Timothy & the Terrorist

A Sex and Adventure Story
for boys ten to sixteen

Young, innocent white boys sold
as sex slaves to a sadistic and
murderous sultan plot their own
freedom and overthrow a corrupt
and hated regime in the process

The central square and main market in Basura, the sultanate's principal city is crowded, even festive as people welcome the end of martial law. Squads of soldiers patrol the square and others man machine gun posts at strategic points. A blond western family conspicuous against the darker natives make their way through the throng. The mother, modestly attired so as not to offend local custom still manages to look stylish in a long blue dress and wide brimmed white hat. She stays close to her husband who tries to look casual and relaxed in a dark business suit, and also keep a grip on eleven year old Timothy whose inquisitive eyes spy many strange things and he tugs in different directions chattering excitedly.

Mother comments, "It's certainly a relief not to be cooped up in that stuffy hotel all the time, but, she uneasily adds, "Do you think it's really safe here George?"

"I wonder myself Marion, but the sultan's executed the terrorist leaders and made all those public announcements about restoring order. And you know, with him visiting us to give his personal assurances he might be offended if we did not appear in public." Timothy tugging and pointing at a wall tries to interrupt. "Now Timothy, not while I'm talking. Don't get so excited and learn to be patient." A squad of soldiers pass nearby and George continues, "Anyway, we seem to be well protected, and my company really needs that contract with the sultan."

"Well I suppose dear, though I hear the sultan's a bit of a scoundrel, four wives and several concubines with umpteen daughters but apparently only one son."

"I guess I don't know how lucky I am."

"Look, look up there!" Timothy shouts and points. "See where they've patched those bullet holes."

"You're right," father looks proud, "You're a very observant boy. But it's still hard to believe that seventy people died here just over a month ago."

"Yeah, WOW," the boy exclaims, "That must have been something, they used machine guns and tanks, and I heard a jet strafed them too. And all because those fanatics don't like the sultan. Like he didn't seem like such a bad guy."

"Calm down son, the natives are staring."

"George dear, look at that exquisite leatherwork, do you think I might?"

George nods with a grin and they elbow their way up to the vendor's stall. Suddenly a man grabs Marion's purse and runs. George runs after him and with the help of bystanders gets the purse back although the thief escapes. Marion's relieved when she finds everything's there. She turns to look for Timothy - he's gone! She starts screaming, "TIMOTHY, TIMOTHY, my Timmy boy...."

Meanwhile two men abduct Timothy. He is stunned, dumped into a sack, thrown in the back seat of a car which speeds away. When he regains consciousness they seem to be travelling very fast and the two men are talking in a language he doesn't know. He tries struggling and screaming; it's useless and he's ignored. Much later it seems the car slows down, gears down and from the swerving motions Timothy assumes they're going up a mountain road.

At the Basura Central Precinct Station George and Marion are talking to a bewhiskered inspector. Across the room two men are being savagely beaten and interrogated. "As you can see, Mr. and Mrs. McGregor," the inspector sucks on his cigarette, "We are doing everything we can to find your son. The sultan has extended his personal sympathy, he's assigned some of his personal security staff to the case. And he has offered a very generous reward indeed. We are as you say 'leaving no stone unturned'. We are certain this is the work of the terrorists. They may only want a sizeable ransom...."

"We'll pay anything." George interrupts.

"But remember the terrorists are completely ruthless and unprincipled. They may be out for revenge - to embarrass our illustrious sultan in the eyes of the world."

"But he's such a sweet, lively, cheerful boy." Marion's in tears again.

After what seems like hours the car stops, Timothy still in the sack is picked up and carried some distance. He hears a heavy door being unlocked, is carried downstairs, through two noisy metal doors which clang shut and are locked behind them, then he is dumped on a hard floor. He hears a new voice.

A bald, clean shaven man in an ornate guard's uniform haggles briefly with the two kidnappers, turns over a satchel full of money and lets them out the way they came, through the double steel doors at the end of the wide, high ceilinged, dungeon like corridor. The guard picks up the sack and moves it into an adjacent room and leaves. An older, pale, smooth skinned man in a monk like robe gets up from an old cot and opens the sack. Timothy peers out.

