Ralf stepped forward quickly and grabbed her by the armpit and lifted her tiny frame. When she was upright, his palm slid round to the front of her oily chest and her kneaded the small swellings of her breasts. He could feel the rapid beat of her anxious heart and her laboured breathing.

He moved round to the back of the machine and leaned her body backwards, his hand spread over her little tit, and peered down over her shoulder. Even in the weak glow from the lantern, he could see the redness at her inner thigh, from the chafing of the side of the saddle. And as for the bike's leather, though it glistened with warm baby oil, beneath it was plainly as dull and crazed as before.

He shook his head. He clicked his tongue.

"Oh dear, that's no good, no good at all. You've put no effort into that at all have you?"

He could tell she wanted to blabber something. Her eyes had filled with tears, but after the weeks of suppressing herself, she knew better than to try to make excuses or beg for forgiveness. She knew she was a worthless piece of garbage, who was only fit to be hit and covered in trash and pissed on and have men stick their willies in her. She knew she would be beaten. She deserved it.

She heard him take a last noisy drag on the joint and at the corner of her eye saw the butt spark as it hit the wall where he had thrown it. Suddenly he had grabbed each side of her head and his mouth was over hers and when she opened it to snatch some air, he forced in some thick, bitter smoke that made her panic and choke and the back of her throat stung when she inadvertently swallowed some and he held her tight against her face until he had emptied his lungs into her captive mouth then he pulled away, roaring with laughter and she clung to the greasy saddle and coughed and spat and gasped for air.

She was still spluttering when the brilliant white flash temporarily blinded her.

He picked her up and laid her on her back, with the back of her head resting on the handlebars and her bound and folded legs apart on the saddle and took another shot with his mobile phone camera.

"I thought I would send some of my friends a souvenir holiday photo," he laughed. "I was thinking of inviting them to come here for the weekend and maybe they might like to meet you!"

She lay still, trembling, terrified to move in case she fell from the bike.

Ralf pocketed the phone and she blinked and her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. She started when he placed his hand over her cunt. His fingers danced lazily over her smooth, soft mound, still slippery from the baby oil.

"Soon be time to show what your sweet little Möse is for," he teased. She tensed.

"But I think we'll wait until my friends get here," he added so that she had yet something else to fret about.

She did not understand his words, but there was something in his tone that chilled her to the core.

For a couple of seconds, she did not realise what had happened. Perched so precariously on the saddle, bound so awkwardly, she had to squint along her own body to see what the man in the leathers was doing. He had moved suddenly and something blurred had flashed in front of him. She had heard a dull thud and was aware of something touching her, right between her legs.

Then suddenly the pain registered. Such a totally surprising pain, all-embracing, that she could not at first locate the source. Except that it passed up her body and she instinctively tried to tighten her back and her head lifted and fell hard against the handlebars and she screamed.

The blur moved again and this time, centred at the core of the burning pain, a renewed sharpness focussed on her pussy and through the fog of horror, she at last realised that he had brought the end of that leather belt down, right on to her exposed labia.

Gasping, she tried to call to him, to beg him to stop, but before her tense throat could form any words, another faint slap was followed by a surge of agony that swamped her senses and stole her breath.

Time and time again, as she struggled for breath and fought to keep her balance, she was vaguely aware of him, moving from side to side to obtain another point of aim on her crotch and the string-tight sinews of her inner thighs. Time and time again she felt the first contact as the narrow leather landed and curled over her tender young skin, then instantaneously the pain would take her, robbing her of conscious thought and demanding release through her panting and yelling and screaming.

Just once he paused enough for her to recover.

He stood beside her, clutching the folded belt in front of him and he leaned down and taunted her, leering into her scarlet face.

"This is nothing, kid. A gentle little pussy-whipping to give you food for thought. Just imagine what it will be like when I get you all to myself."

She had no time to reflect on that at the time, for he quickly returned to the back of the bike and stroked her burning thighs and cunny then brought the end of the belt hard down again right across her pubic mound once more and she was yet again submerged under a black throbbing blanket of pain and despair.

The relentless sting of the belt overwhelmed her and she gave up the struggle to maintain conscious thought.

Yet from that evening, rarely an hour would pass without her returning to his words and wondering what he meant.

Then being very, very scared.

The two Scandinavians gave a cheer when Ralf led her back to the campfire. The girl was ashen-faced and subdued and she stumbled unsteadily when he tugged on her chain. She could barely walk. When she came within the glow of the fire, everyone seated around could see the vacancy in her pale face and the hopelessness in her eyes, which were dark and red-rimmed and her cheeks were still wet with tears.

"Hope you haven't worn her out!" one called to him.

Pieter raised an eyebrow and checked her out. From the way she was walking, stiff, with her thighs clenched, he rather suspected she had been given a rough time. He thought she would have to get used to that.

