Perverts 'R' Us

Francis Gets Abused Part 8 - The Reckoning

By Francissy ( bb/b, MM/b, hum, tort, rape )

"There is a raven in the eastern sea which is called Yitai ("dull-head"). It cannot fly high and seems very stupid. It hops only a short distance and nestles close with others of its kind. In going forward it dare not lead, and in going back it dare not lag behind. At the time of feeding it takes only what is left by the other birds. Therefore the ranks of this bird and never depleted and nobody can do them any harm. A tree with a straight trunk is the first to be chopped down. A well with sweet water is the first to be drawn dry."

Francis was on his knees in the dirt and feeding quite happily on Paul's long penis, sucking and slurping and drawing its length into his tender mouth.

Francis had not been brainwashed, but he had been indoctrinated. He believed in the laws of nature, he believed in natural selection; in the survival of the fittest. Francis was the only senior boy in the school still wearing short trousers, he was effeminate and he knew it. Francis accepted that he was inferior to any other boy, no matter what that boy's age was, if that boy could demonstrate that he was stronger then Francis, or that his penis was bigger and manlier than Francis'. It didn't matter that the other boy might be ignorant or stupid or intellectually inferior to Francis; the other boy only had to clench his fists and threaten physical violence for Francis to succumb; the other boy only had to open his trousers and display a bigger penis than Francis' meager appendage for Francis to kneel before him in submission.

In the animal kingdom, the beasts formed herds and every herd had its leader and its followers, and then its stragglers and weaklings. Every litter has its runt. Humans were the same and Francis recognized that he was the runt. But Francis was becoming reconciled to his role and even relished it. At least it made him the center of attention, even if it was for the wrong reasons, and that was better than to be totally ignored and insignificant.

Only last week, one of the boys had run past him and slapped Francis hard across the back of his bare thigh, leaving a red handprint, and Francis had worn it almost as a badge of pride. Francis wasn't the only girly-boy in the school and the last time that Francis had been dragged into the toilets it was only to find that one of them, Timmy Timpson, was already on his knees servicing the head prefect. Francis felt a pang of what he could only describe as jealousy, and he knelt alongside Timmy determined to give his own tormentor a better sucking.

When the boys were allowed outside the school gates, they had to go in groups of three or four. Two boys by themselves were considered too vulnerable and may indulge in inappropriate behavior together. Any more than four boys together constituted a 'gang' and could not be trusted. On this particular Friday afternoon, Paul and another classmate named Dodd approached Francis and asked him to make up a threesome with them on their trip to the library in the village. Francis liked Paul and considered him a friend. It was Paul whose place Francis had taken in the choir when Paul's voice began to falter and break, and they shared a common interest in art. Although Paul still treated Francis the same as everybody else, as a queer faggot, he always did it with kindness; he always said 'please' and 'thank you'. Paul and Dodd would never normally choose Francis to join them on their outings, so Francis knew they were up to something, but felt sufficiently flattered to agree. If he hadn't they would only have persuaded him anyway, probably with physical threats or a good slapping.

The three boys set off together down the Uxbridge Road, Paul and Dodd in the lead, Francis trailing behind, as befitted a sissy. Before they arrived at the road bridge that crossed the railway, they turned right and walked down The Avenue, then turned left into the narrow footpath that led to the village on a course parallel to the Uxbridge Road, but which crossed the railway by an iron footbridge. Amongst the trees on the other side of the bridge, two of the girls from their class were waiting for Paul and Dodd for a very naughty tryst. Paul and Dodd told Francis to continue to the village, but to be back within the hour so they could return to the school together in their threesome. The girls didn't give Francis a second look and disappeared into the bushes with Paul and Dodd.

When Francis returned the two boys were waiting and the girls had departed, doing up their top blouse buttons and smoothing their dresses. Paul and Dodd had been engaged in an hour of heavy petting, French kissing and had even got to fondle the girls' well-developed breasts. They were both now 'in heat' and desperate for relief, and here came Francis down the footpath. Paul greeted Francis by putting his arm around Francis' shoulder in a false display of camaraderie and hugged the effeminate boy to him.

"Francis" he said, in a coy cajoling voice, "guess what?" and he took Francis' hand and pressed it to the front of his trousers. Francis could feel Paul's hard penis through the rough material of the trousers. Francis knew that he was in the presence of potent boys, young men really, who were naturally and obviously aroused after their courtship ritual, and who was he, an effeminate Nancy-boy, to deny them their relief?

"Come on, let's get on with it!" said Dodd, and he pushed Paul aside; "I'm going first! You keep watch."

As it happened, this arrangement suited both Paul and Francis for reasons which will become obvious. Paul walked to the end of the path to keep look-out and Dodd took Francis into the bushes with him.

Francis took off his school jacket and laid it on the ground to protect his bare knees from the rough ground, knelt on it and waited while Dodd unbuttoned his trousers. The sticky erection that protruded from the opening was thick and swollen. While Francis took the manly prick into his mouth, Dodd slipped off his own jacket, and draped it over Francis' head and shoulders - Dodd didn't want to have to watch a queer sucking on his manhood; this way he could imagine it was his girlfriend Pamela on her knees before him.

Beneath Dodd's jacket Francis felt like an old-fashioned flash photographer under his hood, but Francis was up against a bipod, not a tripod. It didn't take Dodd long to expel his load and Francis swallowed the result down in one gulp. His climax over, Dodd was anxious to distance himself from the scene as quickly as possible and swept his jacket from Francis like a matador swirls his cape.

