Speedoboy 711

Boy Daredevils in Speedos

Chapters 8-10

[8]

When Rob woke up, he didn't know where he was. The ten-year-old tried to get up, but found that he was tied face down, bound hand and foot, to a doctor's black leather examination couch. It was then that the full horror of his predicament hit him – he was in some secret chamber in Wolf's castle, without Wolf's knowledge, at the mercy of the sadistic Dr Jamboree.

The evil medic was at his side in an instant, gently stroking the boy's thick mop of brown hair, and whispering softly into his ear that both his spirit and body were about to be broken.

"What do you fear most, boy?" crowed the doctor.

"Nothing you can throw at me, that's for sure!" Rob shot back angrily.

The cub scout was furious that the doctor had broken every rule in the book to get him into this position of utter helplessness.

"I don't think even your devious young mind could have prepared you for this!" the doctor leered back at him. "You were talking in your sleep, boy, and I know what horrifies you above everything else."

Rob told himself the doctor was bluffing, and, in the absence of any better ideas, the boy began to yell for help. The cruel man watched the youngster shouting, twisting and writhing in his tight bonds for several minutes, with a smile on his thin lips, and then he gagged his captive, saying "You'll need this, because I even I won't be able to stand the volume of your screams over the next hour."

The doctor removed a scalpel from a collection of sterilised utensils on the table next to the couch, placed deliberately within the captive boy's field of vision.

"Now boy," he continued in his calm, kindly voice, "Remember this will hurt me a lot more than it hurts you 3;"

Rob yelped in panic as he became aware that a careful vertical incision being made down the back of his purple speedos. He relaxed slightly when he realised that it was the silky material, and not his flesh, which was being cut, but when he considered what might be coming next, the boy's mind flipped, and began to throw all his weight around on the couch.

"You need not worry, little boy" purred the doctor, "I agreed after our last session that I wouldn't touch you ever again. So instead, I have a machine to do it for me 3;"

Rob's eyes widened in terror as the doctor wheeled the device into view. It skated easily across the flagstone floor. The boy recognised one of the arms from the fist machine, mounted onto a powerful motor. The boxing glove had been removed, to reveal a clenched metal fist, smeared with some kind of oily substance.

"I will start it up slowly, and then I will show you how fast it can go," the doctor explained in a serene voice. "We will watch it together for several minutes, then I will use it on you, and we will see how long you last."

Rob was very, very focussed by now, thinking through his options with a clarity that only comes at times of great adversity. But he slowly realised that there was nothing he could do, and he watched, fascinated, as the demonstration continued, with the fist pounding air just inches from his face, getting harder and harder and faster and faster with every blow. He finally concluded that the only thing he could do would be to bear his unjust fate with bravery. He wasn't going to give the doctor the satisfaction of watching him break down. He wasn't going to cry – he was way beyond that now.

At least that's what he thought 3; but then he really did see something that sent tears streaming down his face. But they weren't tears of despair, they were tears of relief. He'd been looking at the grille that pumped air into the chamber, and he'd seen it move slightly. And then he caught sight of Paul's face behind the grille. The nine year old was showing no trace of fear 3; just grim determination. The boys exchanged fierce glances, and nodded together, very slightly.

Rob knew he had to distract the awful doctor, so he started making sounds through his gag, trying to indicate that he wanted to speak. The bloodthirsty medic couldn't resist, and pulled the gag off, eager to hear what he assumed would be the boy's woeful pleas. Rob was a good actor – he'd just played Jack in a ferocious production of Lord of the Flies at school – and he gave what he hoped would be an Oscar-winning performance. He begged, wept, used his safeword over and over again, offered to do anything else – anything but that, while the excited doctor looked on with a gleam of satisfaction in his soft eyes. He bent closer to the boy to hear his every word, as the pounding grew louder. Then everything changed very, very suddenly.

Wallop! The fist struck the dreadful doctor hard in the face, sending him reeling backwards with a bloody nose. The medic looked up astonished at the sight of a nine year old boy in purple speedos – who had apparently appeared from nowhere – controlling the devastating force of the machine.

Wallop! the device caught the man in the stomach, winding him and sending him to the floor. Finally, Paul redirected the fist downward for one final blow between the man's legs, shouting gleefully "This is what my Mom told me to do to strange men who try to grab me!"

Dr Jamboree lay whimpering, crouching tightly in a ball. "Yeah, I used to curl up too," muttered Paul, contemptuously. The boy had him hogtied in seconds – he was good at rope games, thanks to Peter's patient tuition. Then he took out Rob's cub scout penknife, which he'd carried folded up down the front of his speedos, and showed the man the sharpest blade.

"Any more trouble from you, Doc, and I'm gonna try an operation on you you'll never forget, got it?"

The beaten medic grunted, utterly diminished. He looked like no threat at all. Paul cut Rob free with care, and the ten year old sat up, rubbing his wrists and ankles, before jumping joyfully onto Paul, and the two rolled around together excitedly on the floor, squeaking in triumph.

"How on earth did you find me?" Rob wanted to know, as they tied Dr Jamboree to the heavy leather couch for extra safety.

"I've been all around these tunnels ever since you showed me how easily the grilles came away," explained Paul. There's some really weird stuff in this place, and I don't think Wolf knows about all of it. Some of it might belong to the doctor, but not all of it."

"What kind of stuff?"

"You don't want to know, Rob, believe me! Anyway we've gotta get out of here. You stay and make sure Jamboree doesn't slip away 3; here's your knife back – I thought I was going to need it, but that machine was more fun, wasn't it? Oh, and don't stand near the door, we may have to break it down, OK?"

The imp darted back up the narrow tunnel, leaving Rob shaking his head in wonder again at the younger boy's brilliance. It was a long wait, and Rob took the opportunity to tell his captive just what he thought of him. He vented his anger first, but he ended up trying to tell the adult how wrong it was to try to imprison and torture boys against their will. He tried to explain the difference between what was fun and what was simply evil. He talked about the importance of letting the boy stop the action at any point with a safe word. Jamboree spat all sorts of foul words back at the youngster, but Rob persisted until the doctor seemed to give up and fall silent, beaten mentally as well as physically by the boys he had sought to harm. The philosophical mood was interrupted by a loud crash as a battering ram flattened the wooden door, and a dozen tormentors landed in the secret room, followed by Lord Wolf. The aristocrat struggled to maintain his customary dignified composure as he rushed towards the boy and – in an uncharacteristic gesture which amazed the tormentors – hugged him warmly and asked him tenderly if he was alright.

"It's like Peter said," replied Rob, "I knew I could count on you guys to come and rescue me! I'm fine, but I wouldn't let the guy over there take any more temperatures if I were you, sir!"

"I have another fate planned for him" boomed Lord Wolf, resuming his usual gravitas.

Rob was allowed to sleep for a few hours, before resuming his swim training. This time, the weights and other devices were simply left by the narrow channel of water, so that he could choose what to wear. He selected a couple of arm weights bearing a pirate's crest of skull and crossbones, and a ball noose attached to a small treasure chest. As he swam, he pretended he was a cabin boy on a pirate ship, who'd been kidnapped by Blackbeard and forced to accompany the buccaneers on their quest for booty. He'd escaped with the most valuable treasure chest in the world, which would make his fortune. He swam faster and faster as he imagined what the pirates would do to him if they caught him. He knew boys were treated roughly on board ship, and fancied that he might enter the navy as a cadet if he ever got out of Poseidon Manor. He was unaware of time passing as the possibilities of this new choice of career flooded into his head, and the boy was surprised when a dementor indicated to him that the moment had come to stop swimming.

