Speedoboy 711

Boy Daredevils in Speedos

[1]
Cub Scout Camp

When I was seven, I joined the cub scouts, which is what boys in the UK belong to before graduating to the scouts at the age of about eleven. Every summer, we'd go away on camp for a fortnight, and one camp, when I was ten years old, still sticks in my mind above all the others. It was a really hot summer, and I spent most of the fortnight running around in just my black speedos (and a purple pair, as you'll see shortly!), and a pair of trainers.

About forty boys from our troop had signed up for the camp, and there were six cubscoutmasters to look after us. One of the masters wasn't one of the regular guys from our weekly meetings back home – he'd been brought in by a colleague to make up the right number of adults. He'd have been about twenty-five to thirty, I guess, with hindsight. He was muscular, with thick black hair all over his body, and he used to stride around the camp in a pair of tight purple speedos, which he seemed to have to adjust all the time, and a black T-shirt with a swimming club logo on it of a devilish boy with horns holding a trident aloft, and the words Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club around the logo. I was slightly puzzled about this at first, as it was not a club I'd come across locally. He had a wolfish grin on his face for most of the two weeks, especially when he was looking at us boys, and he seemed to record everything (and I mean everything!) on a cine camera (I think the film footage is still doing the rounds on the net, actually!). Because of his grin and his body hair (still a thing alien to us hairless pre-teen cubs) we decided to nickname him Wolf, and he seemed to really like the name!

We were divided up into six groups of boys, with about six or seven of us in each group, each with an adult mentor. Each group had a name taken from classical history – there was one called Spartan Boys, for example. We six were Roman Boys. To my delight, Wolf chose me for his group. In fact, he seemed to choose all the boys I'd admired most at cubs when we'd had swimming, wrestling and boxing sessions – we were all slim, athletic and, I guess, cute-looking kids as far as he was concerned. Once we'd pitched our tents away from the others, he managed to get us a private log cabin nearby as our hq.

At our first team talk in the log cabin, he said he'd make sure we won the competition to be 'Cub Scout Camp Champs', but that we'd have to train hard. We agreed, and then we all swore a solemn oath of brotherhood, which included a promise to reveal nothing about our training methods to our rivals. Then he surprised us all by bringing out a sports bag full of silky boy-size speedos, in a whole array of dazzling colours, and measured each one of us for a pair, so that, to our great pride, we each got a new pair of purple speedos, just like his! The evening was a blur of boys running around trying on speedos, admiring each other, giggling, punching and play fighting. Wolf filmed lots of great footage that night. I remember I deliberately tried a pair which were way too small for me, and writhed around on the floor in front of him pretending the tight garment was crushing my balls. To the amazement of all the boys present, Wolf just unashamedly reached out, grabbed me hard by the speedos, and gave me a deft squeeze, twisting my young boy organs, saying "Now this is what real pain feels like, boy!" I gave a yelp of surprise, but refused to run away. I raised my eyes to his and gave him a long, defiant look, and then a boyish smile. He did the same, and then, with some reluctance, released the crushing pressure on my young balls. We understood each other already.

He kept to his promise and trained us well – endless hours of swimming at the camp pool, including many underwater lengths, which initially freaked out some of the other boys, but they soon got used to it, once they knew they'd get their heads pushed straight back under if they surfaced too soon. Running, cycling, rowing, trampolining, boxing, wrestling 3; the camp was a real paradise for a ten year old like me with boundless energy. He trained us to be mentally tough too. For example, he'd wake us up in the middle of the night after we'd gone to sleep (we were made to sleep in spare pairs of purple speedos, as part of the team bonding process), he'd crawl around our tent on all fours, howling, and muttering "I'm the Big Bad Wolf, and I'm hungry, and I need a boy for my supper!" We'd all wake up, and peep out of the tent as that night's victim was taken struggling to his tent and tied up. Then the trussed-up youngster would be brought out, and placed carefully in a huge cooking pot over a campfire outside the tent. The water was just starting to get warm, and the Big Bad Wolf would pace around the boy, telling him which part of his anatomy he was going to cut off an eat first (not a particularly original choice, I'm sorry to report!). Then the victim would go into the pot, which turned out to be no warmer than a hot bath, but that would not stop the boy from thrashing and screeching, if only to strike fear into the ones who had not yet been initiated.

When my turn for the pot came, he whispered in my ear "I'm gonna have some fun with you, boy!", as he carried me kicking and yelling into his tent. While he was tying me up, he was greatly surprised when I piped up, in my confident boy-treble voice; "You can do whatever you want, as long as you don't risk my life, or permanently injure me, OK Wolf? My safeword is Bagheera, from the Jungle Book, right?" I had made my pitch, and fell silent.

He stopped what he was doing and looked straight into my eyes for a long time. He didn't look wolfish any more, just supremely compassionate and concerned. "Has someone been hurting you, little guy? he asked softly. "You wanna talk about it?" I gazed back, thinking hard. So far, I'd had him down as a casual, rather heartless user of boys on a weekend basis 3; a swim meet here, a cub scout camp there 3; but there was more to him than that. He put his arm around my shoulders, and we sat side by side for a while, man and boy. Tears were pouring down my face.

"No", I said "no-one's hurting me – at least no-one's doing anything to me I don't want them to 3; it's just that 3; I don't know 3; all my life I've been dreaming up ways to torture myself 3; even from the age of five 3; and I don't understand why 3; I love my family and they love me, and I'm doing fine at school 3; but all I want to do really is strip down to my speedos and get my balls whipped 3; I guess I'm just some kind of weirdo, huh?"

Wolf considered this, and then raised his head smiling. "Is that such a problem?" he said. "There are lots of people around like you, Rob 3; in a way you're just lucky that you discovered who you were so young 3; you're, what, ten, right?"

"Right."

"Well I was just like you when I was ten, and there was no one around to tie me up 3; why don't you just enjoy this part of your character, and see where it takes you? Like you say, you have a safeword, and people like me will always, always respect that".

I thought about this, and then smiled back. "OK Wolf", I said, my natural enthusiasms restored (or perhaps it was just that I'd woken up fully, after the shock of being roused at midnight!), "let's go have some fun 3; do your worst!"

He finished tieing me up – but did so very roughly and thoroughly. Then, newly emboldened, I made a request; "Could I have something extra, Wolf, to make this a little more challenging 3; it seems kinda easy as it is!"

"O.K. son", he said, grinning, "You asked for it".

He didn't disappoint me – he took out a tiny but thick, strong little ring made of black rubber, yanked down my speedos rather carelessly and wrestled my tiny cock and balls through the device with some difficulty. That got me squirming on the floor of his tent – a helpless boy in real torment – the pain was intense but thrilling. Then, catching me unawares, he put another one on for good measure – but this second one was so tight that he had to stifle a scream as it was snapped on to my pre-pubescent genitals, which were now forced to protrude nice. They were already becoming red. From my sessions by myself at home, I knew it wouldn't long before they turned a nice shade of purple, but I'd have to get them off somehow before they turned black – I didn't want to do myself any lasting damage, not with a lifetime of experimentation ahead of me. Wolf rearranged my speedos with great care, and put one some stray ropes which seemed to but between my legs like a cheese wire.

Then he went outside and set up his cine camera on infra-red so that it could record properly at night, and and dragged me out of the tent by my thick mop of straight brown hair, so that I was yelling hard as I came out. The boys in the tent were still watching, calling out things like "What took you so long? Did he take your ass in there man?" I just gave them the finger angrily, and they collapsed in giggles. The water in the pot was far too hot because our talk had taken longer than expected, so Wolf bailed some out and put some cold in. It was now back to hot, but not too hot. Then he lifted up his boy-captive,and, rather than placing me in feet first as he'd done with the others, he threw me brutally into the water, and held my head down at the bottom of the pot, with my tied feet and the back of my purple speedos bobbing at the top of the steaming utensil. I'd had the sense to take a breath when I realized what was happening, which was just as well, as he held me under hard for two minutes, punching and clawing me for good measure, only withdrawing finally because his arm was getting too hot in the water.