As Paul came back to take his place, Dodd retreated to the iron footbridge to keep watch, out of earshot of the other two. And this suited Paul because he and Francis had developed a little routine that excited them both. With his face close to Paul's body, Francis whispered "Please can Sally come out to play? I love her so much, please let her come out, oh please, please, please?"

"Alright" Paul replied, "but only if you treat her nicely and tell her you love her."

"Oh please" Francis repeated, "I love Sally so much, please let me see her."

Paul unbuttoned his trousers and Francis helped to lower them and the underpants. Paul's penis was not as fat as Dodd's, but it was long and tall, just like the girl in the song that was popular at the time, "Long Tall Sally."

"Sally" Francis addressed the towering prick, "I love you so much, you are so beautiful, please can I kiss you?"

Paul looked down at the queer boy and smirked, "You can kiss her if you really love her so much" he said.

Francis cradled Paul's swollen balls in his hand and gently kissed them, then transferred his lips to the shaft of the penis and kissed it as though he were kissing a girl's lips. "You are so beautiful" Francis whispered, and kissed the swollen helmet of Paul's penis-head. It leaked pre-coital juice onto Francis' tongue. "Sally, you are so beautiful, please can I suck you?" Francis pleaded.

"You can suck Sally" Paul replied, "but only if you look at me while you do it, so I can see the love in your eyes" Francis engulfed the waiting penis into his mouth and looked up at Paul with adoration. Francis sucked hungrily on the rigid member then ran his mouth down its length, sucking the shaft and then sucking on Paul's balls. Paul groaned and thrust his hips forward and Francis responded, sucking harder with his mouth while maintaining his gaze into Paul's eyes. Being so long, Paul's lovely prick pressed deep into Francis' throat, almost causing the boy to retch and cough it out.

This is how Francis came to be kneeling in the dirt and happily feeding on Paul's penis.

But these days were numbered; soon Francis was to be targeted for special abuse by a boy named Gorton; an experience which was to accelerate Francis' departure from the school (Francis Gets Abused, Part 3).

The Reckoning

Francis' transition from boarding schoolboy to an officer cadet in the merchant navy went remarkably smoothly. He swapped one uniform for another, swapped one set of rules and regulations for another. Of course he had to master the language of the sea; floors became decks, walls became bulkheads, ceilings became deck-heads, rooms became cabins, everything was either port or starboard or fore and aft. You were either up top or down below. Francis never suffered the home-sickness that other boys parted from home for the first time experienced, the poor lads who cried themselves to sleep in their pillows at night. Neither did sea-sickness affect the effeminate Francis. Francis loved the life at sea; he loved his uniform, especially the tropical whites that were changed into once the ship had left the cold northern climes. In the fleshpots and clubs of Hamburg and Baltimore Francis discovered sex with women and he liked it. He also discovered alcohol and cigarettes and he liked them too.

Frequent voyages around Africa left him with a nice suntan on his slim body. He had also sprouted a bush of pubic hair that he didn't like. In the heat and humidity of the tropics Francis decided that such hair was a sweat trap and shaved it off, but really he wanted to maintain the illusion of boyhood, like a deviant Peter Pan. His penis remained a slender six inches when erect, which he had measured to satisfy his curiosity. He had also invested in several pairs of panties which he wore when the mood took him. They were so pretty and silky and aroused him when he slid them on, and he liked the feeling of the brief strip of material that clung between his buttocks and left his cheeks exposed.

There had been a delicious encounter before he had joined his first ship. The shipping company had issued him with a list of uniform, clothes and other items that they deemed necessary for life on the ocean waves. He had gone to the outfitter's shop in Liverpool and presented the three-page list to the little man behind the counter. He was rotund and balding, with a tape measure draped around his neck. He had the quick movements and darting eyes of a startled sparrow and a slight lisp to his voice.

He scanned the list and told Francis that it would take a day or two fill the order and suggested that Francis should return at half past four on Thursday. When Francis returned at the appointed time the shop was empty save for the bird-like proprietor, who placed the 'closed' sign on the door to ensure their privacy. Together they filled a canvas bag with all the items on the list.

When it came to his tropical "whites", the man suggested that Francis slip off his shirt and trousers and try on the white shirt and shorts. No stranger to these ploys, Francis readily removed his shirt and trousers and stood in just his underpants and footwear. The proprietor produced the white uniform but then knelt down before Francis and said that he just wanted to check some measurements - inside leg measurements. The man pushed the tip of the tape measure into Francis' crotch and the touch of the man's knuckles against his scrotum caused Francis to develop an erection.

Francis apologized but the man assured Francis that it was a perfectly normal reaction and now wrapped the tape measure around Francis' upper thigh. The head of Francis' hungry penis nosed its way out of the opening in his underpants. The outfitter stood up and suggested that Francis may prefer to move into one of the changing cubicles to try on the white shorts. Francis agreed and stepped into the cubicle, but left the curtain open. The man handed Francis the shorts and Francis stepped into them, but as he pulled them up his penis prevented him from buttoning them up. Francis turned to the man and together, and in total silence, they masturbated the errant penis.

On board ship, Francis maintained the pretence of heterosexuality; he had a career to protect and so far had done nothing to bring disgrace to the uniform or to his reputation. Although he had been the object of several sexual advances he had managed to repulse them all. Francis had been in the navy now for a year and a half and was approaching his eighteenth birthday. During the long nights at sea in the privacy of his cabin, his dreams were still of disgusting and lewd acts with male and female perverts. He had not met a dominant woman who would descend to the depths of depravity that men were so able to achieve, and so he masturbated in the heat of tropical nights to visions of leather clad goddesses and sadistic masters.