After lunch, Lord Wolf gave Rob a late briefing on his ordeals for the afternoon, explaining that he'd judged it unfair to expect the boy to take in his instructions any earlier. The thrilled boy wriggled in anticipation as the tests were described in great detail, saluted smartly, and dived into the water eagerly, heading for the Circus Ring. It was dark when he entered, but after he'd rubbed himself down with a purple towel, a spotlight illuminated a large cannon, just big enough for a boy to squeeze inside. Two tormentors appeared, one bearing a helmet, which was placed carefully on the ten-year-old's head, and secured firmly. The other tormentor carried a gaudy painted sign around the ring, which read The Amazing Cannonball Boy. Then the tormentors indicated to Rob that it was his turn to act. He knew what he had to do. He looked carefully at the safety net thirty feet [9 meter] away on the other side of the ring. It was large enough to allow some margin of error, but he could see that he'd have to think carefully about his trajectory to avoid failure. Using a winch, he wound the angle of the cannon up and down, trying to calculate the optimum angle. If it was too high, he'd fly into the empty velvet seats around the ring. If it was too low, he'd end up in the sandy ring with an uncomfortable thud. When he was satisfied, he locked the cannon into place and nodded to the tormentors. They bound his arms tightly by his sides, and tied his feet together, giggling a little at the signs of excitement so evident in the ten year old's speedos.

The thrill increased even further as every inch of the boy's body was smeared with grease, so that he'd slide in and out of the cannon more easily. He was inserted feet first, with just his head peeping out of the top of the weapon. Then there was a drumroll, and one of the tormentors gestured the countdown to the boy. The other released a catapult device within the cannon, sending the cub scout shooting with a tremendous force through the air, almost to the roof of the big top, before he landed half on and half off the net. It broke his fall well, so that he wasn't hurt, but he was angry at his undignified roll onto the sand, and demaded another go. He knew that he'd have to pay a price for his request. This time, clamps were snapped onto his boyish nipples, attached to ropes leading to the top of the tent. They made the exit from the cannon more painful, and the landing excruciating as they weren't quite long enough to avoid him dangling for a few moments before the tormentors released him, but he landed right on the net, and bowed low to the invisible audience.

Then, to the sounds of circus music, Peter and Paul bounded into the ring. A tormentor carried a sign around the ring which read The Death-Defying Speedo Trapeze Boys. All three boys shot up the ladders to the flying trapezes, and the safety net was moved under them, and extended so that it would catch any of the youngsters if they fell. They started swinging, and eventally plucked up enough courage to leap off, allowing their partners to catch them by the hands or feet. After a while, they found this was quite easy, and began whooping with pleasure, but then the music changed, and they looked grimly at each other.

The new sign being carried around by one of the tormentors read The Astounding Juggling Balls Trick. Peter went first, signalling to Rob that he should catch him. Rob's hands readied themselves as the eleven year old came hurtling towards him. Desperately, Rob's fingers closed around Peter's purple speedos, so that the boy was safe, but hanging by his balls. Rob couldn't hold the slightly older boy's weight, and Peter did a dizzying dive into the safety net below. Now Paul's turn came, and he was less afraid now that he'd see that it was just about physically possible. He launched his young body at his friend, and again, Rob's fingernails dug deep into his partner's brief silky trunks, and the nine-year old hung there by his small testicles for a few seconds, before crashing down to the net, where his brother was waiting and applauding.

When Paul was safe, Peter scrambled back up, and whispered "It's showtime, folks!" to his buddy. Rob flew elegantly towards his partner, allowing himself to be caught ferociously. Then, as he hung there, he shouted to Paul "It's OK 3; let's make it better 3; spin me round!." Peter needed to second bidding, and soon the trapeze boy and his prey were a blur of motion, whirling around in giddy unison. Rob felt waves of pain shooting through his young body, and took strength from his ability to endure them. After a minute or two, both boys were sweating heavily, and Rob gasped for release. He sailed into the net like a swallow, Peter followed, and the boys jumped smartly out of the net, joined hands with Paul, and bowed for the cameras.

They swam off together for their next test – the first time they'd been allowed to navigate their way as a trio, which was just as well, as the route was long and complicated. It involved much frantic signalling underwater, as the boys' lungs grew tighter. Rob and Peter were grateful to Paul for his unfailing sense of direction. They burst up to the surface, and lept out.

After they'd dried themselves off, they were each given a fresh pair of red speedos for the ordeal ahead. This was because the test involved fire. Its premise was extremly simple. Paul was tied to a chair on the third storey of a burning house, and his speedos were drenched with something extremly flammable. The tormentors were on standby with fire hoses in case the blaze started doing any of the boys serious damage, but otherwise they were on their own. Paul started yelling as soon as he smelt the smoke. The two older boys charged through the doorway and heard his cries, but were confronted by a blazing staircase, stretching right up to the second storey. Frantically, they looked around – no ladders, no water, no breathing apparatus, and no protective clothing apart from the red silky garments in which their young boy organs nestled so beautifully.

"We'll have to climb!" yelled Peter, dragging Rob back out of the house.

He made Rob stand against the wall, and scrambled up him, to a ledge above the front door. Then he grabbed a handful of the strange seaweed that seemed to be growing over parts of the façade. It held his weight. So he picked his way up to the second storey. He managed to prize one of the sash windows open, and hurled himself into the house, laying down on the floor to avoid the smoke. Like a snake, he wriggled to the staircase which led to the third storey. As he reached the room in which his younger brother was being held captive, the stairs collapsed behind him, engulfed by fire. He untied the boy, and ran to the window, shouting down to Rob to do something.

Rob knew there must be some way to rescue them, or the test would be pointless. He'd been looking around all the time while Peter had been making his way up to Paul, and something about the flagstones in front of the house had caught his attention. An area fifteen feet [4½ meter] square was a different colour and texture to the flooring around it. Rob was getting to know the way Lord Wolf's mind worked, and he began to inch his way across the stones, looking for clues. The more he examined them, the more strange they appeared. Something about them just didn't feel right 3; it was almost as though they were hollow. Then he started scratching at them with his fingernails, and found that a thin layer of something like paint was coming away. To his excitement, he found that beneath the coating, he was revealing a wooden floor carved to look like stone.

That was the moment when Peter shouted down to him, so he was able to yell back "Hang on 3; I think this will work 3; just trust me!" He flung himself into the dangerous house, and came out wielding a huge plank of wood, bigger than himself, flaming at one end. He crashed it down onto the wooden flagstones, and doused it with the highly flammable liquid which had been used to drench Paul's trunks so cruellly.

"Rob!" cried Peter, "what are you doing? You've gotta help us!"

"I am," the boy screeched back, above the noise of the collapsing house.

"Look!"

Sure enough, as the false wooden flagstones burned away swiftly, right in front of the house, a deep pool was becoming slowly visible underneath. Rob dipped a hairless arm into the water, and was satisfied to find it was suitably icy.