He hauled me up, and his wolfish grin reappeared, but I just stared at him defiantly, took another breath and ducked right down underwater again. The water was beginning to boil now 3; little bubbles fizzing and popping around my unprotected skin, but I knew I had to match the two minutes he'd given me, and go beyond it. It was difficult to keep my head underwater all by myself, but I was tied in such a way that I was crouching in a ball face down, which served me well. I counted slowly in my head, determined not to give myself an easy time 3; Just as things were slipping away and I could feel I was about to black out, at about two minutes fifteen seconds, I swung my body around and surfaced, gasping noisily. The boys in the tent were cheering, and so was Wolf. He hauled me out, untied me, cut off the treacherous rings he'd snapped onto me, and said to all of us, "I know we'll be cub scout camp champs how, boys 3; you're a fine body of young men!".

On that note, we went back to our tent and slept soundly, dreaming of glorious victories to come. Best of all, Wolf gave me a special invitation to join his private swimming squad, the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club, at his private pool. The training was more imaginative and intense there, as I shall have to recount another day.

[2]
Poseidon Manor

Wolf – that is in fact his real name – prefers royal purple speedos because he is in fact an aristocrat, Lord Wolf of Poseidon Manor. His remote ancestral home is the site of his private swim club. Boys who aspire to the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club must go there and pass Wolf's rigorous curriculum. To ensure proper supervision, there are only three boys per class. They meet at the edge of the a pond next to the castle. Lord Wolf gives them a small air tank to share and directs them to an underwater tunnel starting about two meters [7 feet] below the shore line. The boys must swim through the long winding tunnel to a central chamber deep within the castle. The tunnel is long and the water is cold. Both the tank and the boys' lungs are spent by the time they reach their new home.

The school consists of a labyrinth of subterranean chambers beneath the castle connected by underwater tunnels, each equipped for a specific task or challenge. The boys must swim from chamber to chamber through the underwater tunnels. Some chambers contain exercise stations where the boys spend grueling hours lifting weights, rowing, swimming, and stretching to build their strength and endurance. Other chambers have grim but non-lethal torture devices to test the boys' tolerance to pain. Still others present challenges that require all of the boys' strength, endurance, and courage to avert extreme pain and injury. The boys rarely see Lord Wolf. He appears in a balcony above their sleeping area in the morning and informs them which chambers and tasks await them that day. The instructions are long and detailed. The boys must memorize what they hear, for many of the tunnels lead to dead ends and unforgiving obstacles. After charging the boys with the day's tasks, Wolf leaves through passages that open only to him. He ascends to his control room, where he monitors the boys' progress with cameras and remotely operated machinery. For some of the tasks he sends his helpers, boys from the Club with face masks and wet suits with the trident on their breasts. They never speak to the speedo clad pupils, nor respond when spoken to. They have no names. Lord Wolf simply refers to them as 'tormentors'.

Satisfactory performance is rewarded with food and rest at the end of the day, at least for two of the boys. The boy judged weakest or most cowardly spends the night in a cage suspended over a grotto pool. Each day starts with the cage dropping. The hapless occupant's partners must dive to rescue him, and then the trio swims off to meet the day's challenges.

The curriculum is flexible in its absence of an end date. Over time the exercises become more demanding, the pain more intense, and the challenges more daring. The pupils must increase their strength and endurance. They have no choice. The only exit available to them is sealed. When a pupil feels he has risen to the level of the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club, he is given an opportunity to exit the way he entered. The swim out, however, must be done without supplemental oxygen, and with many tormentors waiting along the way to make sure the last swim is a desperate one. If the pupil does not drown and require rescue, he emerges into the pond as a Daredevil Boy, and is conferred with a purple speedo with trident logo.

Rob stood on the shore of the pond contemplating the tunnel entrance. It was dark and menacing. His face was defiant, but he was shaking. Could his small but strong ten year old body really withstand the torments he was about to submit to? What perils awaited him beneath the grim, forbidding walls of Poseiden Manor? He planted his feet, stood straight, and started pumping his chest. He would show Lord Wolf. He would show everybody.

[3]

"Let the ordeal begin", boomed Wolf.

The skinny ten year old in purple speedos (as yet unadorned with the trident symbol which the boy hoped to win) looked touchingly small and vulnerable beside the muscular aristocrat, but the boy's expression was one of utter determination.

Rob tugged his matching purple goggles over his thick boyish mop of straight brown hair, placing them carefully over his eyes, and put the regulator in his mouth. He stood on the ledge a meter [3 feet] above the surface, raised his arms as if summoning Excalibur from the depths, and dove in. He immediately regretted his flamboyance. A shock of cold stabbed to the very center of Rob's slender frame, paralyzing him. His goggles came loose and his mouth piece popped out. As Rob groped for his dive gear he sank to the bottom and disappeared into a cloud of silt. By the time he could see and breath again he was in total darkness. Rob searched frantically for the tunnel entrance, but he was barefoot and could not ascend much against the weight of the tank, so all he did was stir up more silt. He had never been so cold. The frigid water penetrated his eyes, and back, and even his hair. It seemed the water had stolen every last morsel of warmth from his body. After a few minutes, all he could do was kneel on the bottom, in the cold and dark. He hugged his chest, feeling his nipples stand erect in the cold. His breathing was fast and shallow. Even the air seemed cold. Rob knew this was the wrong technique, but he could no longer control his body. Finally, he accepted defeat, mustered his last dram of strength, and scrambled up the bank. He plopped on the ground before Lord Wolf. Tears mixed with the lake water on Rob's face. Lord Wolf looked disdainfully at the shivering white shape before him. Two tormentors dragged the hapless pre-teen to Lord Wolf's feet and ripped off his air tank.

"Now you see what happens to boys who don't concentrate," snarled Wolf. "Do you realize that your very life will depend on your ability to listen to detailed instructions, and to obey them implicitly?"

Rob was furious with himself, and felt very small indeed. He lay there, looking like a drowned waif. But then he got a grip – this was his big chance to undergo every ordeal he'd ever dreamed about in the safety of his boy bedroom at home. He begged for a second chance, explaining that he was over-excited and over-awed by the magnificence of the setting. The cunning imp certainly knew how to flatter his master, who indulged the boy and let him try again, after he'd been punished. The delicious chastisement consisted of having the drawstring of his speedos undone, so that the white nylon cord could be wound deftly around the boys small, hairless balls and cocklet, and tied tightly, before the trunks were snapped back into position onto the boy's milky-white body, and the cord was re-tied as normal to secure them. Rob was thrilled by the punishment 3; it felt just right!

Galvanised by his shame at having fallen at the first fence, and spurred on my the delicious waves of pain caused by the cruel misuse of the white nylon cord, Rob expeditiously negotiated the long, snaking tunnel into the arrival chamber. The cold attacked, but Rob convinced himself that his skin repelled it. He was Rob the seal, now. The oxygen tank was quit three-quarters of the way through the journey, but Rob's determination not to appear foolish prevailed over the feeling that his young lungs were turning inside out, and that his throbbing head was about to break open. When he felt he had nothing left to give, he switched to remote and swam automatically, now a boy-machine, devoid of emotion and feeling, immersed in the task at hand. He surfaced, and croaked a whoop of joy as two more tormentors yanked him out, hurled him onto the flagstones, and untangled his drawstring.

He was led to a changing room, where two other boys sat waiting, eyeing him suspiciously. But Rob had an open, friendly manner, an infectious giggle, and large trusting brown eyes, and soon there were telling the new boy about the place, and what to watch out for. They warned him in particular about the doctor who was supposed to check the boys for serious injury, Dr Jamboree – an embodiment of evil, as far as Rob could make out from their tales.