When Francis learned that the ship was to dock in Amsterdam, a port he had not yet visited, he was particularly excited. At last he would get to visit the Riijsk museum and see the original paintings of his favorite artist, Rembrandt. He remembered some of those paintings from his art classes with Miss Richards at school. As the ship nosed into the bustling harbor, the weather was fine and bright, the sunlight dappled and danced off the bright blue water.

The next day, after most of the crew had signed off and only a skeleton crew remained, Francis was granted shore leave. He showered and shaved and put on a white sports shirt, then stepped into a pale lilac pair of panties that had a pretty little bow on the front. Over these he struggled into his tightest shorts, they were actually girls' shorts and cut very high on the hip and made of denim. White ankle socks and canvas shoes went on his feet.

He checked his appearance in the mirror and was aroused at his own reflection. His legs were nicely tanned a biscuit brown and shaved free of hair. He slung a small shoulder bag round his neck that contained his camera and some Dutch guilders and his seaman's identity card; the shorts were too tight to squeeze anything into their pockets.

It was midday and the weather was still pleasantly warm as Francis made his way carefully down the swaying gangplank and onto the cobbled quayside. As he walked through the docks and out onto the street he was aware of the leery looks that came his way, and of the rude whistles that came from some of the dockworkers and of the catcalls that came from sailors hanging over the rails of a Greek freighter. Francis didn't mind; he was even flattered and was accustomed to such attention. He boarded a tramcar and paid his fare to Amsterdam Central.

At a nearby bar he sat at an outside table, picked up a tourist street map, bought a bottle of cold Amstel beer, and watched the world go by. The sun shone hotly on his bare arms and legs as he set off on the healthy walk to the Riijks museum, down Damrak, Rokin, and Vijzelstraat, then right and across the next canal to Museumstraat. There were the expected crowds of visitors and tourists, and Francis happily joined the queue at the entrance to the museum.

Gunter spotted Francis immediately. Amongst all the other people in the crowds that thronged the museum, his practiced eye picked out the lone teenager with the languid limbs and curling hair and tiny shorts. When he wasn't preying for victims around the many museums in Amsterdam, Gunter could be found in the lobbies of the more expensive city hotels, seeking out rich and frustrated older women; pimping for an Algerian gigolo named Hassan. But Gunter's preference was for young men and the younger the better. He watched Francis disappear into the museum and was content to wait in the park until the boy re-emerged.

Gunter was forty-five years old and born in Austria. When war was declared in 1939 Gunter was a tall, blonde Aryan seventeen-year old and had rushed to join the German army. A medical examination had discovered his fallen arches (flat feet) and he was excluded from active service. Instead Gunter joined the electrical and radio service and spent most of the war in Hilversum in occupied Holland. In 1945 during an Allied bombing raid Gunter and several of his colleagues were trapped in the rubble of a collapsed building.

For twenty-four hours Gunter lay entwined with his dead and dying friends, immersed in their tears, blood, and excreta and other leaking liquids. He was the only survivor and was left with a life-long horror of other peoples' bodily fluids and a hatred of the English. After the war Gunter became one of millions of displaced persons in Europe and remained in Holland. He set up an electrical shop in Amsterdam but the business had failed in 1960 and now he supplemented his savings by pimping for Hassan and spent the rest of his time pursuing his private passions.

Francis emerged from the shade of the museum into the glaring daylight of a beautiful afternoon. He had spent nearly two hours in the galleries, absorbed and fascinated by the paintings of Rembrandt and Vermeer. The sky above was a clear cerulean blue, and the brickwork of the museum and the concert hall on the opposite side of the park radiated a salmon pink color.

Francis made his way through the milling crowd of chattering students and tourists when suddenly, as if by magic, he found himself in a clear space, and standing facing him was a man. The man was six feet tall with a mane of silver hair. His face was lined and almost patrician, his eyes were a cold grey and staring directly at him. He wore a lightweight cream suit with a silk cravat around his neck which was tucked into his pale blue shirt. A heavy gold watch was strapped to his wrist and he wore expensive suede shoes.

Their eyes met and each held the other's gaze. Then Gunter ran his eyes appraisingly down Francis' body and Francis turned his eyes away in embarrassment. Francis turned aside and continued to make his way through the throng of visitors and then walked away across the soft green grass of the park, but not too quickly. He spotted an empty bench beneath a tree and walked toward it, aware that he was being followed. Francis sat down on the wooden bench and leaned forward and unlaced his shoe, and then removed it and made a play of massaging his tired foot, while out of the corner of his eye he saw the man slowly approaching.

Gunter paused for a moment, admiring Francis' bare thighs, then carefully sat down next to the trembling boy, and casually stretched his arm along the back of the bench, brushing Francis' shoulder, and with his other hand brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his immaculate trouser leg. Gunter wondered if the young man was English.

"Did you enjoy your visit to the museum?" he asked in a heavy accent.

"Yes sir" replied Francis, who had been taught at school to respect his 'elders and betters' and as the junior on board ship addressed the older officers as 'sir'.

"Are you with a school group?" asked Gunter, as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a silver cigarette case, extracted a small, black cheroot, and lit it with a gold lighter.

Francis smiled, flattered that the man should think him so young as to be still at school. "No" he replied, "I'm off a ship, we're docked here".

Gunter sighed with satisfaction. The boy fulfilled all his criteria; he was a pretty English boy, he had no teacher or parents to notice him missing, no hotel to return to, and seamen were notorious for going absent without leave, and more importantly, Francis was dressed like a queer, with his hairless legs and ridiculously tight shorts.

Francis had a fleeting memory of another park bench, years before, on a riverfront where another man had made advances to him. Francis knew that he was being picked up.