"Hey guys," he called back, "this'll be a bit cold, but I guess you won't mind that!"

The overjoyed boys could see their means of escape, and they jumped just before the flames could reach the nine-year-old's red garment. They surfaced with rueful grins on their faces, and Rob jumped in too just to cool off, while the dementors hosed down the ruined wooden house, extinguishing the flames.

They suveyed the wreckage left behind.

"Wow! A few more minutes and we'd have been toast," piped Paul, shuddering and flicking his blond hair from his eyes.

"You think I'd let my brother get his balls fried? No way!" rejoined Peter, wrestling playfully in the water with the other two boys. They redonned their purple speedos, and swam back, following Paul's lead. Lord Wolf appeared, high on a balcony above them, and praised them for their efforts.

"No boy was weak today," he boomed, "and so there will be no cage punishment tonight 3; but I have to warn you that tomorrow you will all face your final tests jointly. If you succeed, you will be allowed to graduate and become full members of the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club, but if you fail, you will have to leave hanging your head in shame, or choose to undergo more rigorous training than you have yet experienced." "Lord Wolf!" Rob's confident voice rang out as he met his master's gaze. "May we know something of what we will face, so that we can prepare ourselves for it?"

"You may not, boy!" the aristocrat chided, "Save to say" he added with the hint of a smile as he gazed at Rob, "that many gladiators and chariot racers are dragged from the ring begging for a place of safety!"

The man and the boy stared right into each other, and the boy began to grin, and offered a final tribute to Wolf before he retired for the night; "O great Lord Wolf! All those you are about to try salute you!" The slightly-altered classical reference was not lost on his well-educated master, and the aristocrat was chuckling a little after he'd turned his back on the boys. The trio of youngsters shook hands solemnly, and allowed the tormentors to crash shut the doors of their cells for one last time.

[9]

Rob awoke early the next day and gathered his thoughts about the gladiatorial contest that Wolf had promised him. As the ten year old boy lay spreadeagled on his back in a relaxed manner on his rudimentary bed, his small hand wandered slowly down his hairless body, across his smooth silky skin, past his tiny nipples, and down towards the gorgeous, illicit texture of his purple speedos as he thought about every description and image he has ever seen about the harsh contests of Roman times.

He'd read that boys always trained naked, and were whipped savagely for any sign of weakness or disobedience. His interest in all things Roman had led the diligent young student onto books in his local public library about other ancient cultures. He'd been particularly intrigued to find that, in ancient Greece, it was considered perfectly normal for a man train a young boy in all aspects of physical pleasure. But as soon as he started to manipulate himself to heighten the rush of pleasure which the thought had caused, he snatched his hand from his silky trunks, reminding himself that he would need every ounce of strength for the ordeals of the day ahead. He was a very determined boy, and Wolf had already started to train him in every aspect of bodily discipline. The ever-watchful aristocrat didn't allow any of his young charges to pleasure themselves in the morning, when a punishing mixture of swim training and ordeals lay ahead of them.

An hour later, freshly showered and fed, and each wearing a new pair of purple speedos cut more scantily than any of their previous garments, the three young boys were led to an antechamber. Here Lord Wolf briefed them at great length on the onerous tasks they would face if they were to qualify for the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club. It was rare for the boys to be in such close proximity to him, and they could see that he was eyeing each of them carefully to determine their state of mind. The charismatic man also carried out a very full physical examination of each boy, which caused them to become pointedly aroused, as he ran his experienced hands over every part of their milky-white flesh. He pronounced them fit for action, and told them they had half an hour to discuss tactics, before leaving abruptly. The boys were silent at first. All three were aware that they were more nervous than they had ever been, and none of them was willing to admit it.

"I've always wanted to do this" said Rob, trying to sound encouraging, as though the terrors they were about to face were the most enjoyable prospect any cub scout could imagine.

"Well, if I'm the leader, we'll get through OK," Peter shot back. It only took that one comment to ignite the spark of aggression that hung over the tense antechamber. Both boys saw blood. It was the only way to forget what was coming. Rob raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the eleven year old.

He was slightly bigger and stronger than Rob – a year makes a real difference at that age – but Rob was feeling very stressed about the prospect of the day ahead, and replied slowly: "No, I'm going to be the leader 3; you're stronger than me, but I'm cleverer than you."

"Why do we have to have a leader?" piped Paul, looking concerned as his older brother and Rob rose to their feet facing each other.

But his words fell on deaf ears, as suddenly and inevitably, the two frightened, tense boys sprang at each other. They fought with an indescribable savagery, biting, tearing, gouging and ripping with a ferocity neither boy knew he possessed. Paul tried to separate them, but was rewarded for his efforts with a swift gutpunch from his older brother, which sent him to the flagstones writhing like an eel. The two older boys were pounding each others balls as though they wanted to pulp each other to oblivion, and began squeezing each others cocklets as if they wanted to stop blood circulating through them permanently. Their slightly muscular bodies were bathed in sweat as if they'd been fighting in a steam room, and the noise they made sounded like jackals competing for a mate. Finally, Peter had Rob's arm twisted behind his back, so that the ten year old couldn't move a muscle without experiencing a severe pain shooting through his shoulder, paralyzing the rest of his body. Peter had him, but the boy's primeval bloodlust meant that he was losing his reason. He kept on twisting, making his captive's arm look suddenly unnatural, as it was at the wrong angle to his body. But the panting eleven year old carried on wrecking the younger boy's arm, and Rob started using his safe word "Bagheera! Bagheera!" before his cries simply became the screams of an animal in the most severe stages of agony. Eventually, desperately, Paul slapped his brother hard in the face, shrieking at his to let Rob go. The slaps seemed to have some effect, as they awoke Peter from his sadism, and he realized in horror that he was destroying all their chances of winning on their crucial day. He let Rob go, and retreated moodily to a far corner of the room.

Paul whispered words of encouragement to Rob, but the boy was sobbing on the stone floor, in a mixture of pain, rage and humiliation. By the time their half hour was up, they hadn't discussed a word about tactics. They were disunited, physically damaged, and unable to look each other in the eye.

As the tormentors led the boys towards the gladiatorial arena, if became clear to the trio that there was something seriously wrong with Rob's right arm. It hung uselessly at his side, and he winced every time it moved. When the tormentors happened to push him by the injured limb, he let out a yell or even a sob. Peter was beside him all the time, frantic with guilt, telling Rob to do the same back to him, and saying that he wished it was his arm that was wrecked. Rob's tears came half from the pain, and half from the snatched brotherly reconciliation that they managed to achieve.

"We were both uptight," muttered Rob, "because of what's next 3; something had to give."

"I'll fight for you" whispered Peter fiercely.

"Just get my arm into a sling or something 3; I'll be alright 3; I won't feel a thing once the action starts." The pain shooting out from his arm and his shoulder continued undiminished as he spoke.

"You really want to give it a go, Rob?" asked Paul anxiously, bobbing around him. Rob looked into the nine-year-old boy's blue eyes, sparkling hopefully beneath his gorgeous blond hair. He could not let him down. Lord Wolf had surprised them all by ruling earlier that day that they would pass or fail as a team – all three would succeed, or all three would fail. If one boy dropped out, the other two boys were automatically disqualified. Rob kept telling himself

"It's only pain 3; it's only pain 3; you have begun to master pain 3; this is more important than how you feel," and suddenly a door was flung open and the boys were pushed through into a large, circular underground arena.