The other two were led off to more ordeals – one to the piranha tank, the other to the curiously-named fist machine. Rob waited for his instructions, and Wolf eventually appeared in a gallery far above him. The ten-year-old felt his knees buckle as his day's ordeals were described by the severe aristocrat in great detail. The swimming training was tough enough – four hours with no real break, and then a short pause before the mental and physical ordeals would begin. He began to feel light-headed and faint, and swayed dangerously on his feet, but one of the tormentors forced a strange flask of liquid down his throat, and he began to feel emboldened and oblivious to pain. Rob gathered himself, filled his lungs and swam keenly off to the pool, the route memorized carefully. The schoolboy was determined that there would be no more errors.

The passage was dimly lit from gratings in the roof. As Rob's eyes adapted to the dark, he noticed what looked like the skeletons of small boys beneath him. At first he was horrified, and rose until his back slid along the slimy stones of the ceiling. Then morbid curiosity took over and Rob dove to investigate. He was somewhat relieved to find glazed plaster bones in deliberately ragged boy-sized speedos. Rob knew already that Wolf had a sense of humour, from the two weeks he'd spent under his command at cub scout camp.

The swimming exercise took place in a short narrow channel carrying water diverted from a nearby stream. A large valve upstream of the swimming area set the speed. The water was deep and the sides rose two meters [7 feet] above the surface. Once Rob jumped in he could not exit without assistance. He had to swim continuously against the frigid, relentless current until a tormentor lowered him a rope four hours later. Behind the swim area the water disappeared into another tunnel. Rob did not want to know where it led. A couple of times Rob's legs cramped. He looked up the shear stone walls pleadingly, but there was no one in site. He did not know he was being monitored by infrared cameras below. With no help in site, Rob had no choice but to dive and hold onto a rock with one hand as he massaged his over wrought muscles with the other. Finishing the ordeal took all of Rob's strength, and he knew this was merely an introduction. More advanced swimmers, such as Rob hoped to be soon, were often encumbered to make the exercise more challenging. For example, they were required to hold heavy iron weights in their hands while swimming, or towed a crate behind them fastened at the balls.

After the gruelling swim training was over, Rob crawled onto a bench and lay down for a short time. He felt spent, but soon the resilience of youth took over, and in a few minutes Rob was fidgeting and raring to the next challenge. As Rob stood, a gong sounded, signaling time to dive into the tunnel that led to the Sparky Room. He got the route slightly wrong, and found himself at one stage running out of breath and staring down at a large octopus. He tumble turned away from the creature just before its eager tentacles could wrap themselves around his ankles, and drag him down to a crude cage just visible in the depths. He was relieved when he found his destination, even though he feared that the afternoon ordeal might be too great for him – he was only ten, after all. The tormentors lost no time in hurling him face up on a stone bench, spread eagled, and secured his slender hands and feet with leather straps and rope. It was a position that Rob loved to be in – but he knew from Wolf's description that the next ten minutes would not be pleasant.

The tormentors carefully reached under his speedos, and attached electrodes to his young balls. Then, with great care, they inserted a small metal rod right down the centre of his penis, and tested it swiftly to make sure it was conducting electricity efficiently. Rob's sudden yelp confirmed that it was. It was almost a pleasant, tickly, tingly feeling at first, making the boy jump with pleasure, but as the current increased, so did the brave boy's discomfort, and after five minutes, he was sweating profusely, and yelling lustily. But he was determined not to use his safe word ('Bagheera'), and so the charge on the generator – an ancient, heavy piece of equipment – increased again. Now the speedo-clad boy's body was arching incredibly, and then twisting into positions unnatural for the human torso. Agony had set in, and the bold boy furiously tried to shake away his tears, as he kept his young eyes on the amazing sight of the wires entering his speedos to torment him. He'd gone beyond ten minutes when the generator was switched off 3; and then only because it seemed to be overheating. The disappointed tormentors removed their trecherous devices and untied him, and examined the scorch marks their electrodes had caused, but the triumphant boy looked at them with shining eyes, knowing that they would have to start to treat him with respect. He hoped that Wolf would appear and praise him, but this was not to be. He'd have to undergo more ordeals before he'd see the aristocrat again.

[4]

Rob lost no time diving back into the pool and began negotiating his way through the grim, forbidding tunnels to his next ordeal. He knew the next two tasks would take place in the same chamber, referred to as the Playground, and that the second of the two – the last of the day – would require all three boys to cooperate to survive. He had been required to memorize two routes already, and his young body and mind had taken more punishment in one single day than the ten-year-old had ever endured in his entire boyhood. But the pain seemed to sharpen his mind, and strengthen his muscles, and he swam on, ignoring his hunger for oxygen, rest and warmth. He imagined he was half-fish and half-boy 3; or an eel perhaps, wriggling through the water. With a leisurely grace, he climbed from the water into the appointed chamber, rubbed himself down with the purple towels he found at the water's edge, and adjusting his purple speedos carefully so that they looked smart. He was ready for the Playground.

It was like a dream from his earlier childhood 3; massive, oversized swings, a huge roundabout, an enormous seesaw, a dizzyingly tall climbing frame, an impossibly high slide a metal rocking horse, and other pieces of equipment less easy to identify. The equipment towered over the young boy, and had evidently been designed to look sinister and brutal, rather than colourful and welcoming. The pre-teen suddenly felt a lot younger and more vulnerable.

Almost as if they sensed his moment of weakness, the tormentors appeared. They pulled him roughly towards the swings. Rob was tied brutally onto one of then, in a strange position unlike anything he had adopted in his earlier days. His hands and feet were bound to the seat of the swing, so that his body hung down below it, with his belly pointing towards the floor. A pair of tormentors started pushing Rob back and forth, higher and faster with each pass. Rob straightened his body to avoid scraping the floor, but gravity inevitably won and Rob's speedo, stomach, and chest violently slapped the rough flagstones. Rob yelped as the sting pulsed through his body. The chains met at a point so that the swing could turn to any angle. The tormentors started spinning Rob as he swung back and forth. Sometimes he careened past the flagstones chest first, other times he made first contact with his speedo. Worst was when he slammed the floor sideways. He stiffened to keep his torso from twisting excessively. Rob became disoriented as the tormentors flung him back and forth. He could not remember which way was up or forward. He world became a blur defined only by the relentless waves of pain surging from the floor. After five minutes, or was it ten? the ordeal stopped.

Rob slumped onto a puddle of his sweat on the floor. The scrapes and bruises on Rob's front protested, but he had no strength to lift himself. Rob wondered if the ordeal was over when the floor fell away. The tormentors were shortening the chain. When Rob was suspended about a foot [30 cm] above the floor one of the tormentors pulled his wet body back to launch position. Rob was facing away from the swing, but he looked down his body and saw the other tormentor setting up bowling pins in the center. A pole was tied behind Rob's knees to keep his legs separated, and he was launched again, this time to the side. Having regained some of his strength, Rob stiffened as he surveyed his new predicament.

The tormentors were playing a game of knock-down, and Rob did not have to wonder which part of him would do most of the knocking. Sure enough, after a couple of practice swings Rob's crotch made contact with one of the pins. It was off to the side, so he only grazed it, but he still knocked it flying, and a wave of throbbing pain reverberated through his body. The center pins would hit much harder. Rob gritted his teeth and relished the challenge as he flew back and forth, and decided he would play the game, too. One of the tormentors had tickled Rob's speedo and rubbed his nipples while fastening him to the swing. Rob decided to reward the affection. He smirked as the tormentor catapulted him towards the center, and intentionally drooped his body so that he would hit the next pin square on. The pain did not disappoint him, and he spun wildly to the side as the heavy pin tumbled in the other direction. Now Rob came into the hands of the tormentor who had merely slapped and yanked him. He raised his body so that the pins whooshed harmlessly below him. Again Rob favored the other tormentor, letting his body swing out to ensure contact with an outer pin. His throbbing balls protested, but Rob relished the pain even more, now that it had a purpose.