"Hello there. You all right?" the man inquires.

"You speak English?"

"Certainly, I was born in England, but this is my home now."

"You can call me Tom."

"Tell me, what's happening? like...."

"Well you're a prisoner, and, if you're lucky, you'll be a slave like me."

"Huh? What?"

"I know it's unfortunate, but there's not much you can do about it. Slavery is just something that still happens in this part of the world."

"But why would anyone want me for a slave? Like I'm not big and strong or anything."

"But you are young, and rather pretty, those big blue eyes and golden curls, not to mention your other attractions." A look of shock comes over Timothy's face. "Many men prefer young boys."

Timothy begins sobbing and Old Tom lets him cry for a while before gently taking hold of him. "Here, here, we can't have you crying, your master will be here soon." He strokes the boy's head. "And we have to get rid of these." Tom starts to undress the bewildered boy. "These tight jeans may be very becoming around your bottom but I doubt if that's what Master wants to see. Come on, we haven't got much time, and there may be another boy arriving later. Now the first thing Master will want is to test you. You will have to hang on to this bar over a deep pit, and ancient well, and whatever you do, don't let go. And try not to cry or scream. I hear him coming now."

The first guard and another who could be his clone lead Timothy into the corridor where a third man, completely clad in black and hooded waits. He is lifted until he can reach a horizontal bar across the other end of the wide corridor, then planks beneath his feet are removed revealing a black hole over six feet across. Slowly, almost leisurely the hooded man walks around and studies the slender naked form of the frightened blond lad. At his command a guard hands him a thin tapered whip which he flicks experimentally a few times. Then not using his full strength he begins to whip Timothy, carefully placing each stroke, checking the results and studying the boy's reactions before proceeding. The whip raises long thin red welts on the white skin of the boy's chest, belly, buttocks and thighs. Timothy holds on determinedly, gritting his teeth as the searing blows impact his body and the burning afterglows of each stroke add up. After almost twenty strokes have traced their cruel design on the soft yielding flesh, the hooded man stops, looks pleased and leaves. The guards return Timothy to Old Tom.

"You did well Timothy, I think Master likes you."

Timothy trembling in a confusion of anger, hate and fear examines his welts. They're not serious, no cuts, no blood and the pain is subsiding.

"What's this all about? Who is that, that weirdo?"

"Your master, he likes to decorate new boys."

"But who is he?"

Old Tom smiles knowingly. "It is not to your advantage to know yet. But it is time for you to start learning and training for your new life. First you must always remember to respect and please your master whoever he is. You must never refuse your master, it could mean a whipping that would maim you, or even your life. Come here and lie across my lap....That's right. You must understand what your master wants and how to satisfy him. I will show you.... Your asshole here, this is your prize possession, your organ of survival. Your master will want to fuck it, fuck you, fuck you repeatedly again and again, and he may become rough and violent in his passion. You must prepare and train your asshole. Your lovely pink asshole and, mmmm I see, still tight little sphincter are going to be subjected to a lot of abuse, as they say. How much it hurts, and whether you get injured or torn, and I know that really hurts, is mainly up to you. The easier you can let Master enter, and the quicker you can bring him off, the better it is for you.... Now, I've got some grease on my finger, and as I push it in I want you to try to alternately tighten and relax your ring muscle.... That's it, that's the trick, but you'll learn to do much better. Now, you feel my finger moving around? feel it reaching up by the base of your spine? and around and down here, this? that's your tiny prostrate gland. If you were older, you'd squirt semen when I squeeze it like this.... Now just relax, concentrate on the sensation as I slide my finger in and out. If you can get to like or even tolerate that sensation, life will be much more pleasant.... More grease.... Now this time I want you to wiggle your hips up and down as I shove my finger in so you're doing half the work.... Good boy, good boy, now make your movements more rhythmical, like you're dancing, maybe a slow hula." The lesson continues for some time.

They hear a guard unlocking the double set of steel doors and two new men enter the gloomy corridor dragging a bound and gagged blond boy a bit taller and older than Timothy.