It was the largest chamber they had seen in or beneath the castle. At least two hundred feet [60 meter] in diameter, and fifty feet [15 meter] high. The gallery around the edge was filled with aristocratic-looking men, some of who had brought their sons, or boys that appeared to be in their charge in some other capacity. The youngest spectator must have been about seven, and the oldest about seventy-five. They all wore small white silk togas, which looked particularly attractive on the younger boys. There was a lower gallery, nearer the ring, seething with tormentors. Above it all, on a high stone balcony, Lord Wolf sat alone, in full emperor regalia, looking truly impassive. Stretcher-bearers were positioned strategically around the ring, ready to spirit away any boy who should become injured, or, as often happened, if any young candidate should faint before the ordeal began.

In the arena itself, a wooden door sprang open suddenly on the opposite side of the ring to the boys, and three tormentors bounded out, carrying vicious-looking tridents and sinuous black nets, in which they would trap their prey before spearing it. Their uniform was more terrifying than anything the boys had seen before – the tormentors were dressed from head to toe in supple, skin-tight black leather, punctuated all over with sharp silver spikes protruding from every part of their attire. The only parts of their bodies that were actually visible were their savage eyes and their ravenous teeth, clamped over their twitching tongues, which hungered for boy meat. They must have been no more than twelve or thirteen years old, but they had all the muscular advantages that puberty brings. They stood poised on the halfway line in a brutally efficient symmetry.

The three pre-teen boys were each given a small wooden shield and a tiny sword. Before the signal came from Wolf for the fight to commence, an idea suddenly flashed into Peter's head. He grabbed Paul round the waist and sliced carefully through his brother's speedos, and then swiftly cut his own garment off too. The crowd murmured appreciatively, and applauded the nakedness of the smooth, slightly muscular eleven-year old, and his pretty nine year old brother. Lord Wolf gave the boys a disapproving look, but did not offer them any fresh thongs. Peter tied the ripped garments together into a very rough sling, as any cub scout is trained to do. Then he tied Rob's arm up as best he could, telling him to hold his shield as firmly as he could over the wounded area, and to use the sword in his left hand. Rob nodded fiercely back 3; already the level of adrenaline pumping through his damaged body was masking some of the pain. Then the signal came. Lord Wolf dropped a white cloth into the arena, and as it hit the ground, the tormentors ran forward yelling at the younger boys. It was Peter who rose to the occasion. He had to, because Paul was too small and Rob was too incapacitated.

"Get behind me!" he yelled to the two of them.

They stood close together, back to back in a triangular formation so that they couldn't be attacked from behind. The tormentors closed in upon them, taunting them by gently puncturing the boys' unprotected bodies here and there with their tridents, to show how easily they could draw blood. Luckily for Rob, the tormentors seemed obsessed with the nakedness of his two partners, and tried desperately to stab at their unveiled balls. Then Peter chose his moment to lunge. He grabbed one of the tridents as it pricked his nipple, and hung on grimly, as the other two tormentors tried to stab him away. As soon as the tormentors were all focused on Peter, Paul lept onto one of their backs with a joyous shriek, and held his sword to the older boy's throat with an unabashed confidence, as if he was playing Cowboys and Indians with his older brother.

"I gotcha!" he yelled. "Gimme the trident."

But the tormentor refused to play fair, and flung the nine-year old to the ground, winding him. Then he simply jumped onto the boy, piercing his flesh instantly in dozens of places with the spikes protruding from his outlandish outfit. But already the crowd was booing – the tormentor's cheating had not found favor with the audience, and all six boys looked up at Lord Wolf. The aristocrat pointed to the cheat, and then to the wooden door through which he'd entered. The tormentor skulked off. Paul jumped up, as mass of small cuts and bruises, but nothing too deep, and grabbed his rightful prize – the trident and the net. He looked slightly shell shocked still, and his blond hair had a wild air about it as it stuck up in places, caked in blood. He didn't look pretty any more – he looked like a young warrior.

Wolf signaled a restart, and both remaining tormentors went for Rob like wildcats. They'd obviously noticed his weakness, because their target again and again was his shield-bearing arm. Despite Peter and Paul's best efforts in the furious whirling of arms, tridents, nets, swords, shields, spikes, speedos and black leather, the tormentors managed to knock Rob to the floor. Then with practiced grace, they threw a net across him and somehow managed to bag him up, like spiders securing their prey in a web. Rob realized too late that the nets were sticky, and he writhed around desperately to avoid the brutal stabs of the tormentor's remaining trident. His arm and shoulder felt as though they were on fire, and then as through they were freezing. He couldn't avoid rolling around, and every movement made him yelp and cry like a young dog. Peter managed to whack one of the tormentors away with the trident that he'd wrestled away from is opponent, so that the leather-clad boy was sent sprawling onto the sand. Paul was upon the prone tormentor instantly, holding his sword to the boy's tightly-encased balls.

"Are you gonna follow your buddy back home now, or am I gonna have to cut a piece of you off first?" snarled the nine-year old in his best Hollywood villain voice.

The tormentor got a swift thumbs down from Wolf, so he had to leave the ring, spitting his anger as he went. But the emperor also signaled that Rob should be removed, as he seemed to be going into strange spasms within the net that had imprisoned him so effectively. He was dragged out roughly by the stretcher bearers, who seemed to have been chosen specifically for their inability to provide any tenderness towards their patients. The final, furious tormentor decided that he would have Paul. He grabbed the naked nine-year-old around the waist and began to smash his balls with his spiked, gloved fist. The sight of his younger brother being so badly abused sent Peter into paroxysms of rage, and he barely remembered that he was not allowed to kill his opponent under any circumstances. His hands closed around the tormentor's throat, and he squeezed until his brother was dropped roughly onto the sand, nursing his bleeding boy organs. Then Peter let the tormentor go for a second before shoving him to the ground and placing the trident on his neck.

"Now get outta here, before I act like a vampire" the eleven-year-old shouted, and the final tormentor left the ring.

Peter ignored the cheers that rang out around the arena, and inspected his younger brother's genitals carefully. It looked at lot worse than in actually was 3; a fair amount of superficial puncturing and bruising, but no life-threatening wounds.

"You'll live, bro" he whispered, putting a gentle arm around his blood-splattered back, "You did great!"

The younger boy looked up from under his blond, blood-clotted fringe, and gave a wan smile "Yeah, but I want out!"

"We're nearly there 3; look!" Peter pointed to the high balcony. Lord Wolf stood up, and his booming voice filled the hushed arena.

"To the tormentors, who overcame one boy, one point. To the boys, who overcame three tormentors, three points!"

The cheering revived Paul, and made Peter's chest swell with pride, as he stood there in the vast arena, the only boy of the six left on his feet.

"The chariot racing will commence in one hour" boomed the emperor figure. "There are couches for your greater comfort and relaxation should you need them for any purpose you may desire."

Aleardy, several of the younger boy spectators were being led away by their masters, all fired up by the spectacle of the fighting. The togas did nothing to conceal the excitement in their bodies, old and young alike. But everyone knew that they'd be back in time for the chariot racing. There was nothing to beat the sight of battle-weary boys being driven to the very limit in the cruelest of all sports, which was next on the program of entertainment.