The tormentors soon realized Rob's game within a game. The favored one rewarded Rob with tickles and strokes as he aimed him for the next pass. The thwarted opponent became frustrated, slamming Rob's shoulders with his fists and wrenching him violently as he hurled him back at the pins. That only increased Rob's resolve to add frustration. He only had to use his strength half the time now, so it was not too hard to stiffen and wriggle to dodge the pins when he wanted. Dizziness returned as Rob whirled and swung. The ache in his crotch seemed to be projecting up his torso. He lost track of how many pins he had pounded, or was it the other way around? Nonetheless, it was easy to keep track of which tormentor was on his side and which one to thwart. He steeled his aching body and kept to his task. Finally, he could see no more pins standing, and was brought to an abrupt stop at the center. His tormentor friend, who had scored all but one of the knock downs, came forward and buried Rob's face in the front of his speedo, as his humiliated rival roughly released the bindings. Rob plopped onto the flagstones, reawakening the cuts and bruises of the earlier game. His body quivered. He was panting and sweating, and smiling.

Rob had no idea his body could take such a beating. He wondered if any of the pain that permeated his body signalled actual injury. He knew he could request a check-up by the doctor, but everything he had heard about the vicious medic discouraged him from doing so. He took a few moments to gather himself, and then jumped into the water to bathe his wounds. The cold water on his skin dulled the pain. He rubbed his balls through his now thread bare speedo. A new pair of purple speedos awaited him on the towels when he emerged a few minutes later.

The two other boys had arrived, but this time they met under very different circumstances. He approached the enormous seesaw, where each had been tied securely face-up at opposite ends. They were bruised and scraped like Rob. They had obviously had a hard day, too. He tried to give them each a confidence inspiring look, but they were concerned about this last and hardest ordeal of the day. A narrow section of floor beneath the seesaw slid away, revealing a trough of water. The bound boys would be dunked alternately as the seesaw went slowly up and down 3; first one boy, and then the other. The older boy, a slim blond eleven year old named Peter, would go underwater first, and remain there until Rob completed a painful and time-consuming task. Then the other boy, nine year old Paul, who must have been Peter's brother as the two looked so alike, would go under, until Rob had successfully completed another task. And so on.

"Don't worry, guys", Rob blustered, "I've got you covered."

The brothers smiled wanly. Rob had been apprised of the tasks in the morning briefing, and knew he had a trick up his sleeve 3; he'd got lucky with this part of the ordeal 3; really lucky. Rob gave Peter a thumbs up as the seesaw tipped, submerging the eleven year old. Only his feet protruded above the surface. Rob sprinted to his task. Now he was Rob the monkey, scampering to the top of the improbably tall climbing frame, A pair of handcuffs awaited him at the top. He clamped them on with some difficulty, and awkwardly stepped through them on the small platform so that his hands were secured behind his back. He poised at the edge. Twelve feet [3½ meter] below him a pile of gravel sloped away toward the water's edge. He steeled his little body, and then, with a defiant whoop, the ten-year-old deliberately hurled himself himself from the high apparatus. The peak of the pile was closer, but Rob knew better than to land on the pile with his feet. Instead he rolled and landed on the slope with the length of his body. He slid to the bottom on his back and arms, the sharp stones tearing at his soft skin. He stopped at the bottom, and an avalanche of stones followed between his legs and piled up on his crotch. He was stunned by the impact and the pain, but quickly shook it off. He lifted himself, and saw Peter rise from the water, shaking and blowing a spume of water as his head broke the surface. Paul's eyes widened as he went under. The shorter nine year old completely disappeared beneath the surface.

A streak of cuts and bruises ran down Rob's back, but he hadn't broken any bones. He ran to the other end of the giant frame, and started climbing. He was still handcuffed, but the side was sloped, so he could ascend awkwardly. He struggled to keep his balance, and the bars dug into his feet. Again Rob reached the top platform, and he plunged onto the gravel pile again. He rolled slightly as he slid down, trying to keep the new abrasions away from earlier bruises. Rob's speedo was destroyed, and the swath of cuts and bruises ran from his shoulders to his thighs. The pain was still tremendous, but it was compensated when Rob reached the bottom and saw Paul emerge from the trough alive and conscious.

Peter took a deep breath as he went back under. A tormentor removed the cuffs and tossed Rob a fresh speedo. Rob jumped into it as he hustled to his next challenge. He scrabbled up the high slide, past a barrel of water which had been placed at the foot of the ladder, to the top of the apparatus. The metal slide was not going to be heated that day, although it might be on another occasion. Instead, obeying his instructions, Rob turned around so that he was looking back down the steps at the shallow tub below. He stretched elegantly and adopted a classic diver's Y-position with his arms above his head, showing his rib cage. He steadied himself, and then dived hard, head first, right into the barrel. This was the part Rob thanked his luck. He was already an accomplished boy-stunt-diver, thanks to his own private efforts in his back yard. He had seen a TV programme about Mexican boys doing exactly the same trick, into even smaller amounts of water and from higher heights, when he was just seven. He had watched transfixed, recognizing his destiny in the amazing images on the screen. Learning the art had been a painful process, but he had mastered it by his ninth birthday. It may seem impossible, but that only adds to the thrill, if you're the kind of boy who is prepared to suffer to improve performance. Of course, Rob had never mentioned his special skill to Wolf or anyone else 3; it was not the kind of thing that comes up naturally in conversation, and he was not a boastful boy by nature. Peter emerged, and Paul went down, and the diver repeated his stunt, this time fooling everyone into thinking for a heart-stopping moment that he was going to miss his target, before emerging triumphantly. The brothers were released, and flung themselves on top of Rob in sheer joy, so that all three youngsters ended up rolling around on the floor, deliriously happy, a mass of arms and legs and speedos.

But their boyish pleasure was short-lived. It was time for Lord Wolf to appear, to identify the boy who'd given the weakest performance of the day, and who would therefore spend the night suspended in a cage above a pool. The two blond boys protested shrilly when Lord Wolf's finger pointed slowly and deliberately at Rob, and the aristocrat reminded him, with no pity in his voice, that he had initially failed his very first task. Worse still, the boy was bundled away by the medic for a check-up. Dr Jamboree had kept his eye on the youngster since he had arrived, and had spent the day in wicked contemplation. The cruel doctor had rewired the cameras in his surgery so that it looked as though he was simply treating the boy's injuries. But he was not. Regrettably, I cannot reveal here what he was really getting up to, but suffice it to say it was far worse, in its way, than anything else the boy had endured that day. It was a bleak end to Rob's debut at Poseidon Manor, nursing his wounds in a cage with no food or warmth, with the dark water mocking him from below, reminding him of the potentially-fatal plunge which awaited him early the next morning 3;

[5]

The ten-year-old boy slept fitfully in the cage, jerking awake every few minutes as every position in his prison was uncomfortable. He shivered all night, the underground cavern, gave no hint of when dawn had come. Rob was almost relieved when finally he heard of activity below. His team-mates, eleven year old Peter and his nine-year-old brother Paul, were thrust into the huge chamber by the tormentors, and ordered them to warm up. The sight of the two pre-teens flexing and stretching their gorgeous bodies, clad only in purple speedos, revived the dispirited boy in the cage a little. He even found his hand reaching down to his small pair of speedos as he watched, and he forgot some of his aches and pains for a moment.