Old Tom looks up, "Two boys in one day is highly unusual, it's more like two a year. I'm sure Master doesn't intend to keep you both."

Again the guard gives the two men money and they leave, but as the boy is struggling he brings him into tom's room before untying and ungagging him.

"Du verflucher, scheisswichser, mongoloider, Du!" The new boy continues to curse in German.

Old Tom tries to reason with the lad but he keeps on struggling, cursing and kicking. Finally the two of them strip the German boy of his clothes and the guard handcuffs him to a wall and leaves going up the inside stairs. Fairly soon the new boy's anger turns to fear, his fine features become distorted with despair and he seems to be asking questions they don't understand. His lean, tanned, well muscled body gauzed with the finest golden hairs begins to sweat. Tom speaks reassuringly, trying different words but unable to get through. The lad has barely settled down when the hooded master and his two guards come down the stairs.

Timothy watches through an iron grating as Master, whip in hand circles the now near hysterical German lad hanging from the bar. As before the hooded man takes his time before lashing out - three hard slashing blows across the chest - then he stands back, the boy pleading with his eyes. Another flurry lands across his buttocks, and then his thighs. Timothy notices that the blows seem much harder and damaging than his own. Three vicious strokes across the belly bring the first blood and the boy is squirming, screaming through his teeth, desperation in his eyes. Timothy's been counting, and after the fifteenth blow one of the boy's hands slips from the bar, the abyss of the pit looming below him., The hooded master delivers a final three blows on the frantic, squealing boy. Then just as he's about to fall into the pit a guard, plank ready, grabs him. He is bound and blindfolded and taken out the double steel doors.

"At least they didn't let him fall." Timothy seems slightly relieved.

"Well," Old Tom looks thoughtful, "he is valuable property. You have no idea what blond boys are worth these days. I'd say at least twice what you'd pay for a fair skinned, blue eyed Mediterranean type. And most sheiks can barely afford even African boys nowadays."

Minutes later Master, attired in his traditional robes, returns with a couple of his cronies and a guard. When Timothy sees the sultan his face lights up and he rushes forward. "Hey Sultan, it's me, I'm safe." The sultan does not appear to recognize him. "Don't you remember me? Timothy?"

"Of course," the sultan smiles, "Timothy McGregor, Master Timothy McGregor in one of the ironies of your language. We meet for the third time. On the last occasion I had the pleasure of etching your flesh." He runs his hand over the welts on the boy's belly and thighs, "You take to the whip well I see. But from now on, I trust Tom has explained a few things, you will know me only as Master."

Timothy stands, weeping despondently as the sultan and his cronies prod, pinch and probe his body making exclamations and comments he doesn't understand. At Tom's coaching he bows and says, "Thank you Master." when they leave.

"Cheer up, you'll probably be his favourite for a while."

Old Tom brings out a black leather case and opens it. Inside is a graduated set of twelve ebony handled, shiny white porcelain dildos ranging from four inches by less than one to ten inches by almost two. He hands Timothy the jar of grease. "Here, you practise with these, and when you can master the biggest you should have no trouble mastering Master." The joke fails to cheer Timothy but he sets about his task lying back on the couch, legs bent over him, working ever larger dildos deep into his ass sliding them back and forth. Old Tom watches and counsels, sometimes holding the dildo so the boy can practise his hip movements.

"What'll happen to the other boy?"

"Oh he'll probably be given to some sheik to gain his loyalty, the sultan needs all the support he can get."

"And me?"

"Your're one of his slaveboys, and you'll probably get to enjoy a few luxuries now and then."

"Forever?"

"Well, you're not young forever."

"And after?"

"After is after, right now you have this to deal with." Old Tom pulls the boy's foreskin out past the end of his cock. "This is considered 'unclean', and has to be removed, circumcised, before Master can enjoy you in bed. There's not much to it though Master likes to make it into a ritual. As soon as your whip marks are gone, a week or so, Master will do it in the Blue Marble Hall with a banquet after.... Oh you don't know, we're in his mountain Summer Palace. It's huge, hundreds of servants and slaves, but only a few know there's white boys here. We're a secret, we never get to leave the sultan's, I mean Master's personal quarters."