[10]

"You need to take it easy, Rob, and let us do the work," urged Peter.

"You want another wrestling match?" came Rob's sharp reply, quick as a flash, but this time he was grinning back at his friend.

"I'll be OK," Rob continued, "they've fixed me up really well 3; look!"

The boy jumped down from the bench and began flexing his newly-restored, supple body in front of his friends. Then he stopped suddenly, with a look of mock surprise on his face, and exclaimed "Please, guys, put some clothes on 3; you're embarrassing me!." The boys had forgotten their nakedness, and how easily Rob's vitality could arouse them now that they'd bonded together so intimately. Peter got his younger brother in a playful headlock, and dragged him off giggling and shrieking into the showers. They emerged a few minutes later, freshened up, and clad in new purple speedos – again, they'd been given scanty thongs which showed off their silky, smooth skin and their developing boyish musculature to full advantage.

"Lord Wolf's swimwear bill must be pretty big," thought Rob, as he welcomed them back admiringly. "He must spend even more than I do on speedos!"

The ten-year-old thought for a moment about the many errands he'd had to run for friends and neighbours to earn enough to fund his obsession with the silky swimwear 3; they were all there, stuffed in his bottom drawer back home, every pair already full of delicious and daring memories 3;but home seemed another lifetime away right now. He snapped out of his reverie, and drank some milk with his friends. They worked out the order in which they'd race, and then lay back to try to gather their strength and calm their nerves. Paul's blond head rested in Rob's lap, while Peter gave the ten-year-old a shoulder massage to make sure he was in peak condition. Paul could feel Rob's young shaft stirring as he rested his cheek against it. A tingle of excitement shot through both their bodies.

"You wanna try some stuff," asked the nine-year-old, gazing up at Rob with imploring blue eyes, "I learnt some great tricks from the older guys at swim camp 3;"

The little imp wiggled his small pink tongue in and out of his mouth very fast, like a snake. Rob smiled down at him and stroked his friend's hair with uninhibited affection.

"Maybe later," he whispered, "You know Wolf won't let us do that stuff right now, before the big race."

So all three boys entwined themselves as comfortably as they could for their last few minutes of uneasy relaxation. It was so quiet that they could only hear each other breathing. Then the spell was broken as a gong sounded far away, and a tormentor ran in, cracking a bullwhip on the flagstones. The young boys disentangled their limbs, adjusted each other's speedos for maximum effect, and strode down the passage back out into the arena. The burnished gold chariots stood side by side in the centre of the arena as the boys emerged to cheers and whistles from the crowd. The audience was in a good mood. Many of the men and boys had dispensed with their togas, and were now just wearing leather thongs or speedos. Several of the bolder boys had followed Paul and Peter's earlier example, and stripped naked. A couple of the youngsters who'd been in a steam room were giggling as they flicked wet towels smartly at each others small lobster-red balls, before they were made to behave by their masters.

But the crowd settled down as they saw the boys' opponents emerge, looking as fearsome as before in their spikey black leather boy-fetish suits, but this time carrying barbed whips in each hand, which they cracked menacingly at their defenseless rivals. A group of other tormentors moved the chariots into their starting positions side by side at the edge of the arena, with the one next to the wall positioned slightly further forward, to compensate for the marginally greater circuit it had to complete. A tormentor lept confidently onto one of the vehicles, and his two team-mates skillfully took the crossbar at the front of the chariot, to act in the role of the horses – the powerhouse that would pull it around the ring.

Shaking a little at the sight of the vicious-looking boys in full bondage gear right next to him, nine-year-old Paul clambered gingerly onto the remaining chariot, and put on a strong padded helmet he found lying inside. Rob and Peter sorted out the crossbar, trying to find a way to manage it, so that they'd be able to pull it without tipping the vehicle over backwards. Finally, the boys nodded to each other grimly, and signalled that they were ready to begin. Lord Wolf looked every inch an emperor as he rose, and paused for a second. The crowd didn't breath. The boys were sweating so badly that they already needed a fresh speedo each, but it was too late for that now. Rob was so nervous that he grabbed his cocklet through his speedos and started to rub, feeling his organ sliding around crazily inside his drenched, slippery trunks. Some of the crowd noticed him and laughed, pointing out the nervous ten-year-old to their friends.

Then, after what seemed like a lifetime, the aristocrat dropped a black piece of cloth down into the arena. As it floated slowly down in utter silence, the boys could hear the tormentors panting hard, eager to begin. As soon as it hit the ground they were off! The boys had barely got going when the tormentor rider raised his whip in anger. Crack! It struck the boy's chariot, missing Paul's fingers by inches. Paul looked desperately around in his own vehicle, but he could see nothing that would help him to defend himself. He resolved to hang on, no matter how many times the whip landed on him. He was doing this for Peter and Rob. Crack! but the tormentor's whip missed by a larger margin, wrapping itself clumsily but harmlessly around the one of the wheels of the boys chariots.

"Hang on Paul!" called Peter, and he and Rob tried to smash their chariot into the tormentors' one, but they judged the distance badly, and merely succeeded in making their own vehicle wobble dangerously, before they got it back on track. The boys found that the vehicles weren't as heavy as they'd feared – they'd been constructed from a lightweight metal, and the wheels were well oiled. Soon, in all the excitement, they began to pick up a terrific speed, leaving the tormentors far behind.

"Slow down!" panted Peter to Rob. The call reminded Rob that it wasn't a race 3; it was about which team could stop the other's chariot first. The tormentors caught up, and this time their whip found it's target. Crack! Paul's young back arched astonishingly, glistening in agony as the barbed weapon drew blood. But he would not let go of the chariot. Crack! Crack! Crack! The helpless boy's shoulders were seeping blood as the merciless tormentor, himself no older than twelve, ripped into the younger boy's flesh. Still, Paul held tight to the chariot, looking determinedly ahead, and even raising a defiant clenched fist as the blows continued to tear his back to ribbons. The floor of the chariot was becoming slippery with his blood, and he nearly lost his footing, but still the nine-year old would not yield. His performance drew appreciative applause from the crowd, but when the whip suddenly caught him hard around the neck, he almost let go entirely. Desperately, Rob and Paul rammed their chariot once more into the side of the tormentors' rival vehicle.

They must have done something right, because, to their surprise and delight, they heard a clicking and whirring sound, and suddenly thick steel blades shot out of their axles, protruding twelve inches [30 cm] on each side. Their chariot had become a war machine, and they lost no time in using it. They rammed the tormentors again, and the blades became entangled with the tormentors' wheels with a sickening screeching of metal fighting against metal. The tormentors' chariot somersaulted up into the air, hurling its rider aside with a forced that crunched his arm when he landed, and leaving the runners thrown onto their backs, gasping in the sand. The boys stopped, and Paul fainted. The stretcher-bearers swung eagerly into action. They slapped his blood-splattered cheeks hard until he opened his eyes, and dragged him roughly onto a stretcher. The audience gasped as he was laid face down upon it – the boy's back was visibly shredded, and he sobbed piteously as he was pulled from the arena, still clenching his little fist defiantly.