Then, sooner than any of the three boys had expected, the cage rocketed twenty five feet [7½ meter] down into the pool, and was dragged right underwater by a team of tormentors, wearing oxygen tanks, who secured it to the bottom with chains within seconds. They surfaced and motioned to Peter and Paul to begin the rescue. The two boys adjusted their goggles and dived in, examining the cage, and the captive boy inside it, giving him thumbs-up gestures to encourage him. There was no way into the steel cage, and the door was locked with a huge padlock. The would-be rescuers looked around wildly underwater. Paul noticed one side of the pool looked different from the others. He swam to investigate, and discovered a tunnel leading away from the side. The end was dimly lit from above, revealing what might have been a key. The tunnel was only about eight inches [20 cm] wide – too small for Peter. Without waiting for discussion, Paul dolphined to the surface, filled his lungs, and in arched into the tunnel. Inch by painful inch, he squeezed his slender frame sideways along the channel. The rough stones abraded his chest and back, but he pushed on, determined to rescue the boy who had saved him the day before. He worried that his skinny rib cage might crack as he forced his way along, but the channel was just wide enough for his small torso. He was overjoyed as his young fingers closed around the key, and he made his way back eagerly, almost returning to the main pool. Then the walls of the channel started to move inwards. He thought he was imagining it at first, but soon he found it impossible to move.

Panic gripped him, and his whole body went rigid. He couldn't even think – his brain seemed paralyzed. Then, as if waking from a nightmare, he felt his older brother's hands gripping his arms and legs, and the stronger boy frantically began forcing his sibling from the trap. Both boys lungs felt as though they were being folded up over and over again inside them, but they persisted until the nine-year-old was free, just as the walls of the temporary channel closed tight shut behind them. They burst up to the surface, Paul jabbered a frantic explanation about the key, Peter grabbed it, as he was faster and stronger, and swam down to the cage. Peter's part in the rescue, while Paul was getting the key, had been to swim down and breath of air into Rob's mouth through the bars, which had sustained the weakened boy for several vital minutes. It was the work of a moment to unlock the cage, throw off the padlock, and allow Rob to shoot out the cage, past his rescuer, to the surface. All the boys leapt out of the pool, and there was much boyish back slapping and brotherly hugging. They were bonding into a great team.

Things got even better when the tormentors reluctantly led them off to breakfast. Lord Wolf did not skimp on the food. The boys tore through the healthy food they'd been allocated: carefully-chosen cereal, fruit, milk and orange juice, and even a small amount of chocolate. Peter had to admonish his young brother not to stuff himself. Rob was particularly relieved at being able to sate his boyish appetite, having been starved for nearly twenty-four hours. Then, high on a balcony, Lord Wolf appeared, and gave each boy detailed and specific instructions for the day. Each boy memorized them well, knowing how much suffering the slightest slip would cause, and Rob found he was no longer terrified by the ordeals being outlined to him – he had already begun to master fear and, to a limited extent, to conquer pain, and his first priority was to work out ways to accomplish each task as safely as possible. For the first time, he was starting to relax and even enjoy himself, and he no longer felt like a new boy at school.

The morning was spent, as always, in swim training. Rob knew he was assigned a lighter session than the other boys due to his lack of rest, as he was allowed to swim without weights attached to any part of him. He swam hard and imagined he was no longer a boy in the water, but just part of the water, a strong current going against the flow. The thought calmed him, and made the training more effective.

After a light lunch and a brief rest, Rob's favorite part of the day began. He faced two tasks today, and he thought about them carefully as he allowed his refreshed body to glide along underwater to the first ordeal.

He'd heard about the piranha tank from the other boys, and his tummy did little somersaults, half in fear and half in pleasure, as he clambered into the Piranha chamber. It was a devious test. Tormentors slathered Rob's body and speedos with chum. Rob did not know exactly what it was, only that it stank. As the tormentors worked with ill concealed glee, Rob memorized the underwater maze before him. He would have one minute to negotiate the maze before the piranhas would go free to follow the smelly trail Rob would inevitably leave. Rob's refuge would be a portcullis at the far end that would slam shut just after the piranhas entered the maze. Rob's only hope for retaining his flesh lay in getting past the grate before it dropped. The shaft to the surface lay just beyond.

Looking like the victim in a horror movie, Rob stood at the entrance and filled flushed his lungs with fresh air. At the signal, he dove in. In the corner of his eye, he saw a burst of activity in the piranha chamber as the fish caught his sent. Rob traversed the maze easily, and reached the portcullis in less than a minute. He still had a good chest full of air, so instead of breaking for the surface, he decided to put on a little show. Rob went halfway under the spikes of the portcullis, and then arched his back and grabbed the bars with his hands. Then, summoning his remarkable contortion skills, he bent his legs back around the other side of the grate until his heals hooked the bar behind his head. His buttocks bunched mere centimeters from the razor sharp spikes, and his boy basket dangled into the opening below. Rob writhed as if bound to the grate, treating the cameras he assumed looked on from the gloom. Sometimes he did not need to, as his chest convulsed, protesting the lack of oxygen. Rob held on, regarding the convulsions as mere discomfort, not yet a danger sign.

Rob's self training in escape artistry included the cultivation of an uncanny sense of time. He knew, although he could not say exactly how, when the minute had passed. Rob released his heals and glided under the spikes, which came crashing down just as his toes cleared the opening. Rob turned and saw the blood crazed fish clamoring at the bars. A couple had been impaled on the spikes as they drove into the floor. Rob lingered a few seconds, then reached up and punched one of the brutes as it struggled against the bars. It bit him on the knuckle, which promptly started bleeding. Rob waved his bleeding fist in front of the brutes, driving them into an even greater frenzy.

Rob's diaphragm crunched again, this time it was not just protesting. Rob sprang for the surface two body lengths above, spouting as he broke the surface like a small white whale. His concsiousness faded in and out as he panted. He had cut it close – just the way he liked it.

Rob clambered onto the flagstones, bowing deeply to the cameras. He ripped off his trunks as they'd become bloodstained, and snapped on another pair, grinning boyishly. Without further pause, he dived back into the water.

As he swam through the tunnels, turning left, right, third on the right, second on the left, past the treasure chests, which he wisely ignored, and up through the wreckage of the pirate ship to the surface, he felt as though he was at the height of his game. He was glad he had taken the piranha game a bit further than anyone had expected. It gave him confidence to think about how to deal with his other problems – notably the sadistic medic who was supposed to be checking him over every night, Dr Jamboree. The name, obviously connected with scouts and cubs, where he'd met Lord Wolf, had a festive ring to it. But the man was quite the opposite. It wasn't that he looked mean 3; if anything, he looked extremely kind, with a soft face and caring eyes. It was the fact that he maintained this friendly disposition while inflicting all sorts of evil upon the boys that really worried Rob. He worried that the man might be mad, and Lord Wolf needed to know what was going on. It was not fair. That was not part of the game. But he was never allowed to speak to the aristocrat, who always appeared briefly in a remote balcony, booming his commands down at his schoolboy trainees. The ten-year-old would have to work on this problem.

The chamber in which he surfaced contained another device which the other boys had warned him about – the fist machine. He had to escape getting a real beating. The brave youngster was spreadeagled face up in the center of a boxing ring, his arms and feet secured to its corner posts with a boxer's skipping ropes, normally used for exercise. The device descended from the ceiling – twenty-six mechanical arms, each ending in a boxing glove, attached to a board six feet [1.80 meter] square – easily enough to reach every part of the helpless youngster's body. There were four rows of six gloves, but the row near his feet only contained two gloves, as if the final four in that row might be missing. The black leather gloves stopped four feet [1.20 meter] above him, and then began to whirl into action, pounding the air with frightening force.

Rob had to work out the pattern in which the arms were beating, before he got pulped, or used his safe word ('Bagheera') to stop the ordeal.

The board inched downwards, and the boy in the ring writhed desperately in frustration as he struggled to define any logical sequence. He had five minutes to work it out before the first pounding – which would be a light one, and ten minutes before the second strike, which would be a full beating. As he looked up, the second from the left on the top row came down first. He felt a whistling of wind as it was still too high to hit him. Then the glove next to it, in the top left hand corner, descended, followed by the one below it, to the extreme left of the second row down. Then the glove to the right of that one punched, then the second from the right in the top row thrashed out twice, then the far right one on the third down down, then back to the top left hand corner again. The sequence of eight blows repeated itself, over and over again, the same eight gloves in the same pattern. There was no logic to it, as far as Rob could see. He didn't really have a mathematical mind, and he cursed his stupidity.