"What do you mean?"

"Well you're lucky, you get to go up to his chambers and see the sky and some treetops, I haven't been upstairs for many, many years. Now let's see." He inserts a finger in Timothy's ass. "Ah, that's getting better. Squeeze. Relax. Good boy.... I think that's enough playing with the dilation aids for now. Your asshole's likely to get more exercise later."

"What? It's already a bit sore."

"Well you'll be sleeping with the other ganymedes across the corridor in the dorm, and they usually like to sport with any new lads. Their lives are very boring and tedious especially since Master took away the TV as a corrupting Western influence."

Soon three exceptionally attractive boys in brief tunics bang at the entrance to Tom's room and he invites them in and makes introductions: Raymond, a tall, melancholy, delicate featured fifteen year old with hazel eyes, auburn hair, a French lad who's almost lost in English. Zoltan, a pale strikingly beautiful boy with dark hair and burning eyes and red, red ruby lips, maybe thirteen and possibly Persian, but his smile and gestures make up for his almost total lack of English, and Andy. Cute, short and wiry, about nine or ten, green eyed and blond, Irish stock but Australian once he opens his mouth.

"What about Einar and Lars?" Old Tom asks.

Andy replies, "Y'know how Master likes to watch Einar fuck his kid brother, well Einar went soft and Master beat the shit out of him."

"I'm certainly sorry to hear that but I want you to welcome the latest addition to our family, Timothy." Old Tom beams.

"You the reason we been locked in the dorm half the day?" Andy greets Timothy.

"Bienvenue au Cercle Diable." Raymond contributes.

"Let's go." Andy says to Timothy.

"My clothes?"

"You ain't be wearing anything for a while, not til you get that trimmed." Andy flicks Timothy's cock.

The dorm is almost directly across from Tom's room and is equally dungeon like with a stone slab floor, stone walls with small barred windows near the high ceiling. One end is covered with filthy lumpy mattresses while the other has a table, some broken down chairs and a few games. Timothy sees a slender, graceful, very Nordic boy about his own age, presumably Lars, bent over another swabbing raw cuts on his back and buttocks.

"He striped you up nicely." Andy appraises Timothy.

"You mean Master?"

"NO, I mean that sleaze bag, son of a syphilitic whore, the sultan."

"Won't they hear you?"

"The guards don't savvy, and Old Tom's the wimpiest queen this side of King's Cross. Like I don't care, these motherfuckers killed my mom and dad to get me. What do you think of that mate?"

Raymond, "I was runaway avec mon ami friend. Weez allons, alloned? à Trieste, un big bateaux, stowsaway, à Suez discouverte, pas de money, un man m'aide, mais trop de drug, et voila, ici, slaveboy."