Gunter exhaled a stream of smoke and said "There is another museum here that you might enjoy, it's not so far to walk, and I will take you there." Gunter stood up and beckoned with his hand. Francis tied his shoe lace and followed the stranger across the park.

They walked in silence past the Riijks museum and headed north, along New Spiegelstraat and turned left at the flower market and crossed the bridge over the Singel at Koningsplein.

Then Francis spotted the sign over a doorway set in a terrace of buildings and his heart skipped a beat; several beats in fact; it said quite simply 'Torture Museum'. Could this be where this man was leading him? Gunter led the way to the door and sitting outside was a torture chair. It was made of iron and had leather restraints on the arms. The back and seat were lined with metal spikes. Gunter stepped into the shadow of the museum doorway and paid their entrance fee. Francis was rooted to the spot; a part of him wanted to flee, but he could not. How did a total stranger know he was obsessed with pain and torture? Standing next to the hard steel of the torture chair, Francis' bare thighs formed goose pimples, and his penis stirred to erection. Gunter disappeared into the darkness and Francis followed.

From light into darkness, Francis was suddenly immersed into his forbidden dream. Here were the implements of torture; the thumbscrews, the skull crusher, the rack and the wheel. Here were depictions of naked bodies being stretched and flayed, martyrs burnt at the stake. Here were Goya's 'Disasters of War' - a man stripped and held upside down, his legs parted wide while two soldiers castrated and sliced him apart with their swords.

Here were victims impaled on stakes through their rectums, their arms amputated. Here were all the horrors of the Inquisition and the medieval witch-finders. Francis could scarcely breathe. They were totally alone in the museum and Francis was hardly aware of the presence of his companion. Francis penis was straining to be free of the constraints of his ever-so tight shorts and silky panties. His whole body was tingling with exhilaration that he could not remember having ever felt before in his life. He moved slowly from one delicious obscenity to the next; here was a man having a hot poker thrust up his anus, there was a woman arched backwards strapped on a waterwheel, there was a man being disemboweled and his entrails burnt before his eyes; here was an etching of a man being pulled apart by wild horses while a crowd cheered them on. Here were all Francis' secret desires and masturbatory fantasies; he wanted to be one of the cheering crowds in the picture, but even more, he wanted to be the wretched victim.

And alongside him, a total foreign stranger was delving into Francis' soul. As he looked with longing at a picture of a naked man being barbecued, he felt Gunter's hand brush against his bare thigh and he had to fight his body to prevent an ejaculation. They moved on to a tableau of a man on the rack and he froze as Gunter clasped his bottom and squeezed his soft buttock. Francis was in his own private heaven and he never wanted to leave it. Then, as they neared the end of their tour and approached the exit, Gunter moved to a small table illuminated by a reading lamp. On the table was a heavily-bound book and Gunter opened it and turned the book to face Francis.

Francis moved slowly to the table and looked down at the opening page. Once again he felt his throat constrict and the breath rasp in his dry throat; here were horrors anew, tortures from more recent conflicts. The first page was a black and white grainy photograph. It showed a naked man hanging from a tree, but he was not hanging upright from his neck - he was hanging horizontal and face up, suspended by a rope that was wound about his genitals and secured to a low branch. Standing proudly in front of his victim was a man in uniform with a swastika armband, posing for the camera with a grin on his face. Francis wondered how the man's genitals could support the weight of his body, and shuddered with morbid curiosity.

He turned the page and was confronted with a color picture of men being forced to copulate with each other at gunpoint, while in the background was an open pit. On another page were a line of children, all naked and awaiting inspection by men in uniform. The children were mostly pre-pubescent, but some had pubic hair and budding breasts. On the next page some of the same children were engaged in lewd sex acts with their captors. The images excited Francis to the extent that he had to close the book and look away and try to compose and control himself, another picture of the youngsters serving their masters would have triggered him to orgasm.

Francis was in a daze as they left the museum, following his Svengali as though hypnotized; his mouth was dry and he was unaware of the warm sunlight that bathed them. No words were spoken and Francis followed Gunter like a lamb to the slaughter, not caring what a strange sight they must have presented to passers-by; the immaculately groomed man and the provocatively dressed youth. They walked along the canal banks for a short distance and then arrived outside a coffee bar. Gunter told Francis to wait outside while he went inside and sought out Hassan, who was playing cards and drinking Turkish coffee. He pointed to Francis who was stood obediently in the sunlight and whispered to his friend, "Give me an hour, then come round and he's all yours."

Hassan was born in Algeria but his parents were from Somalia and he had inherited their obvious looks; he was lean and coal-black with fuzzy hair cut short. The Algerian war for independence from their French rulers had turned vicious, with atrocities being committed by both sides and Hassan's parents had been slaughtered by French legionnaires. Hassan had fled and stowed away on a boat to Spain. He had made his way across Europe performing menial tasks and manual labor until he arrived at Amsterdam. Here he integrated into an already well-established ethnic community and met Gunter. They made an odd and unholy alliance, both men united by different wars in their common antipathy for the British and the French. Hassan however had a gift, a gift that lay inside his trousers; he had a penis that made old ladies' eyes water, the very ladies that Gunter procured for him from the lobbies of the city's hotels.

When Gunter re-emerged from the coffee bar Francis fell into step behind his master and they crossed the canal to a terrace of typical Dutch buildings. Each had a set of steps that led down to basement cellars and Gunter stopped in front of one of them. He produced a key from his trouser pocket and went down the stone steps to a highly polished green door. He unlocked the door and had to lower his head to enter the narrow opening.