Peter looked wildly at Rob, his mind partly on the next race, but mostly on his younger brother. "They'll patch him up " said Rob, more in hope than in expectation, struggling to find the right words for his friend. "He's a really tough kid 3; tougher than I ever was 3;you should proud of him 3; he'll be back 3; it 3; er 3; it may look a lot worse than it is 3; lots of blood, for sure, but the cuts may not be too deep 3;" then his voice trailed off as he watched the tears rolling down Peter's cheeks. "It's all my fault," said the eleven-year-old. "He only wanted to come here to impress me." Rob hugged his team-mate gingerly, to cackles of laughter from the younger members of the audience, who began to shout obscenities at them. Neither boy knew what was supposed to happen next. The tormentor rider had been stretchered off too, clutching a suspected broken arm he'd sustained in his spectacular fall. He wouldn't race again for several weeks.

Lord Wolf rose again, and the crowd fell silent. He was as commanding and concise as ever. "For the next race, one boy will pull one rider 3; to commence on my signal."

The blood and sweat had almost been cleaned from the chariots when the teams got back to them. As agreed, Rob was next to put on the padded helmet to take his turn as the rider, with Peter insisting that it would be easy enough to pull him, as the chariots weren't as heavy as they looked to the audience. But it would still be a test for the sweating, panting youngster, already worried about his younger brother. The two remaining tormentors were spitting with rage at their rivals, and muttered terrible threats to them – tortures so extreme that even Rob hadn't imagined them, although his overactive young mind immediately started working out which ones might be possible to endure. Then Lord Wolf dropped a red silk cloth into the arena.

Again, the tormentor was well furnished with whips, and the boy had none. This angered Rob more than anything else he'd seen in Poseidon Manor so far – it was so obviously unfair, so patently unequal, at such a crucial stage in their training, especially given the tormentor's two-year advantage over him. As the chariots set off, still at a great speed, Rob stood tall and began hurling abuse at his rival. "C'mon, whip me hard if you're gonna whip me, you idiot! Betcha can't break my balls 3; I've got steel speedos, c'mon and try it!"

His high-pitched treble tirade pleased the crowd, and appeared so absurd to the tormentor that it sapped a little of his rage against the younger boy, and he started to laugh scornfully at him. He gave him a half-hearted flick of the whip, before realizing his mistake. Rob caught the barbed cord eagerly, and wrenched it from the tormentor's grasp with such anger that the twelve-year old nearly jumped out of his bondage suit in surprise. Within seconds, the cunning ten-year old was striking back, skimming his older rival's balls as they shone tightly beneath the tight black leather which encased them. The older boy grabbed another whip from inside his chariot, and a furious battle of blows ensued. The bloodthirsty twelve-year old nursed a savage erection inside his sweaty black suit,as he punished the determined ten-year old's body from head to toe, protected only by the silk of a purple speedo thong.

Meanwhile Peter was gritting his teeth as a stitch developed in his side 3; he was so out of breath that he couldn't run without experiencing a stabbing pain. He put his last remaining pockets of energy into shouting encouragement at Rob, desperately hoping the ordeal would finish before his strength gave out. Then he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It all felt wrong. He turned around, horrified to see that Rob had fallen from his chariot and lay spreadeagled face up in the sand, momentarily stunned. But he found that there there was worse to come when he came back to his senses – the tormentors sensed their chance and went for it will appalling cruelty. The leather-clad boys maneuvered their chariot with frightening precision, and deliberately drove their chariot right over the ten-year-old boy's prone body, ensuring that the right-hand wheel of the vehicle crushed his balls and pulped his cocklet in the process. Then the boy's foot somehow became entangled with the vehicle, and he was dragged helplessly along under the vehicle, and then behind it, to savage roars of approval from the crowd. After a full circuit, the boy's unconscious body fell away. Peter ran to it, but was knocked away by the savage stretcher bearers. The ten-year old's battered body was paraded around the ring twice on a rough leather stretcher, before it was thrown into the boy's home tunnel to deafening cheers. The two tormentors tried to jump murderously on Peter, but Wolf arose suddenly and boomed "Enough!"

His commanding tone ensured that the older boys marched back to their tunnel, but they did so with a haughty pride, demanding more applause from the over-excited audience.

"One race each 3; the next one the decider!" called Wolf. "There will now be a break of forty-five minutes, so that certain adjustments can be made to the arena!"

A puzzled murmur buzzed around among those members of the audience who hadn't visited Posiedon Manor before.

Peter had no time to wonder what the changes might be. He raced into his home tunnel, and along to the dressing room. The first thing he saw was Paul, upright, but shaking with fear "Is he dead? Is Rob dead?" cried the nine-year old, hurling himself into Peter's arms. The eleven-year old felt the mass of bandages on his younger brother's body as he held him. "What about you, bro 3; did they fix you up?"

"Of course they did 3; I feel like there's no skin left on my back, but they've given me something that's stopped the pain, and the bleeding's stopped too. I'll be OK."

Peter could tell from the way his brother was shuddering ceaselessly in his arms that he was anything but OK, but he loved the boy for his strength of spirit. It gave him an idea 3; whatever happened, all three of them would somehow have to take part in the final race, as a band of brothers. The two boys rushed over the the physiotherapy bench, where Rob had regained consciousness. To their astonishment, he was smiling and looked utterly satisfied. "Awesome 3;" he was whispering to them. "Just awesome!"

"Rob? Are you OK 3; you look a little crazy 3;"

The ten-year-old opened his eyes fully, and levelled a strong gaze at them, looking rather wild. "The Ben Hur thing 3;," he explained, "I always wanted to do the Ben Hur thing 3; especially being dragged along under the chariot 3; that was the best thing I've ever, ever done, by a mile 3; it's the ultimate, isn't it 3; I'll never do anything better 3;"

"Rob, you're not making too much sense 3; and we need you fit for the final race" said Peter, genuinely worried by the younger boy's ravings.

"What?" Rob laughed, "Go back in there? I don't ever need to go back in there again 3; don't you see 3; I've done it. It's over 3; I'm leaving."

"Yeah, but what about us" asked Paul in a small voice "We've gotta win 3; we're a team aren't we?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Then Rob looked at his small blond team-mate, and his eyes suddenly resumed their normal shape. He shook his head as if to clear it, and then looked down humbly.

"I'm sorry guys," he said quietly, "I guess I was getting a bit carried away 3; it's just that I always dreamed of doing that stunt, and now I've actually done it 3;"

"Don't lose your fire now Rob," warned Peter, "It's still one-all in the chariot racing 3;"

"OK OK" came the reply, as Rob eased himself off the bench.

"But 3; but aren't you hurt" gasped Paul, still unable to believe his eyes. "Just a few cuts and bruises," grinned Rob, relishing the delicious understatement. "Although I think the helmet defiantly saved me 3; I found out about it all beforehand 3; I've read all the stuff the stuntmen have written 3; some really great books in the library 3; I know it sounds weird, but you have to kind of relax your body and go with the flow 3;"

He could see that his words made no sense at all to his friends, so he just shook his head again and laughed "So how long have we got before the next race?"