Lars joins them at the table and can't keep his eyes off Timothy's cock. He reaches over pulling out and retracting the foreskin enviously. "Before I have also." He pulls up his tunic showing Timothy his well circumcised penis. In a nostalgic mood he starts playing with Timothy's foreskin again, arousing his slender organ. Then Zoltan, jovial Zoltan who's been playing with himself beneath his tunic wants his turn at fondling, pinching and pulling on the rare anatomical treat. He laughs when he stretches it a full finger beyond Timothy's knob, tosses off his tunic and tries to pull the remnants of his own over his own now glowing glans. Raymond, now stripped and aroused, respectfully strokes the loose skin and kisses it as he might a crucifix. Einar, a big eyed wistful looking lad with a platinum fuzzed upper lip, painfully makes his way over, watches, and at first opportunity slurpily swallows Timothy's cock, his tightly pressed lips sliding the foreskin back and forth. Timothy of course has never had his cock sucked, and he's not quite sure what to think of it, but he sure welcomes the attention from his new found friends. And it sort of feels good. But soon it gets to be too much, it's like being tickled and he pushes Einar away. Einar lies back and indicates his own rigid rod backed by a few pioneering red hairs, "You. Me. You suck." Timothy understands, he sees Zoltan's ruby red lips suctioning the tip of Lar's gracefully arching twig, the blond boy sprawled in bliss. He sees Raymond, his hands lightly playing over Andy's thighs and belly, savouring his stubby rod. Andy smiles at him. Timothy practically attacks Einar's begging cock. He puts his learning into immediate practice, like lips and tongue to a melting popsicle, and one of his hands finds it's fun to play with balls, balls bigger than his own that slip around in their sac as his fingers knead them. And Einar spreads his silky legs, obviously enjoying it and strokes Timothy's curls. The novice's lips are aware of interesting pulses well before he knows he's tasting something he's never seen. 'I thought it would be awful,' he thinks still clutched to Einar's groin. Then he discovers that it's Zoltan who's been playing with his balls and ass, and got him hard again. Zoltan purses his magnificent red lips, coin in hand and says, "Fuckfuck o fuckfuck? OK? Tails, first fuck." He flips the coin, it lands heads, he points to Timothy, "First fuck." Lars is clinging onto Raymond, scissoring his hip and thrusting his ass into the groin of the French lad on his hands and knees above him. "OK" Timothy says. Zoltan puts up his hands, "First ", his lips suck briefly and expertly on the virgin cock leaving it well slathered, and he rubs more on his ass. He lies on Zoltan's back and slips his rod in. He tries the humping he's always imagined but it keeps coming out. He tries just wiggling his cock and supershort strokes. Then he just lies there and feels what Zoltan's ass does. Warm, moving, living flesh presses tactilely against his own. And after a minute he starts slower, more careful strokes and can feel the other boy complimenting his movements. This sort of feels good too. But that's all there is to it and he cheerfully lets Zoltan have his turn on top. He feels a lot more comfortable than the bigger dildos, and better too as the knob softly probes and massages his insides and the shaft pleasantly, soothingly stimulates his ring muscle. Timothy concentrates on the sensation and then experimentally tries some of the things he's learned. Zoltan starts thrusting faster and deeper, his breathing becoming audible, and then he half collapses on top of Timothy, but only for a moment. His face is inches away, a face that Timothy sees the beauty of creation in, and it's not all that strange when they kiss, their lips just touching, ruby red lips that seem to sensitize his own.

There's a knock at the narrow passthrough slot. A tiny old lady, one of the cookslaves, shoves through handfuls of dry stale figs and dates. "Yer nightlies, praise Master." she squeaks. Raymond takes them from her, "Master be praised, manger la merde." he intones. The cookslave grins with delight, "A, a, praise Master, praise Master." repeating half her English vocabulary.

The boys relax and chew on the tough fruit, joking with words and gestures. Timothy hasn't felt so cheerful since he was abducted, but he notices Raymond looking depressed. Andy explains that Raymond is almost sixteen and will soon be too old, and they don't know what happens to boys when they leave. "Old Tom won't say even if he knows. Like I think maybe we get killed. They can't just let us go with what we know. Like up to a month ago there was this Polish kid Sergy, just turned fifteen, and one night he just never came back from the sultan's chambers."

"Can't you escape?"

"We all think about it, but how? Even if we could kill the inside guards, there's the double steel doors with a third at the top guarded by soldiers, there's through the sultan's chambers which I figure's even worse, and then there's the pit. And if you did get out, he'd hunt you. Your only chance would be to find some terrorists. And, if you get caught? There's a sort of legend passed down from long before Raymond's time, and he's been here six years, that a boy once tried. They say his arms and legs were broken and the other boys had to whip him 'til he died. It took most of a day and after the sultan beat the rest of them bloody. It'd sure be worth a try though."

"Sounds like the sultan's the real terrorist around here."

"Yeah, I'd like to get that terrorist."

Later, after the lights go out automatically, Raymond comes over and cuddles Timothy, hugging him from behind and crying softly on his neck. Timothy sympathetically snuggles against the French lad, wiggling himself to invite him into his ass. Raymond fucks slowly, more to soothe himself than come as Timothy weeps for the older boy, himself and the others. Finally he rolls aside and sleeps as Timothy tries to imagine that the whole day's been a horrible dream. Then Andy crawls up and whispers in his ear, "Fuck me Tim, I need it, I get so lonely here and I can't talk much with the others." With more tenderness than he's tried before he takes the small boy in his arms, feels the firmness of his mini-muscled, sweat moist flesh, and finger foraging first, he finds the tiny hole and pushes himself in. Its clasp is warm and living, he thrusts just perceptibly. It's more a being there which both enjoy and they fall asleep together, his cock still gripped by Andy's sphincter.