Francis dutifully followed, still in a trance of sexual excitement, and found himself in a large, cool cellar. The room was quite stark, with stone walls, the only lighting coming from small windows that were set high in the wall at the outside street level. In the far corner there was a table and chair and beyond them a half-opened door through which Francis could see the enamel of a wash basin. The table had a jumble of items on top of it, and below it a car battery sat on the dusty floor. The basement must have been below the water level of the canal. Francis, in only his sports shirt and tiny shorts, felt the coolness on his skin. The table and chair reminded him briefly of another table and chair in a church vestry just three years before.

In the center of the room, a metal hook hung from a rope that ran through a pulley set into the ceiling. The rope was tied off at a bolt set into the wall. Gunter locked the door and walked over to the table while Francis stood in the middle of the basement, standing before the shiny metal hook. Gunter slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He turned to face his queer acolyte and said "Take off your shirt."

Francis was particularly ashamed of his upper body; his chest was narrow and puny and hairless, his nipples no more than mosquito bites, but his shame served only to heighten his humiliation. He took his shoulder bag off and laid it on the floor and then he pulled the shirt off over his head and cast it aside.

"That's a good boy" Gunter said quietly, "now hold out your hands."

Francis held both hands straight out in front of him and stood timidly by while Gunter picked up a pair of leather handcuffs from the table. He advanced on the perverted boy and clamped the cuffs onto his wrists, and then he held Francis' captive wrists aloft and clipped them onto the hanging hook. Francis dared not even consider the thought that he may be about to be cut open, to be butchered and his body parts cast into the canal, he could think no further than his raging need to suffer and to satisfy his long-suppressed desires. Gunter crossed to the wall and loosened the rope then began hauling on it until Francis was stretched to his full height. Before Francis was forced to stand on tip-toe, Gunter secured the rope at the wall and turned his attention to his virgin sacrifice.

Francis was too scared and ashamed to meet Gunter's eyes and looked away as Gunter reached down and began to unzip Francis' tight denim shorts. They were so tight that Gunter had to force them down over Francis' generous hips, and in so doing began to pull Francis' panties down with them. Gunter drew the shorts off over Francis' shoes and threw them in the direction of the table. Francis hung there, his delicate panties half off over one hip, the purple head of his throbbing erection trying in vain to touch the navel above it. Gunter wasted no time in ripping off the panties and felt his own penis rising at the spectacle before him. Gunter left Francis' feet free and unshackled; he liked to watch his victims kick out and dance in a parody of the can-can as they writhed in pain.

Francis, seventeen years old and nearly eighteen, was suspended like a carcass of meat in an abattoir, for the last ten years a sometimes willing victim of sexual abuse and humiliation. His hair was slightly too long, as was the fashion in the sixties, and it curled in ringlets around his neck. His eyelashes were slightly too thick for a boy and his lips slightly too rose-bud. His bare chest was weak and his hips too wide. His legs were shapely like a girl's and his penis was narrow and hairless. In a moment of recall he was reminded of being strung up once before, at the hands of a school bully named Gorton. But now was to come his true test, his moment of reckoning.

Gunter went to the table and selected a wide, black leather strap. He had experimented with canes, but they were too prone to cut into the flesh and splash blood indiscriminately, which offended his aversion to all bodily fluids. The strap made a satisfying slapping noise; it left wide red marks and inflicted sufficient pain without damaging the goods. He walked behind Francis and laid the first blow across the queer's shoulders. Francis bucked in shock but gritted his teeth and remained silent. Gunter worked his way methodically down Francis' back, swinging with regular force at the proffered flesh until he reached those delicious unblemished buttocks. These he paid particular attention to, glorying in his role as Master, his hidden erection bulging beneath his trousers, delighting in the way the fat flesh wobbled and clinched, turning a bright crimson. Then he started on the back of those girlish thighs.

Francis was jerking and twisting as each blow of the strap landed on his body. Gunter didn't have to walk around the hanging youth to attack the front. Francis was now twisting to avoid the painful blows and was turning unavoidably toward the Master. Gunter hit Francis across the boy's taught chest, landing the strap across those tiny nipples. He worked down to the flat stomach, not caring that the strap was now catching the tip of Francis' drooling penis. When Francis legs parted as they danced, Gunter was able to hit the inside of the thighs. Francis was beginning to moan as the punishment continued and he felt a searing shriek of pain as the leather caught his tight little balls. Gunter was gratified and beginning to perspire with the effort, but he wasn't going to stop now that he had established a rhythm.

Another fifteen minutes elapsed before Gunter tired of his playing and left Francis sagging from his bonds and he returned the strap to the table. He sat on the chair and helped himself to one of his cheroots, and regarded the faggot as he smoked and relaxed.

Francis opened his eyes and tried to relieve the ache in his wrists as his circulation protested at the handcuffs. His whole body was flaming hot from the beating and he wondered with fear and excitement at what might follow. There was a deep, gnawing pain in his testicles from where they had been struck.

Gunter extinguished his cheroot and picked up a candle from the assorted implements on the table. It was an ordinary white candle with the bottom end wrapped around with tape. Francis caught sight of the candle and thought that Gunter was going to penetrate his anus with it; it was something Francis had done to himself in his bed on the ship. Gunter stood before Francis and said, "Open your mouth". Francis obeyed and Gunter slipped the taped end of the candle into the boy's waiting mouth. "Now bite onto it" he said.