The gloves were close now, and he tried to concentrate all his efforts on the problem. Nothing. Nothing came into his head, and he steeled himself for the first pounding. For this, the pattern ceased and all hell broke loose as twenty-six arms swung into action. The device swung away from his head to prevent serious injury, but his stomach and chest took a beating – and so did his balls and penis, protected only by a thin layer of silky purple material. But it was, as promised, only a light assault. Rob grimaced and grunted, but never came near needing his safe word. The pounding would come five minutes later.

The device was raised again so that it hung several feet above him. He had time to think. He was beginning to see the clue – six rows of four, plus two odd ones, with the other four in that row missing. Why? Twenty six gloves, not the thirty that would have filled up the board fully. Why? Then, at last, an idea hit him – almost with the force of one of the gloves themselves. It was an alphabet grid. So starting from the top left, the sequence began with a B. Then an A. Then a G, an H, two Es, an R and an A.

He'd cracked it! But just as he was about to shout the word aloud, he saw the trap. If he shouted out 'Bagheera', he'd have been tricked into failure. So he yelled out "My safe word 3; it spells out my safe word!"

He was instantly released, and a tormentor stood him in the ring and reluctantly raised the boy's right arm in triumph, like a young champion, for the camera. Rob glowed all over – maybe he wasn't so stupid after all 3;

The three boys convened in an ante-chamber, and the forbidding aristocrat appeared high above them. Paul's knees buckled under him as he was told that his performance in the Scorpion Coffin had been unsatisfactory. His older brother's offers to take his place in the cage were rejected firmly by Lord Wolf. The nine-year-old was led away, and Rob put a gentle arm around Peter, reassuring him fiercely that they'd rescue the lad next morning in double-quick time. Then they were led off to separate cells, and the doors slammed shut on another day of pain and pleasure at Poseidon Manor.

[6]

"Paul, it's OK 3; it'll be OK" yelled his eleven-year-old brother. "Just try to keep still and don't panic, and we'll get you out, I promise!"

The sound of his brother's voice seemed to calm the youngster, and he curled up in a ball in the corner of the heavy metal cage. It dropped, crashing into the water, and sank straight to the bottom of the pool. The two older boys dived in – Peter looked after his captive brother, offering signs of reassurance, but this time a thick mesh lined the cage, so that it was not possible to feed the schoolboy mouthfuls of oxygen. Rob looked around – a tormentor stood at the top of a high dive board, waving the key at him, and a small noose. The tormentor was armed with a large sword, in case Rob attacked him.

Dreading what was coming, the ten-year-old scampered up six flights of steps to the high board. It was immediately clear from the gestures of the tormentor where the small noose belonged. Shutting his eyes, Rob pulled down his small pair of purple speedos at the front, and allowed the noose to be tied around his hairless young balls and penis. He could not see how long the cord was. Would it allow him to dive all the way unscathed, or would his most precious possessions he ripped from him mid-dive? The noose was secured, his speedos neatly restored, and he was given the key. Paul must be freaking out by now, Rob thought, and a surge of pity ran through him as he thought of the frightened, skinny blond boy caged helplessly at the bottom of the cold pool. He had to take a chance. It was only the regular morning cage rescue – it happened at the start of every day – surely he wouldn't be torn apart at this stage of the proceedings? He had to gamble, so he stretched his body smartly into a Y-position, trying not to shake too much, and dived into the water far below with a boyish yell of "Geronimo!". His relief when he plunged below the surface was immense, but he had no time to waste thinking about himself, so he swam front crawl furiously up the pool, thrusting the key into Peter's waiting hand. The eleven-year-old spun himself over and shot to the bottom of the pool, unlocked the cage and dragged his brother to the surface. It took both boys to heave the youngster onto the side of the pool, as he was still wrapped tightly in a ball. Then they uncurled him gently and told him how well he'd done, and how proud they were of him. Eventually Paul opened one eye. "Really?" he whispered.

"Yes, really!", the other two chorused in unison, patting him on the back. Then suddenly Rob felt a surge of agony between his legs 3; the noose was still attached, and the tormentors were dragging him back into the pool! It took the other two boys some moments to realize what was happening, as Rob had had no time to tell them about the cruel attachment. Paul pointed in horror to the high-dive board, where a winch was turning slowly, reeling in the cord of the noose. The boy could see the cord must be attached to Rob in some way, and babbled instructions to his older brother. If they didn't get Rob out quickly, the boy would be winched up to the high dive board by his balls! Peter tore up the steps, in a rage and flew at the tormentor. The boy and his torturer rolled around dangerously on the high dive board, as the ten-year-old's body began to rise from the water. The cub scout was evidently in agony, as his cries rang around the chamber. Desperately, Peter grabbed the tormentors sword, and sliced the cord with such a wild swing that the blade caught the tormentor by accident on the thigh. The boy stopped suddenly, knowing that he had committed a serious breach of the rules by injuring one of the tormentors, but secretly overjoyed that Rob was safe. Rob swam gratefully to the side of the pool, yelling his gratitude, but Peter knew he could expect no mercy that day, and that it would be some time before he heard any more kind words.

Lord Wolf appeared, shaking with anger at the violation of one of his tormentors, and barked out the boy's instructions for the day, sparing them no details. He hadn't had time to adjust Peter's programme, but hinted that Peter would likely spend the night in the cage – with some extra torment added, to punish him for his serious infringement of the rules.

Rob saw his moment at last, and raised his boyish treble voice in anger at the aristocrat; "Peter's not the only one breaking the rules here, Lord Wolf! That so-called doctor is breaking them far worse any of us. I have to talk to you sir! I have to see you!"

He was unsure whether the master had even heard him, as he was bundled away.

Rob's swim training was punishing, although no crates were attached to him as he was already sore from the antics in the cage pool. He wore a diver's weight belt as he swam, but it was attached in a conventional way. That day, he felt like a mighty paddle steamer, tirelessly churning though the water with boundless energy, unaware of how long he'd been working his body to the limit. He believed he could swim forever. As long as he was swimming, he was always free, always alone, and always in control, with his troubles ever receding behind him. It was his world, and he wanted no other.

He blinked, confused, when he was brought to a stop, and it took a while to remember where he was. He could hardly concentrate on lunch, which he took alone, and he had no thoughts about anything except being underwater as he rested briefly, lolling on a bench in his speedos, before the two ordeals of the afternoon began.

He swam calmly to his first rendezvous, glad to be back underwater. He was counting all the time to see how long he could hold his breath while still swimming. Nearly two minutes! He surfaced, towelled his milky-white body down briskly, and looked around at the curious mixture of rocks, boulders, trees and bushes that greeted him.

Then a game of Cowboys and Indians began. It had been Rob's favourite games when he was younger, but he knew this version would be a lot rougher than before. The tormentors tore off his speedos and forced him unwillingly into a little silky red loincloth, and the chase was on. It was a fast game. His two torturers were dressed as cowboys, and armed with pistols which fired red paint. Every time Rob was hit, an alarm bell rang, and he had to stand still, and steel his little stomach for a gutpunch from the cowboy who'd fired the shot. Rob was tough enough to take the blow by tensing his strengthening stomach muscles, but he knew he would weaken over time.

He could only win by finding the rope which hidden somewhere in the bushes, and tieing up his adversaries. Splat! He was hit again, and stood obediently, his hands clasped behind his head, as he offered his slender midriff for punishment. The tormentors (only boys themselves, but slightly older) took great glee in discharging their obligations. The cowboy who'd fired the shot buried his fist right into the youngster, laughing sadistically as Rob fell to the floor, winded, writhing – but the pain momentary. He was on his feet again soon enough, and running around again frantically searching for his means of escape. Splat! This time his loincloth had flown up and his balls were splashed with vivid red!