"Er 3; about half an hour 3; oh 3; and Wolf said something about changing the arena 3;"

As the boys emerged from their tunnel, the change was immediately apparent. They gaped open-mouthed at the sight before them. Much of the audience was obviously just as surprised. There was no arena any more 3; only a large pool of water. The whole ring had sunk by fifteen feet [4½ meter]. The sand had gone, replaced by flagstones, and the chariots had been secured into underwater tracks, so that the wheels had to follow a set course beneath the water. Aquatic chariot racing – the very idea of it made all three boys' cocks stir in unison, and fidget with their speedos. Tormentors appeared, and tied weight-belts around the boys, handed them goggles and fins, and secured air tanks to their backs – a process that Paul found particularly uncomfortable as the equipment chafed his wounds. Then, copying their rivals who'd already slipped in, they lowered themselves into the pool, gasping as the cold water found its way into every cut and scratch on their young bodies with unremitting cruelty. Peter, the boys' rider this time, had his feet secured to the floor of the chariot with short chains that allowed some movement, but, with the weight belt, stopped him from floating to the surface. The other two youngsters were chained to the pulling bar by their wrists, and copied their rivals by adopting a horizontal position in the water, with their legs stretched out behind them, ready to kick to provide propulsion. Rob wondered how much air they had in the tanks, but there was no visible means of telling.

When both teams were ready, each rider was given a huge, sharp, black trident. Then a small stone octopus was thrown into the water to signal the start of the race. It was an awkward affair for the boys at first, as they adjusted themselves to the task. Everything seemed heavy, slow and cold as they began to kick, grinding the vehicle along behind them. Then they got into a rhythm, and their efforts became more graceful. Paul snatched a glance at his brother. Peter was lunging clumsily at his opponent. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, retarded by the water. For his part, Peter was amazed that he'd actually been given something to defend himself with, but frustrated that he couldn't seem to wield it effectively. His rival was prodding at him viciously, occasionally piercing his flesh, as the trident's points were razor sharp, but the cuts weren't deep so far. The tormentor seemed obsessed with targeting young Peter's speedo, front and back.

"There must be more to this than trying to stab the other guy in the balls," mused Peter bitterly.

Then he started to think tactically, and saw what he had to do. With great precision, he began to use the trident to pierce the pipes which led to the tormentors air tank. After a few unsuccessful attempts, his weapon found its mark, puncturing the other boy's air supply tubes, and leaving them ragged and useless. But the taste of impending victory soon turned sour in Peter's mouth. His action led to the horrifying spectacle of the thirteen-year old tormentor being pulled around the arena by his oblivious team-mates, running out of air. After a minute, it was obvious that the boy in the bondage suit was really suffering. Paul and Rob could see what was happening too. But still the other two steely-eyed, determined tormentors simply pulled on, concentrating only on their immediate task of providing propulsion. Rob and Paul tried to swim alongside them and signal to them, pointing towards their rider, but the tormentors simply thought the younger boys were trying to attack them, and laboriously pushed them away. Another minute of the agonizing spectacle passed. Underwater cameras placed all around the pool flashed up the action to the deliriously-excited spectators, some of whom were yelling to the tormentor

"Drown!" Drown! Drown!" Two minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since the thirteen year old had last taken a breath of air from his tank. The three younger boys were frantic, but they were all chained into position and could do no more to help. Two minutes twenty-five. Peter was struck by the terrible thought that he could be about to become a murderer. Then, at two minutes thirty, as the tormentor rider was beginning to slump in his chains, Lord Wolf stood up and roared "Enough! The boys have beaten the tormentors!"

The crowd loved it, but the three younger boys looked rather dubiously at the aristocrat as they climbed from the water. The game had got too rough, and, although they hadn't been the ones that had been hurt, they were painfully aware that they'd been used by Wolf to create a truly terrifying spectacle for his audience. The muscular tormentor rider was coming round, but he was obviously traumatized by his near-death experience.

Rob turned to Wolf's balcony and yelled "You took it too far! You nearly killed him! I hate you!"

His fierce words merely seemed to drive the crowd even wilder, and he ran from the ring and sobbed just inside the passage. He wanted to get out now – very, very badly.

After lunch, while they were resting, the boys received a rare visit from Lord Wolf. The aristocrat was as calm and measured as ever as he strode in.

"Those were harsh words you used in the arena," he boomed, gazing at Rob, pointedly not using the boy's name.

"You broke your promise" Rob shot back, scowling at him from under his unruly fringe of brown hair. "No deaths, no bad injuries 3; and the guy nearly drowned."

"You misunderstand utterly," the aristocrat replied. "Alex is one of my strongest boys. You should make him your model – all the other boys do. He's a fine athlete, and extremely creative. He has a special interest in holding his breath underwater. And now that he's thirteen, he can go for up to two minutes forty-five seconds."

"You mean he knew what was coming 3; it was all a set-up?" Rob was even angrier now.

"As usual, you jump to the wrong conclusion," came the calm reply. "You must learn to control yourself, before you make such wild accusations. Alex didn't know what was coming any more than you did – although when he saw the water he may have had an inkling that some deep breathing would be a good idea. He's fine now 3; in fact he's something of a celebrity with the crowd. You could be as great as him one day, if you train hard."

Rob looked away and said nothing. He didn't know what he wanted any more.

"In two hours' time," Lord Wolf continued, adopting a more business-like tone, "you will attempt your final swim through the tunnel. That is all." And he strode from the room briskly, his purple robes flowing behind him.

The three boys stood beside the pool connected to the long, dark tunnel which lead to the world outside. They had swum into Posiedon Manor this way, each using an air tank. There would be no such luxury this time, but their capacity to hold their breath underwater had increased dramatically under Wolf's training regime. Rob had become cheerful again after Wolf's visit, and the other two boys were still excited at the idea of becoming fully-fledged members of the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club, if they could pass this final test. Coils of rope lay in the corner of the chamber, and Rob had an idea.

"We all pass or we all fail, remember? So why don't we do this together. Tie this rope round your waist, Paul!"

The nine-year old did as he was told, and Rob checked the knots as any good cub scout would. He let out another good six feet [2 meter] of rope before he tied the rope around Peter's middle, which prompted a bit of boyish horseplay as Rob threatened to tie it around the eleven-year-old's balls. Then he let out yet another six feet [2 meter] before tying it around himself, so that they were roped together, in a very loose line.

"What do you think, guys? Good idea?"

"Yeah, cool!" said Peter, "If we feel one of us slipping away we signal to the other guy like this, OK?" He made a thumbs down signal.

"Great" said Rob. He felt OK again now. They were in control, working together, and knew what they had to do. Lord Wolf would be waiting for them by the other end of the tunnel. They began their deep breathing exercises.

As they did so, Peter noticed that Paul no longer looked like a skinny little boy with a bony rib cage 3; he was becoming more muscular, and he seemed to be standing a little taller than when they had arrived. Then he looked at Rob, the wild kid who had seemed to crave pain and danger, until now 3; something had changed in Rob – some of the aggression had left his eyes. He was starting to look more normal. Rob caught his gaze and they stared at each other for a while. Rob broke the silence.

"I'm going home now" he said quietly.

"That's good, Rob" whispered Peter. "It's good that you finally want to go home. No one would blame you."

When the two boys embraced like brothers, and the ten year old didn't bother to hide his feelings this time. Peter felt Rob's tears on his shoulder and neither boy brushed them away. So they were all ready. They adjusted their goggles, and lowered themselves into the cold water gingerly. More deep breathing, then Peter gave them a count down:

"Five, four, three, two, one 3; go go go!"