Francis gripped the candle between his teeth and Gunter stepped to one side and gauged the drop from the candles wick to Francis' penis head. He pushed the candle a little deeper into Francis' mouth, and then with his gold lighter, he lit the candle. The first drops of molten wax fell harmlessly onto the floor but as the candle burned down, the drops became more frequent and fell ever closer to the silly boy's hard prick. The first drop that struck his knob-head made Francis utter a muffled scream and he nearly spat the candle out. Now the wax burnt and coated the uncircumcised head but started to burn the shaft as the candle wore down. The most painful moment for Francis was when the wax struck the place where there should have been pubic hair; in the tender spot where the penis meets the body. Francis was inflicting the torture on himself, holding in his mouth the very instrument that seared his pathetic 'manhood'.

The flame was now flickering dangerously close to Francis' face; he could feel the heat on the end of his nose. Gunter removed the candle, not because of concern for Francis' safety, but because the candle wax had formed a shell on the boy's penis, protecting it now from further pain. Gunter put the candle back and then drew on to his manicured hands a pair of transparent surgical gloves. He approached Francis and carefully broke off the wax mould that had formed around Francis' still erect penis. The globs of wax fell away, the shell covering his unfortunate penis head came off in one piece. Beneath the shell, pre-cum oozed and dribbled from Francis' perverted prick, which Gunter wiped away with his gloved fingers; and even then another drop of coital juice appeared. Francis had been erect now for an eternity and yearned for release and twisted from side to side, shamelessly waving his little prick from side to side, hoping the only movement he could make would suffice in place of actual contact.

Gunter checked his expensive watch, he had another torment to inflict before Hassan came knocking at his door. He leant down and attached wires to the car battery that sat beneath the table. They in turn ran to a transformer and from the transformer electric wires led to a control box. The control box had long wires with clips at the end of them. Rigging up such an electric shock machine had been easy for an electrician like Gunter. Francis saw what Gunter was about and now real fear set in. He began to utter "No, please, no" and shake his head but Francis' pleas only served to fuel the master's ardor.

Gunter retreated to behind the washroom door, and out of sight of his prize, he opened his trousers and rolled a condom onto his stiff organ. When Gunter reappeared, Francis continued his pitiful begging, "Oh please sir, please don't hurt me anymore, please sir, and I'll do anything else that you want, but not that!" Gunter flicked a switch on the control box and a needle flickered behind a glass dial. He took hold of the two clips trailing their wires and approached the terrified youth. Twisting and turning from his manacles, Francis made a useless effort to avoid the inevitable. The two clips that Gunter held had little pads between their teeth, to avoid puncturing the flesh and spilling blood.

Gunter took hold of Francis' scrotum and rolled the little hard balls between his fingers. How delicate and vulnerable they were; he could easily crush them with his hand. He pinched a fold of the sac flesh and attached the clip. Gunter then took hold of Francis' stretched foreskin and had difficulty in pinching out enough skin to attach the clip, but by giving a cruel twist he was able to get a good grip and fastened the second clip to the bitch-boy's genitals.

"Please, oh please" wailed the boy "I am begging you, please, please don't!"

Gunter went back to the table; the boy's begging was music to his ears. He sat down and turned his attention to the machine while Francis continued to protest. Gunter adjusted his erection, which were constrained beneath his clothes. He turned the knob on the machine.

Francis now went quiet, resigned to his fate. He looked down at his erection which was as hard and big as he had ever seen it before, and he cursed it for betraying him. Francis felt a tingling sensation in his naughty prick and another strand of pre-cum leaked out and hung in the meager light like gossamer. The tingling intensified as Gunter rotated the knob a little further and the needle moved. Gunter turned so that he could enjoy every moment of Francis' demise and increased the voltage. Francis felt the tingling turn into a stinging sensation and he likened it to the feeling that he experienced when the girls and boys at school had brushed nettle leaves on his willy and balls. But that stinging had been on the outside of his flesh; this stinging was on the inside and was much worse.

Gunter kept his eyes on Francis' face as he increased the voltage. Francis screwed up his eyes as the burning grew hotter and started to whimper and beg. "Oh sir, it's hurting me. Please stop, I beg of you. Please. Please. Please!" Gunter loved the way the boy was jerking and jumping about on the end of the rope, like a puppet on a string. He turned up the voltage. Now Francis began to softly scream, it felt as if a corkscrew had been pushed down his urethra and was being worked up and down, in and out of his penis.

Gunter admired the shape of the boy's nude body as he thrashed about; the buttocks were still glowing pink and how nice and smooth the boys pale flanks were. Francis was screaming one minute, then muttering the next; the pain came in waves, getting stronger but never quite receding. As the needle on the machine moved further to the right, it suddenly felt to Francis that a demon was skinning his excited penis with a potato peeler, as if the flesh was being scraped, and he kicked his silly legs and danced for his master like a marionette.

When Gunter gave the knob a final turn, Francis began to scream in falsetto, just like a stupid little virgin girl being raped. He shook his head violently from side to side with spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Now he could take no more, it felt as if his penis was being peeled like a banana, as if the skin that covered his six inch shaft was being torn off, and he looked down frantically, sure that he would see smoke and blood and shredded flesh.

Through his tears he saw that his wildly twitching penis was quite intact and still seeping juice. All the agony was on the inside. Again Francis began to scream and beg and his voice was becoming hoarse. The great waves of electricity rolled between the contacts, pulverizing his willy flesh and he began to chant "No more, no more, no more!" Reluctantly Gunter lowered the voltage until once again Francis felt as if a stinging nettle was inserted into his urethra and he slumped down, all his weight supported by the handcuffs. As Gunter was removing the clips from Francis' genitals, there was a soft knocking at the door.

Gunter tossed the clips onto the table and went to answer the door. Francis heard the knock on the door through his dazed and confused state and realized to his dismay that they were about to be joined by someone else, which was something else that he had not bargained for and he cursed himself for the fool that he was.