The boys awaken slowly and only begin to move when the cookslave bangs at the slot with breakfast, heavy sweet coffee, some kind of hard bread and what Timothy learns is goats' cheese. After a guard unlocks their door Old Tom assembles them in the gymnasium, next door near the pit, the largest room in the dungeon. There's a crooked basketball hoop, some nets, well worn balls, a few weights and mats for tumbling and wrestling.

"Good morning boys, I hope you had a pleasant night. We should practise our dancing, I'm sure Master will want to display your talents when Timothy gets trimmed, and Timothy, I'll give you some special lessons in private after, so you'll be prepared." Some of the boys snicker. "And he'll probably want some tumbling and wrestling too, but do be careful, you know how angry Master can get if he finds unauthorized bruises on his boys."

Old Tom puts a tape in the battered tape deck and strange, distorted, jangly music screeches out. The boys dance erotically, smiling cutely and coyly, winking at each other, wiggling their asses and shaking their hips so their cocks flap against their bellies. "Try to keep them hard when the time comes." They run their hands up and down their bodies and finger their assholes provocatively. The choreography becomes more complex as they fondle each other with stylized movements working up to a finale where two pairs of boys interlocked, mouth to cock, somersault across the mats in opposite directions, leap up, pounce on Andy and symbolically rape him.

Tom leaves the others to polish their act and leads Timothy to his room where he discovers that two of the man's fingers up his asshole are no more uncomfortable than one was the day before. But Old Tom isn't satisfied with his muscle control. "Master is only accustomed to the best. Here, I'll let you see for yourself." The old man hands the boy the jar of grease, lies back on his cot and pulls up his robe revealing a near hairless crotch. Timothy looks at him in astonishment.

"Where're your balls?"

"Oh they were buried with the old sultan, Master's father. You see I was his favourite, his most beloved, and when I became too old for his bed, I was almost seventeen as a matter of fact, he snipped them off. So great was his love for me that he couldn't bear the thought of me sharing my full passion with anyone else. But most mercifully he spared my long john which was his by right." He pats his cock like a pet dog before moving it aside. "Oh those were the glory days. Now just work your hand up my rectum and I will demonstrate for your elucidation.... That's it, right up to your lovely little elbow. Now move your hand around and feel the muscles working. Good boy.... Yes, yes, the old glory days. I would ride with my master when he went to collect tribute from the tribes. He would parade me in front of the sheiks to impress them. I was the most beautiful ganymede they'd ever seen, I was the most admired and envied slave in the entire realm. I even had my own little native boy, I wonder whatever became of sweet little Feisal. And to think I'd been a mere cobbler's son in Bristol.... Now rotate your arm slowly.... Ah! Yes, in those days a sultan would flaunt his white boys. And some became his trusted advisors and wealthy in their own right. Not like now unfortunately. I think Master's right about corrupting Western influences.... now move your arm back and forth like a piston.... Ah, excellent my dear boy.... And the old sultan, bless him, appointed me as mentor for all the new white boys.... A bit faster, and a little deeper please. Ah, ah, beautiful, oh." Old Tom enjoys himself, his huge member stiffening as Timothy pumps away, his arm getting tired.

"Ah, thank you, thank you, you could spoil a poor old eunuch like me. The lesson, yes, I was almost forgetting.... Now I want you to sit on my lap, that's right. Now ease yourself down. Ah: I know it's a bit bigger than the dilation aids you've practised with so far, but, there's no substitute for the real thing."

Timothy feels the worst pain yet and a fullness he's never known before. He tries to use his intestinal muscles but can't. It's all he can do to bear the agony as Tom begins fucking him vigorously. He notices the boy's discomfort. "It IS my duty to prepare you for Master, and if his is anything like his father's mine is a mere lollipop stick.... Now place your hand on your tummy. Can you feel it? of course. Now here's a little trick that can help you, start rubbing my long john, massaging it from outside as I uh, fuck you.... You're simply Magnifique my boy." Timothy's getting bored as well as sore.