This was turning into a very good evening, for apart from the surfer, who was passed out on a lilo, it looked as if everyone was going to take advantage of her in their own particular way. The previous week, the two Nordic drifters had lain her down between them next to the fire and passed her to and fro as they smoked a joint, lazily climbing on to her and giving her ass a lazy poke between drags. It had been quite amusing to watch.

If anything, the pair of them, muscular lads in their mid-twenties, were even more stoned than before. This time they were sprawled on adjacent deck chairs, with their arms draped over the sides and their cans of beer just within reach.

One of them put his hand up and took the chain from the German. He pulled the girl to him and stood her between his legs.

Concentrating very hard, for his vision was a bit blurred and his coordination compromised by half a day's consumption of weed and booze, he unclipped the chain from her collar, then reached down and lifted her skimpy dress over her head.

Her lily-white skin glowed from the light of the fire and her cute bumps and dimples were magnified so beautifully by the deep shadows. Between her legs, the angry redness of her inner thighs and labia was plain to see.

With a leer, he unzipped his fly and nodded to her. She understood.

But no sooner had she knelt and begun to fellate him than his companion hauled himself steadily out of his deckchair and dropped his jeans.

"I see you've been enjoying yourself, Ralf!" he joked to the biker, pointing to the girl's wet, crimson and still partially dilated anus. "Thanks - means I don't have to bother with foreplay!"

The ensemble found this very funny and Pieter used the laughter diplomatically to hand the young man a condom. After a moment or two's fumbling, that earned him some ribald cries of derision from the others, he finally managed to put it on and squatted beside the girl's upturned bottom and he clumsily forced his cock into her.

She cried out, for she was incredibly sore already and the man was less than gentle.

"Hey!" chuckled his seated companion, don't put the little cunt off, she was just getting good at this!"

Pieter watched with detached amusement as his young captive's body took a cock at each end. She was quite limp, very tired and obviously in distress, desperately trying to keep her mouth performing around the sitting one's penis whilst the other man held her hips and ground into her backside. He did not want to intervene at this stage.

"Swap?" suggested the first after a couple of minutes.

"Nah," replied his companion, "I want to try something different."

And with that, he withdrew from the girl's abused behind and suddenly picked her right up off the ground, his hands under her thighs. Denied the attention of her lips, his mate watched with drunken interest as the girl was bounced and bent until he had her cradled against his stomach, bent at the waist so that her knees were up to her chest and her feet were up in the air either side of his head and most importantly, her open crotch was held available and accessible to the front.

"There you go, mate!"

She was held tight, the Scandinavian's elbows pressed to her shoulders and his hands under her knees, pulling her into a compressed ball against his stomach. He bent his knees so that her anus was at the right height for his pal to enter.

The second one stood with his hand on his prick and threaded the bell end into her still-gaping anus.

"Shall we dance?" he cried and they burst into drunken laughter.

The rest of the group sat up to watch. The girl's ass was being fucked in time to the music. It was hilarious. Her tormentor played to the crowd, slamming up into her as the beat dictated, grinding inside on the high notes.

She was crying hard, but her pained yelping was drowned out by the music and the men's laughter.

When the one holding her's arms tired from trying to support and contain the bucking little naked body, he yelled, "Swap!" and the two men exchanged roles, passing the helpless young girl between them and crushing her into a ball ready to have her poor butt reamed once more. The men stopped to swig their beers, literally dropping the floppy child as they drained their cans then with a cheer from the others, they picked her up again and banged her until first one, then the other, emptied himself into his condom.

Her tiny naked body lay sprawled beside the fire. It had served its purpose. Griff broke open a fresh slab of beer and the men passed around the cans.

Pieter grinned wildly. This had been a great evening - he could hardly have planned a better humiliation and suffering for the little cunt.

He prodded her with his toe as she groaned beside the campfire, curled in a sniffling ball on the dirty grey sand amid the ash and fag ends. She was still conscious, so that was OK.

"Take your bowl round and see if these fine gentlemen think you've earned your supper," he snarled coldly and pushed her hip with his foot.

She dragged her aching body up. In the glow of the fire, she staggered over to the table and picked up the plastic dog bowl and she crawled and stumbled, half comatose, around the group, holding it half-heartedly in front of each.

"Please, sir?" she remembered to ask each man.

The fat Belgian was the last to contribute and with a playful but stinging swipe across her little behind, he sent her reeling across to where Pieter was sitting. He indicated for her to kneel and show what she had earned for her evening's ordeal.

Some cold beans, one and a half sausages, a crust of stale bread and some unidentifiable, burnt pieces of charcoal that may once have been meat chops.