Gunter opened the door and Hassan stepped in from the bright sunlight outside. Gunter closed the door behind him and as Hassan's eyes grew accustomed the shadowy interior of the cellar, he inwardly gloated at the sight that lay before him. Hassan spent his days copulating with rich, old women and he hated their wealth and the folds of their flesh and the stench of their talcum powder. His preference was for firm, young white boys, with frightened eyes and tender bottoms and tight sphincter muscles and little penises. Here before him, suspended from the ceiling, hung the sum of all his fantasies.

Francis' back was to him and his lovely bottom was still glowing from the thrashing that Gunter had given him. Gunter returned to take a seat at the table and opened his trousers. Francis watched through tear-stained eyes as Gunter opened his trousers and withdrew his rubber-covered erection. Francis heard the movement of the newcomer behind him and waited with baited breath.

Hassan walked quietly up to the sacrificial youth and admired the English body. He reached out with both hands and placed them on either side of the torso, then ran his hands down and massaged the hips. Francis looked to his side and saw with horror the jet-black hands that so lovingly caressed him. Francis was the son of an empire upon which the sun never set. At school, his atlas had shown the world to be colored pink, a commonwealth that spanned the globe.

There had been no colored boys at school and as far as Francis was concerned, blacks belonged on the plantations or in the jungle. His voyages on the ship around Africa had only reinforced his prejudice; the natives that came aboard to work the cargo were savages who were only one step removed from the apes. And now here he was, a white English boy, proud of his history and heritage, suspended naked with a raging erection and a black man handling him. He groaned and closed his eyes, not wanting to see who was behind him and preparing to abuse him.

Hassan moved his rough black hands from Francis' hips and began to knead the pliant flesh of Francis' buttocks. He squeezed them and left his finger prints on the cheeks. Then he pulled them apart and studied the tight, pink anus, shaved clean only that morning. He probed it with his index finger, the rough nail causing Francis to wince. Was it possible this bitch-boy was a virgin? He called to Gunter and together they poked at the anus, trying to pry the hole open. Gunter felt his prick twitching and returned to his chair to enjoy the show. Hassan took hold of Francis' body and twirled it around to face him. Francis came face to face with his worst nightmare. Hassan was grinning, his pearl-white teeth accentuating his black complexion.

He took hold of Francis' tiny nipples and pinched them until Francis was forced to squeal. Hassan looked down at Francis' inept erection. Shaven and pathetic, the little pink balls smaller than a dog's. Hassan looked Francis in the eye. Hassan saw in his face Francis' fear and loathing, and he saw in his stiff penis the boy's perversion. Francis saw in Hassan's face the black man's domination of him and turned away. Hassan took hold of Francis' chin and forced the boy to look at him. Hassan then slowly and deliberately unbuttoned his shirt and dropped his loose trousers. Francis' gaze traveled down the Algerian's chest, to his flat muscular stomach, and obviously to what lay between his legs. Francis gaped as he saw what made so many old ladies' eyes water.

Hassan's prick was flaccid, but still long enough in that soft state to swing like a pendulum. It was bigger while it was soft than the white boy's prick was when it was hard. And it was strangely tapered. The head was narrow, but it thickened up the shaft to its root. Hassan turned Francis' carcass to face away and slowly masturbated his tool to erection. Hassan spat onto his hand and lubricated the end of his dick. It grew like a snake and when it was stretched to its full nine inches, he spat onto his hand again, and parted those delicious white bottom cheeks and applied the spittle to the virginal anus.

Francis held his breath, his eyes screwed shut and his buttocks clenched and he knew he was going to be raped and he knew that it was going to hurt. And he knew deep down that he deserved it, that the strong was going to subdue the weak; that the animal black was going to abuse and degrade the decadent white faggot. Yet still he hoped and prayed for rescue and release. He wanted to awake from the nightmare that he had invited.

Hassan pressed his body up against Francis' back and pushed his weapon into the crack. He gripped hold of Francis' hips and began forcing himself in. At first Francis' clenched anus resisted the assault but when Gunter came over to help his friend and spread the boy's thighs wide, the sphincter muscle relented and Hassan gained entrance. Francis squealed again, like a stuffed pig, and felt he was being torn apart.

Once Hassan had embedded his prick-head into Francis' white flesh, he started to feed in the rest of his harpoon's widening length. Francis stopped squealing and now he began to moan and sob. Cries for mercy would be useless and so he had to cope with what was to come like a real man, which he plainly was not. The third and fourth inches of Hassan's turgid member filled the boy's hole nicely, and now he had to really push to force the rest in.

Francis could not believe the pain that racked his body and could only think that it must be equal to the agony of childbirth. Francis roared and growled as the penetration got deeper, sometimes yelping like a puppy dog, other times screaming unintelligible curses. Hassan gave a final push and the head of his great black penis butted into Francis' gut.

Blood began to seep out of Francis' torn anus and trickle down his spread inner thighs. Now that Hassan was happily embedded, he started the serious business of fucking this white slut. He drew his hips back and forth, delighting in the screams of pain and humiliation that rang in his ears. Sitting slumped in his chair, Gunter had to close his eyes and block out the wonderful scene for fear of coming too soon.