"Tom, what happens to boys when they get too old? Like Raymond's almost sixteen and he's really worried."

"There's nothing to worry about. Why the world is full of limitless possibilities these days.... Now lift yourself off."

"Like where do they go when they leave here?"

"I don't know, I lose touch with them. But turn around.... Your whip marks are fast disappearing, not one raw spot, Master is indeed a master. I shall start teaching you your dances at your trimming ceremony, he'll probably have most of his trusted cronies there, people you don't often get a chance to meet. Now the first dance, the one you do before he slices this off," he stretches out the boy's foreskin and continues the lesson.

That evening Timothy is curious about balls, examines and handles those of other boys, and learns a lot more about what they're for, and more about eunuchs. He finds it rather pleasant when Raymond sucks on his later swirling his tongue around and between them. And he does the same to Andy's tiny beans before he fucks him. Later still he sits in the shaft of the only light angling through the door grill and stares at his own somewhat bigger beans in their pod. He explores them, feeling them with his fingertips and sensing the sensations they cause. He squeezes them, just a bit, to just within sight of pain's threshold, and still curious he bends his head down and stretches the sac and its beans as close as he can to his eyes and stares in fascination. His tongue can't quite reach. He leans back, relaxes, wonder and a hint of a smile on his face. He kisses his fingers and touches their tips to his still latent manhood.

The days quickly become a rather boring routine for Timothy. He learns quickly and Old Tom's not only pleased with his progress but reaps its rewards as he pants and thrusts in Timothy's precocious anus. For several days no one is summoned to Master's chambers then Zoltan is taken and returns with no authorized bruises whatsoever and three large sweet oranges. It took a while with gestures and pantomime, and the few words they know in common before the other boys understood that all he had to do was whip a couple of very young, blindfolded native boys bloody while he fucked two others.

On the evening before Timothy's trimming day Einar and Lars hold a farewell party for his foreskin. They make a big show of speaking to it as if it's a separate person. They shake its hand repeatedly and offer it bits of dried apricot. The other boys get into the spirit of the theatre and kiss it good bye. Soon they are all into it, like they'd been drinking, Timothy especially, giving a mock speech about his "dear life long friend". The boys play with his prepuce, stretching it out, sucking and nibbling on it, not leaving it alone. They take turns pulling it over their own knobs, only Andy having any success. Timothy's skinny springy twig is yanked, wanked, sucked and gnawed on, becoming a brighter pink than it'd ever been before. Finally it wilts from all the attention and it takes Einar several minutes labouring with his lips to bring it to life again. Zoltan with great fanfare brings out his secret shard of glass and it takes a minute before the others realize he's offering to cut off Timothy's foreskin then and there. They all burst out laughing when they catch on to his joke.

After lights out Raymond comes over for their nightly ritual. He's worried because Master hasn't invited him regularly for along time. Timothy feels the certainty of his fears but, "Maybe they don't kill you, maybe they just sell you to sultans who like older boys." And after Andy wriggles his way over for their nightly conference and fuck, he's worried too. Timothy's not feeling hot and horny tonight, he's apprehensive about tomorrow, but the younger boy's warm, willing body snuggled into his own feels so good, so reassuring, he fucks, he fucks tenderly and lovingly, he fucks for Andy, he fucks for Raymond and all the boys. All is quiet, he fucks and sleeps.

Old Tom is excited, he fusses over Timothy, re-bathes him, rinses and dries, re-checking for the faintest sign of the whip. "Master has picked an auspicious day indeed, the day before his son Casmir is to be betrothed to a princess, he must be almost eighteen now, though of course I've never seen him. And it's in the stars, there's a confluence of Mars and Saturn in Virgo, though I never see the stars either."