So a new rule came into play – it was time for a special ball-busting from the cowboys – one punch each. The tormentors speadeagled the boy on the ground and tied him down, drawing out the whole process as long as possible, before the twelve-year-old tormentor and his thirteen-year-old companion landed one awesome blow each on their captured Indian. Rob yelped, but he didn't yelp his safeword. But now he was going to get them. He had spotted the rope high in a tree at the back of the chamber. he scrambled up like a squirrel, so fast that the tormentors lost him for a moment, and came looking for him. With a loud boy-Indian war cry, the ten-year-old hurled himself down, looping the surprised pair and securing them before they knew what had happened. Rob couldn't resist a brief war dance around them, before deciding that he needed his speedos back. He tossed the loincloth, and resumed his customary, classic attire.

Soon he was back in the water, and heading off for his final test of the day. It was the one he had been looking forward to most – the Whipping Board. He had fantasized about it for many years, ever since he'd read about it in the school library, in a book about the way disobedient Roman slave boys were treated. When everyone was out at home, from the age of seven, he used to slip into his speedos, and whip himself mercilessly with a leather belt, sparing no part of his body from the ordeal, and he drank in the sight of his punishment in front of a long mirror. So, as he surfaced into the whipping chamber, he felt quietly confident that he was well trained for the ordeal. He waited for some minutes, but there was no one there. He was eager to begin, so he placed himself on the board, standing with his chest against it, and his back exposed. Instead of the chains he's expected, metal cuffs clipped into place automatically over his hands and feet. He felt an utterly delicious tingle run right through him. He was so completely ready 3;

Then he froze, as a kindly but familiar voice he'd quickly grown to dread whispered right into his ear; "I'm the whipmaster today!"

The gentle face of Dr Jamboree smiled at the boy. The medic checked that the boy was utterly helpless, licked his lips, and then slid calmly away towards a long curtain, just within Rob's line of vision. When the sinister man drew the veil aside, Rob was astounded to see dozens of whips of all lengths and sizes, some of the leather dyed riotous colours, some barbed, some made entirely of wire, some even composed of links of metal that could be flexed like backbones.

"Oh yes, I heard what you said about me this morning, and that's why I dismissed the tormentors," said the doctor softly. He took a few steps back, to get a good run at the boy. Crack! He brought a black leather whip down hard on the youngster's shoulders. "Do you know what I do to little boys who tell tales?" Crack! on the back of his little speedos. "It's quite simple – I whip them until they beg to me to stop, and use their safeword 3; and then I whip them some more". Crack! on his lower back 3; "And I don't even know what your safeword is, boy." Crack! on the back of his trembling legs. "So you see, there can be no end to this ordeal, can there?"

"Oh yes there can!" yelled Rob. He was angry that the loathsome man had cheated his way into the chamber, and was determined to get the better of him. He would not buckle before evil incarnate now, not while he was feeling strong, and beginning to master himself. "You're out of shape, and you'll get tired before I do!"

And so the battle was joined, the utterly determined boy and the obscenely blood thirsty man. Rob was right – his training served him well, and, to be brutally honest, he didn't totally dislike the whipping – only the man who was doing it. When he allowed himself to forget about the doctor, the ten-year old revelled in the variety and texture of the whips, and allowed himself to be beaten front and back, and even upside down, so that the evil medic had a clearer run at his small balls. The wicked man was panting and sweating after twenty minutes, but Rob goaded him on, hurling boyish insults at him. After half an hour, the boy was spent and the man had collapsed. The match was a draw, but Rob looked him in the eye.

"You will never, never touch me in any way again unless I want you to," he said. "You can see I'm stronger than you, old man".

For once, the man's gentle face looked angry and a little afraid. When regained his breath, he walked slowly out of the chamber, and sent in the tormentors, who'd been waiting outside, peeping through a crack in the door, to release the brave boy from the whipping board, and treat his wounds with unusual ointments, so that he would be able to perform the next day.

A few minutes later, the boys stood in a line looking up at Lord Wolf.

"You knew it would be you in the cage tonight, Peter," he boomed, "as you wounded one of my tormentors 3; so, as extra punishment, I have decided that you will spend the night in a crab position, with your balls tied to the roof of the cage, clamps on your nipples, your back arched, and your hands and feet tied to the floor 3; is that understood?" "Yes sir!" Peter replied smartly, defiantly even, before he was marched off. Rob really admired his friend's courage.

Paul collapsed beside him, overcome by the horror of the ordeal that his older brother was about to endure. Rob gently picked up the nine-year-old, cradling him and whispering. "Hey, that's no good Paul! You've got to be stronger than that, for your brother's sake. We aren't gonna let him spend the night like that 3; we're going to mount a late-night rescue, you'll see 3; but be ready, I'm going to need your help 3; don't go to sleep!"

The boys were led off to their separate cells. Lord Wolf looked as though he may have been about to say something to Rob, but then appeared to decide against it. As Rob lay on his small bed, staring at the ceiling, he began to wonder however he was going to fulfill his promise to Paul, and rescue Peter, who must already be swinging high above the pool, in the throes of agony.

[7]

"Paul? 3;Paul! can you hear me?", the ten-year-old whispered through the bars of his cell, out into the darkness. The lights had been out for an hour, but a ghostly green glow pervaded the sleeping area, which was adequate for young eyes. The place had been still since the tormentors left, locking the door to the cell complex behind them. Only the occasional dripping of distant water broke the silence.

"Rob?" the nine year old's small voice answered from nearby in the dark.

"We're going to rescue your brother, Paul 3; I have a plan!"

"Wow! I knew you'd come up with something. What are we gonna do?"

"Just be ready 3; I'll need you to make it work".

Rob dug deep into a well-concealed compartment of his sports bag, and his fingers closed around his cub scout penknife. He checked the biggest blade – it was small but strong and sharp. Then he arranged his bag and some towels under the scant bedding to make the pile resemble the body of a small boy under the covers. Finally, he crawled under the bed and looked at the ancient grill at the base of the wall through which fresh air entered the subterranean cell. It was rusty, and it yielded after a short struggle. Rob breathed a sigh of relief. At first he thought he would never fit into the narrow duct, but the sides were helpfully slimy, and soon his supple young body was in the vent. He let the slime cover him, and imagined he was a snake, sliding keenly towards its prey. He reached a junction, and took the fork that led more or less toward Paul's cell. The corner was a challenge, but he reminded himself of how minor were his aches compared to Peter's agony.

Rob found himself facing another grill.

"Paul?" he whispered.

"Rob?" the voice was close, but it was the wrong cell. Rob made an agonizing retreat up the tunnel, worried his way around another corner, and wriggled a few more feet. Then he turned painfully into the tunnel that must surely lead to Paul's cell.

"Paul?"

He could hear the nine-year old jump. "Rob! Where are you?"

Within seconds, the two boys were face to face, then the grill was off, and Rob found himself taking Paul through the plan, step by step. Paul's slight frame was considerably thinner than Rob's, even though only a year separated the two youngsters, and the blond boy was as nimble as a ferret.

Paul hopped around the cell with excitement as Rob described how the youngster would play a crucial role in saving his brother, by searching the air ducts for a path to the cage pool room, and would then assist a daring rescue. He quickly vanished into the tunnel. Rob arranged Paul's bed so that it looked as though he too was asleep under the few sheets he'd been given. Then he waited.

Rob took a gander at Paul's stuff 3; superhero comics, books about boys improving their techniques in swimming, wrestling and boxing (full of great photos, Rob mused, as his young fingers crept towards his speedos), and a few photos of the two brothers receiving medals for their achievements in pools much different from those in Lord Wolf's domain. Despite his attempts to stay awake, the boy dozed in his hiding place under the bed, with a Batman comic in his hand. He dreamt that he was Robin, tied up in a saw-mill, with the blade edging ever closer to his green speedos 3;

Rob's reverie was interrupted by Paul, covered in slime, eagerly shaking the older boy awake.

"I've done it! I've found it! Quick! This way! Oh, and watch out for the water 3; and the spiders!"