She looked up expectantly, her wide eyes, red and wet and crusty from tears, pleading for permission to eat. Throughout the last horrible time, with pinned between the two men, her bum burning and sore, her whole body feeling battered and bruised, she had tried to block out what was being done to her by looking forward to her food. To ignore the sickly stink of beer on their breath, and the pain and the jeers and cries of the other men as they gathered round to watch her suffering, she tried to imagine what it would be like. Her tummy was tight from hunger and her throat thick with anticipation. It didn't matter how disgusting were the scraps - she just had to eat something to stop the hunger pains that had been building up all day.

Pieter made her wait, surveying her with a cold disdain that belied the elation he actually felt, seeing her so debased. He would have liked to take her himself then and there but he did not perform with an audience. She could suck him off before he let her sleep tonight.

Finally, he spoke.

"Is that all you're worth, cunt? All those cocks to please and you get just a few leftovers? You're fucking useless aren't you?"

Her innocent young face could not disguise her hurt, but she just wanted to eat it, no matter how meagre or inedible the contents of her bowl. The nodded, looked to the ground and whispered.

"Ja, de heer."

Pieter affected to be angry with her.

"If that's the best you can do, you fucking little bitch, you don't deserve to eat!"

And he swung his hand across her, sending the bowl flying. The contents scattered across the adjacent sand dune.

"Pick it up!" he snarled, pointing at the bowl.

The cowering girl, her face frozen in horrified disbelief, scurried over the sand to retrieve it. Her tears were in full flow when she brought it back. Two of the men were laughing at her.

Pieter threw her dress and chain at her.

"Put those on."

She struggled into the filthy dress and her shaking fingers fumbled to attach the chain to her collar. Pieter snatched it from her and finished the job himself, stooping to growl in her ear.

"You had better hope I calm down by the time we get back. At the moment I'm planning to whip you till you bleed."

And he yanked the chain as he strode off, and she tripped and scrambled to keep her balance and scuttle along behind him, clutching her empty bowl and the flea-bitten teddy bear.

"Thanks a lot for a great evening, boys. Same time next week?"

Cans and bottles were raised as the group cheered and bid him goodnight.

He strode in the direction of the VW, the girl trailing in his wake.

Ralf, the biker, broke away from the others and trotted to walk beside him.

"Have you decided?" asked the German.

Pieter nodded without breaking his stride.

"Oh yes, my friend. I leave in two weeks' time, at the end of the month, and then she's all yours."

Ralf gave a thin smirk of satisfaction, glancing back at the girl, and he licked his lips. He had such plans for her. And her tiny Möse. He and his biker pals.

"And the price?"

"As agreed, fifty Euro."

The men briefly clasped hands to seal the deal. Not a bad price for a piece of trash.

--------------------------------

Postscript - The First Monday In September

Amsterdam

At the National Clinical University, the Head of Behavioural Studies was well known for his unfailingly dapper personal appearance and an almost obsessive dedication to his work. By 7 a.m., his classic Jaguar was cooling down in the underground car park and he was already at his desk, dressed as always in crisp tailored shirt and handmade silk tie, hacking his way through the huge backlog in his inbox.

He had all but cleared it by the time his personal assistant entered the outer office. She popped her head around his door.

"Welcome back, Professor, how was your vacation?"

Pieter looked up from the screen and grinned.

"Very good, thank you, Sylvia. Yes, very good. Just the usual seaside thing of course: plenty of fresh air and relaxation. Though I did find time to do a bit of private research."

Wassenaar

The owner of the rental beach bungalow would not be happy when he came to collect the keys the following weekend. Not only would the group of German bikers have left already without waiting for him, but they had also trashed the place.

But at the beginning of the week, there was still some semblance of order. The lads had only gathered the previous night and as always, they had celebrated with an all-nighter. The floor of the lounge was already carpeted in debris - pizza boxes, empty cans, cigarette papers and tab ends. But so far, the furniture was intact.

The last of the half-dozen men had finally dozed off, joining the others in a stoned and drunken slumber after a wild night that ranked up there with one of the best ever.

And if you could step over the prone denim- and leather-clad bodies snoring on the floor and in the assortment of chairs, and pick your way through the trash to the far corner, you might be surprised to see, surrounded by the discarded food wrappers and empty bottles, the naked figure of a very thin little girl, wearing a leather collar from which a chain is padlocked to the radiator.

She is curled in the tightest of balls yet she is not asleep. Her white face is blank; her dark, hollow eyes wide open yet seeing nothing. At her ankles and wrists, the skin is red and broken from hours of struggling against rough rope. She is trembling, too frightened to sleep. And if you look closer, you can see the bruises all over her body, and the mass of red and black welts across the back of her thighs where she has been thrashed with belts, and the cigarette burns on her flat little breasts and down there, on the inside of her thighs and all around her raw, bruised pubis, you could not fail to notice her soft, pale skin is stained red and grey from last night's blood and the seemingly endless volume of semen deposited inside her.

She is desperately hungry. She misses the comforting darkness and the familiar, cloying stench inside Pieter’s barrow.