Francis had bitten his own tongue and now had traces of blood on his lips as well as on his wrecked anus. He was jerking like a rag doll as he took his punishing rape, the rope on which he hung swaying wildly. At a shout from Hassan, Gunter got up from the chair and approached the rutting couple. Hassan kept on spearing Francis while Gunter stretched up and released the boy from the hook. He was saved from collapsing onto the floor by Hassan, who slipped his arms beneath Francis and supported the white faggot's weight while he kept beggaring. Francis was only vaguely aware of the relief that he felt from being released from suspension, all his senses were now fighting to survive the anal assault. Hassan gleefully lifted Francis up into a sitting position, the faggot still impaled on his prick, and cruelly bounced the boy up and down, until Francis felt that Hassan's savage organ would skewer him completely and emerge from his throat.

Hassan lowered Francis' wilting body to the hard, stone floor and reluctantly withdrew his blood-smeared prick. He hauled Francis over on to his back like a piece of meat and forced Francis' legs up and back over the boy's own shoulders. He wasted no time in quickly burying his rapier-like prick back into the warmth and comfort of Francis' ravaged hole. This was the position he liked best, so that he could look into the face of his victim as he shagged him, and all that lay between them was the evidence of Francis' own meager erection and testicles.

The ground was hard and cruel against Francis' spine but he was helpless. Francis had to look up into the foreign face of the black brute and witness his own rape. He saw the great black penis moving in and out of his fair white flesh like an angry piston. He saw his own penis, a pale shadow compared to Hassan's, yet still erect and begging for more. Hassan leaned forward and with his calloused black hand, held Francis' mouth open.

Hassan formed a gob of saliva and carefully spat it into Francis' mouth. And something happened in Francis' soul, in his psyche. He held the gob of spit on his tongue and let Hassan see it there, before swallowing it down, and then he opened his mouth for more. Hassan happily obliged and Francis gargled with the disgusting slime. Francis began to mutter, and then to shout, as he surmounted the pain in his gut. "Oh yes, oh yes, go on, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me harder, oh please fuck me deeper, harder!!" And Hassan duly obliged, tearing into the offered white flesh like a ravenous beast.

"Oh yes! Go on, do it! Fuck me! Make me suffer! Fuck me, fuck me! Hurt me! Go on! Fuck, fuck, fuck me!"

Hassan was into his final straight, the sweat was rolling off his brow and he felt his climax approaching. It was the best fuck that Hassan had ever had and he didn't ever want it to end, but the sight of this screaming, squirming white fuck-boy beneath him was too much to resist.

"Do me! Do me!" Francis wailed, and began mimicking the movements of a woman, pushing his hips to meet Hassan's thrusting.

"Oh go on!" he shouted, "Fucking fuck me! Punish me! Make the bitch ashamed! Show the faggot what a bitch she is!"

Hassan got to his knees and pulled his greasy pole out of the white boy, ready to administer the coup de grace. He leaned over the ranting boy, who was now bereft because the fucking had stopped, and wanked his tool over Francis. A great stream of cum flew from Hassan's prick, followed by a copious flood of curdled milk, and it landed on Francis' face, sticking to his eye-lashes, stinging his eyes, smearing his nose and cheeks, but most importantly for them both, pouring into Francis' wide open and waiting mouth.

Francis gargled with his mouthful of cum, blowing bubbles with it and Hassan scooped up those drops that spattered Francis' face and fed them into the boy's mouth. Francis was still in a delirium of sexual frenzy, thrusting up his hips, his torn-open gaping anus was desperate for more raping. "Oh God! Thank you, thank you, thank you" he moaned, "thank you for shaming me, thank you for proving what a fucking bitch-slut I am" and so saying, Francis reached out and grabbed hold of his own straining penis and bent it cruelly downward, hurting himself by holding it in such an unnatural position, and vigorously wanked it.

Hassan continued forcing out his remaining ejaculation and feeding his creamy cum into Francis' mouth. Gunter was slumped in his chair; he had fondled his rubber- coated prick with his rubber-coated fingers and the sight of Francis screaming for more and blowing cum bubbles from his rose-bud lips had triggered his own climax.

Hassan was toppled aside as Francis arched his back, raising his bottom off the stone floor and spreading his thighs wide. "Bitch cunt! Bitch cunt!" he screamed at himself, "you fucking dirty bitch cunt!" and his orgasm shuddered through his effeminate frame.

Francis' own cum spewed forth and spattered across his torso, mixing with the remnants of Hassan's load. Francis held his pose, his back arched and bottom held aloft. Hassan scooped up the fresh globules of Francis' cum and fed them into the boy's moaning mouth. Francis rejoiced in his passion, reveling in the realization that a black man was force-feeding him his own cum. And then Francis slumped down and lay spent and gasping on the floor, his naked body wreathed in trails of cum juice and with bloody smears down his thighs.

Hassan slowly got to his feet and stood over the white queer-boy, with an expression of contempt and satisfaction on his face. He took hold of his wilting harpoon and urinated over Francis, directing the stream of hot piss across the nude body, cleaning off the cum from Francis' torso and then pouring the stream into Francis' open mouth. Francis' mouth was a open well, full of Hassan's rich cream and his own weaker contribution, and overflowing with Hassan's scalding urine. Francis coughed and swallowed, then coughed again and finally swallowed down his just deserts. He lay on his side, exhausted and defeated; a pathetic spectacle of warped masculinity.

As Francis limped along the quayside in the early evening light, anxious to gain the sanctuary of his cabin on the ship, he felt a swelling sense of achievement. He had passed an initiation ceremony; he had survived a rite of passage. Now he was a fully-fledged homosexual; he had been raped up the anus and lost his virginity. He had been sodomized by a black savage, shagged up the arse, beaten and buggered; he had been well and truly fucked! He felt more confident now about his own sexuality, more self-assured; in future he would flaunt his body more openly and prick-tease the men more boldly. What Francis didn't realize was that he had passed a test but the examination was not over; there were many more painful lessons ahead.