Rob grinned and shook his head as he marveled at the plucky smaller boy shooting back into the tunnel. Rob was slower, but the urgency of the situation, and the nine-year old's uninhibited excitement, spurred him on. Paul hadn't been joking about the spiders. The spindly six inch [15 cm] wide brutes scuttled over the boys' bodies, scratching and biting hungrily as they went. Their sodden webs mixed with the slime that coated the boys' hair. They pushed on, until Rob bumped Paul's feet.

"It's about twenty feet [6 meter] of water here 3; no air" Paul explained. "Take a deep breath, Rob!"

Paul slid through the aquatic blackness confidently, although the first time it had been a swim of pure faith for him. Rob struggled forward through the cold wet nightmare, submerged, compelled to go forward by the merciless stone enclosing him. His young chest tightened rapidly with the extreme effort of propulsion. Rob thought a giant was squeezing his chest. The pounding in his head intensified, and before long he felt himself slipping away. A sudden pain took over as Paul grabbed his thick mop of brown hair and pulled him forward. Rob tasted oxygen again, and was quickly sated.

The tunnel had widened, and they crawled onward, bruised, scratched, bumped and banged, but thinking only of Peter. Finally, the wriggling pair of boyish feet dimly visible in front of Rob stopped. They had arrived.

"OK Rob, we're here 3; it comes out under a bench by the pool. I can just see him up there 3; I think he's passed out!"

"Are you OK Paul?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me any more". The boy's voice no longer sounded thin or nervous. He seemed to have a new sense of purpose, and behaved differently from the boy from the frightened child curled up in the cage that morning.

"Good 3; you're doing really well, Paul. Now, you're good at climbing, right? Push the grill out, and see if you can find a way of climbing down the chain to the top of the cage".

Both boys slid silently into the enormous chamber, like eels into a midnight pool. Reaching the chain would take all Paul's strength. Rob gave him the penknife, showing him which blade would cut the ropes, and which utensil might pick the lock. Then Paul was away, bounding up the steps to one of the high dive boards, which just touched the thick chain that led to a huge pulley in the ceiling, and then down to the cage. Paul became a monkey, shinning up the chain to the distant ceiling in seconds, oblivious to his own safety. Then he clambered down to the cage, and crouched on top of it, still looking more a small ape than a boy. Rob stood below in awe of his young friend.

"Yeah!" hissed Paul "He's out cold!"

"Cut him loose, but be careful where you cut!" came the whispered reply. Paul looked at his brother's body in the dim light, and his young heart filled with an unfamiliar anger. He would avenge his brother's torment. With the utmost care, he released Peter's balls from the cruel noose, then carefully swung to the side of the cage, clinging like a small spider monkey, and freed his brother's hands and feet.

The pale body in the cage plopped to one side of the cage and stirred slightly. The nipple clamps forced him to sit.

"Peter! Wake up!" his brother pleaded. The trapped youngster started moving, dazed at first. He rubbed his wrists and ankles, and inspected his bruised genitals almost abstractly.

"Get the clamps off, Peter 3; the clamps!"

Peter looked at the nipple clamps as if they had just appeared. He did as he was told, like an automaton, casting them to the floor of the trap.

"I'm going to unlock the cage!" Paul whispered confidently, resuming his Tarzan impersonation to reach the lock. He would have made a fine addition to Fagin's gang, as the padlock yielded within a couple of minutes. "He's still on another planet!" Paul hissed down to Rob. "I can't wake him up properly!"

Rob considered for a moment, "We'll have to risk it", the ten year old whispered back, "get the cage swinging!"

The monkey-boy obeyed his instructions, vaulting back to the roof of the cage, and jolting it wildly with all the weight of his young body. Eventually the cage was swinging crazily backwards and forwards. Paul clung to his lofty perch as the terrifying momentum grew. Then, after a time, the inevitable happened. Peter fell out of the cage and into the pool. The splash into the cold pool awoke Peter fully in an instant, and he looked around bewildered. Rob dived in and intercepted him, grabbing his friend round the chin, and expeditiously towing him back to the edge of the pool. (Rob had all the lifesaving badges for which a boy of ten could qualify, and he'd greatly enjoyed the tuition, playing around with ropes, retrieving underwater objects, and rescuing partially clothed boys of his own age from drowning.) Paul jumped into the water too, and the two boys hauled Peter out onto the flagstones.

"Are you OK?" the two rescuers asked urgently.

They needn't have worried. Peter vacant look gave way to a grin. "Of course 3; but only because I knew I could rely on you two guys to get me out 3; how long was I up there?"

"I don't know", replied Rob, "it's hard to tell with no watches 3; a few hours, I guess."

"Wow!" said Peter, sitting up and rubbing his sore nipples, "a personal best!"

"You mean you've done stuff like this before?"

"Yeah, of course 3; Paul and I started getting into it at cub camp, and we're quite good at it now!"

Rob's processed the information. He had thought he was the only little boy in the whole world who was interested in testing his body to extremes behind closed doors.

"So 3; er 3; did you want us to get you down?"

"You bet! Once your balls turn black, you've had it!"

"OK! Well 3;" Rob's wanted to pursue the subject, but the sound of approaching voices interrupted.

Abruptly, Lord Wolf stood before him, looking splendid his purple speedos, adorned with the coveted trident crest.

The boys braced for the worst – sharing a vision of all three forced into tiny cages, side by side, in crab positions, with their balls tied to the tops of the cages, and their nipples clamped, hanging above the water all day and all night.

Their trepidation gave way to surprise when Lord Wolf smiled warmly. He was apparently pleased with the boys.

"Boys," he boomed, "you have done well. I knew you would not leave your team mate to perish, even though you would have to endure danger and hardship to rescue him, and even though you had to go against the rules." He detected their astonishment. "I have no use for mindlessly obedient slaves in my Daredevil squad. I want boys with initiative, courage, and spirit – boys who can lead and do what needs to be done. You have proved yourselves well. You, Paul were a revelation. You are no longer a whimpering little cur! You have all successfully accomplished a task which has proved the undoing of many boys, who failed to understand the imaginative nature of my curriculum. Now return to your cells, so that you're ready for training tomorrow!"

Bursting with pride, the three pre-teens scampered off, towards a couple of tormentors who would show them the more congenial route to their cells. Then Rob remembered his need to tell the aristocrat about the evil doctor, and ran back. When the other boys were well out of sight, he frantically explained the situation to his master, sparing no detail of the terrible indignities he had suffered during his so-called treatment sessions at the end of each day. Wolf listened with mounting indignation, and spat angrily when he learned that Jamboree had rewired some of the cameras to deceive him. He'd plainly used a similar tactic to ensure that he could give Rob the toughest whipping of his life, just a few hours earlier.

"Leave this matter with me, boy," growled the aristocrat grimly, " I will devise a punishment suitable for the doctor, if all that you say is true. I will attend to these allegations at first light tomorrow morning. It is too late to start launching an enquiry tonight." He strode off, ordering another tormentor to lead Rob back to his cell. But as the youngster left, he called out after the boy, "I have high hopes of you, Rob." The boy's heart leapt with pride when he heard the aristocrat using his name for the first time since he's arrived. "But", the grim lord added, "don't think any of this will soften tomorrow's ordeals".

"You bet!" grinned the boy, Rob slept well at last, and his dreams that night were terrific, for a while. Suddenly he was rudely awakened by a hand on his shoulder.

Rob froze as he heard the voice he dreaded more than any other whisper right into his ear. "I've warned you before about boys who tell tales!" Dr. Jamboree grabbed the boy cruelly, and jabbed a needle into Rob's arm. His world disappeared in a heavy, fuzzy blur. The doctor slung the boy's smooth, freshly-tied body over his shoulder, and carried him towards a door marked "Private. No Entry Under Any Circumstances". He pushed his way through, and the portal closed with a sickening thud, that had an air of awful finality about it.

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