They pushed off together vigorously, and were each surprised to find they weren't hurrying or worried. After a minute, they felt a little tightening in their chests, but each gave thumbs-up signals before the tunnel became too dark. Then they could see nothing but blackness.

Peter swam strongly in the middle, pulling the other boys back to his side when their sense of direction wandered. One minute thirty seconds. They weren't even half way there yet. A pounding began in Paul's head, and he was sure that his eardrums were bleeding. He reached out for his brother's hand, but failed to catch it in the darkness. All three boys knew that there was no point in going back now. Whack! Rob's head collided sharply with the rock wall, causing a flurry of panic. The boy instinctively shot upwards, only to find that his head struck rock again. Peter grabbed the rope and pulled him down, squeezed his arm reassuringly, and they proceeded slowly onwards.

Two minutes.

Paul felt as though his lungs were being burned slowly away from his body, and the pounding in his head had become a series of hammer blows. He felt Peter's hand around his waist for a moment, and found the strength to keep going.

Two minutes thirty.

They were over half way, but had no way of knowing it. Rob's eyes started playing tricks on him. Flashes of orange light scudded across his field of vision. His lungs felt as though they were being sandpapered inside him.

Three minutes.

Their speed had slowed to a crawl. Paul was no longer using his arms, and Peter was having to jerk the rope sharply to remind him to use his feet.

Three minutes fifteen.

Rob was panicking. He suddenly put on a desperate spurt, dragging the others along behind him. Anything to stop the pain in his lungs. Anything to get out. Anything. In the pitch darkness, he now saw only white light. The light-headed boy felt as though he was looking down upon himself. Peter pulled his rope hard, dragging Rob back to reality. The eleven year old suddenly became aware that Paul was no longer moving. But there was light ahead.

Three minutes thirty seconds.

Paul could just see enough to grab Rob, and point towards Paul. Rob shot off towards the nine-year-old and caught him under his left arm, swimming laboriously with his right. But Peter pulled them both along, surging like a shark, so high on adrenaline that he felt like a killing machine scorching through the water.

Three minutes forty five.

Rob found he couldn't maintain his grip on Paul.

Four minutes and two seconds.

The boys' heads broke the surface, they each took one huge gasp of air, and then went under again, clumsily lifting Paul's body between them. He was out cold. But they could see that bank, and the purple-robed figure standing impassively on it. Peter flipped over onto his back, and moved Paul's body so that it lay face up on his chest. He held his brother's head tightly against his own, and managed a series of frog kicks to get them to the bank. With a terrific sense of urgency, Wolf reached down and lifted the boy's body out with one hand, dangling him upside down for a second. Then he lay Paul swiftly on his back, checked the boy's mouth for weed and vomit, pinched the boy's button nose, and started to breath air gently into his lungs. He listened for a heartbeat and felt for a pulse. The two other boys scrambled out, just in time to see Paul's smooth chest rise and fall rhythmically. After what seemed like an age, the blond boy opened his blue eyes.

"Did we 3; did we?" was all he could manage in a very small voice.

Wolf was wrapping a towel around him, and rubbing him dry. The two other shivering boys found towels for themselves. There were no tormentors around. Lord Wolf was the only living soul there. Paul sat up, huddled under his towel, with his brother at his side. Rob stood gazing into the water. No-one spoke for a long while.

Rob broke the silence. "How many boys make it?"

Lord Wolf looked at him carefully. "A few" he replied, "I only allow them to undertake the ordeal when they're ready."

"Was Paul ready? Why did you make him do it 3; there's no way a nine year old kid should be made to do that."

"You always seem to misunderstand what we're doing here Rob. I am building a team of boys utterly loyal to each other. I know the risks all too well, and no boy has ever died or been seriously injured in Poseidon Manor. I knew you would not let Paul perish, even though the ordeal was impossible for one so young 3;"

"You use kids 3; you put them through pain to get your kicks."

"I train puny boys so that they become young warriors 3; how else is a boy to grow up? You're all so protected nowadays from any possible harm, it's a wonder that the human race is managing to survive."

The boy and the man glared at each other, and neither would back down. Rob was spoiling for a fight, but the aristocrat preempted him by embracing him tightly. The boy felt pure energy rushing through every fibre of the man, and couldn't tell whether he was a force for good or evil.

Lord Wolf released him, saying gently, "Talk to Paul 3; ask him how he feels, as you're obviously so concerned. This was never meant to be a traumatizing experience for you."

"I'm not traumatized, you idiot," Rob shot back, using the rudest word he knew, "I just got wise, that's all."

They strode over to Paul, not looking at each other. Colour was beginning to return to the boy's blue lips, and he haltingly asked a question that was obviously burning within him.

"Was I the youngest? the nine year old wanted to know. "Was I the youngest boy to do it, ever?"

Lord Wolf put his had on his shoulder, and said proudly "No boy under the age of eleven has ever attempted to swim the tunnel without oxygen. I would never have allowed it. You are an exceptional group. You have emerged triumphant."

Then he stood all three boys in a line, with their hands by their sides.

"These are rightfully yours now," he boomed. From the capacious pockets of his robes, he pulled three purple speedo suits, emblazoned with a trident image on the front, and the word Daredevil across the back. The sight of the coveted garments made Paul and Peter smile. Rob decided not to spoil it for them. All three boys looked ruefully at each other, stripped, and pulled on their rare garments, adjusting each other carefully, and admiring the result.

"Welcome to the Daredevil Boys Aquatic Club," roared Lord Wolf, and the three boys hugged each other roughly. A wrestling matched developed between Rob and Peter, with Paul joining his brother's side against the wild, whooping ten year old, but they collapsed into laughter well before anyone got their balls busted. Lord Wolf gazed at the pleasing spectacle, and a slight smile touched his lips. Then he vanished into the shadows.

It was the first time Rob had ever been in a big black chauffeur-driven car. It had massive leather seats which allowed him to sprawl around without inhibitions. He was the only passenger, and the chauffeur never spoke. It felt strange to be fully clothed again, after so long wearing nothing but speedos. His black track suit, yellow swimming club T-shirt and black trainers seemed almost alien to him, restricting his supple body from the fluid movements he'd developed during his intensive spell of training. They seemed to be coming out of the dark countryside now, and into the city. The suburbs of south-east London looked as bleak as ever 3; Orpington, Bromley, Beckenham 3; but he needed to see something ordinary after the feverish activity of Lord Wolf's domain.

The back door of his home was left open, as always, and he charged back in.

"Hi Mum! I'm home!"

"How was swimming camp, darling?" she asked warmly, giving him a hug.

"Great! I'm really fast now!"

"You look even taller" she said, ruffling his hair.

"Oh 3; don't do that!" he grinned up at her.

He looked out of the kitchen window. His dad was playing football with his younger brother in the back garden. He scampered upstairs and threw his bag into his cupboard. Then he stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

He had one final thing to do before he felt really comfortable. He tore of his track suit trousers, and ripped off his new Daredevil speedo. He examined the silky garment, and smelt it lovingly. Then he said "Bye bye Wolf," and ripped it to shreds with his penknife. He opened his bedroom window, and flung the pieces outside. The wind caught them, and tattered confetti of purple fabric blew along the suburban pavement outside, before the shreds were lost in the gutter.

The End