A gaunt old eunuch groomslave appears with a large kit of his trade. He washes, conditions, dries and teases Timothy's hair into a bright golden halo that gives him an angelic look of innocence, he manicures and pedicures, ever so lightly touches up his cheeks with rouge, blues his lips, nipples and glans with a bitter tasting stain, and then using an enema he flushes Timothy's rectum three times before flooding it with a rose scented oil. Finally he's adorned with dozens of gold bracelets, arm bands, necklaces, anklets and a thin gold chain, tied snugly around the base of his cock, the ends set with rows of tiny rubies dangling below his balls.

A guard arrives to escort Timothy upstairs and as he leaves old Tom counsels, "Now remember what I said, a generous flow of blood is considered a good omen, bountiful harvests and returns on their investments.... so."

They climb up the winding stone stairs for several flight, there are no doors. They arrive at a steel panel with a peephole, the guard makes some hidden signal and soon the door panel slides open, and they enter directly into the sultan's lavish bedroom. Rich designs in mosaic tiles cover the vaulted ceiling, thick Persian carpets cover the floor, the panel is simply part of the intricate woodwork of the walls. The ornate canopied bed could easily sleep six, a generous playing field for the sultan. They continue down a long corridor and Timothy gets a glimpse of a deep clear pool backed by palms and plants with a sculpted stone platform for diving. And he sees the sky for the first time.

They turn off near the end and enter the Blue Marble Hall a modest forty feet long. The room is rich in the varied colours of the stone and the parquetry of the floor but comparatively stark otherwise. Along one side the sultan and several cronies sit on cushions as if engaged in gossip. Timothy walks solemnly up to the sultan, prostrates himself and waits for a command to rise. The sultan is apparently busy, the men talk unintelligibly punctuated with laughter for what seems like an hour to the boy. There's a lull and the sultan speaks, "Arise my little fledgling."

Timothy rises, "Praise Master." bows, and begins his dance using every sexy, cute, coy and vulgar movement and gesture he's learnt from Old Tom and the boys as slaves play a flute and tambourine. The cronies watch him intently and chatter with excitement when he touches and psyches himself hard.

Gradually the tempo speeds up, the dance becomes a frenzy, his flesh shaking on his bones as he twists, gyrates putting all his energy into the rhythm, the gold ornaments shimmering, glinting from his wild dancing in the soft light of the hall. He's near exhaustion before the music slows and he slowly collapses to the floor in front of the sultan.

Then the other boys enter the hall solemnly their faces and bodies shrouded in deep blue, gauze like silk cloaks with their hair dyed black and jello spiked for the occasion. After prostrating themselves before Master they rise throwing off their cloaks to reveal their costumes of rouge and shadow that give their naked bodies an eerie almost alien appearance. Their eyes are made up to look enormous with surprise, light streaks and mottles of purple and green emphasize their contours and musculature, lips, nipples and knobs are tinted bright red and the whitened shafts of their cocks blend into the deep purple of their balls. They prance and twirl to the complex notes of the flute. A more martial beat from the tambourines and the boys begin their more acrobatic and titillatingly obscene routines.

As the boys are cartwheeling in a circle before the assemblage Timothy remembering what he was told approaches each crony in turn letting them fondle, pinch and probe his body some deliberately trying to hurt him as much as they can to see if he flinches or shows discomfort. As the boys' dance reaches its slow erotic phase the cronies are delighted nodding their appreciation to the sultan. The dance approaches its climax, soixante-neuf paired boys somersault in front of them and as Andy is pounced upon and gang raped the last crony squeezes Timothy's tiny beans in time to the frenetic tambourine. The music ends in a loud silence.

All eyes are intent as the sultan draws his gleaming kris from its bejewelled scabbard. Timothy stands in front of Master as Raymond holds him, hugs him securely from behind. Andy kneels in front holding an exquisitely crafted solid gold chalice. Master takes the end of Timothy's foreskin, pinching it with his thumbnail and pulls it out with much of his strength. He touches the blade of the kris to it.

Timothy quickly glances at all the staring faces, hears his own heart beating and holds his breath. As Master very slowly draws the blade across his skin he bites his lip and watches blankly for the eternal second and a half until his cock snaps back splattering his belly with its first blood. He feels woozy as he watches the blood pulse out of his penis and drip into the chalice below. The pain is somehow secondary. But all too soon the dripping slows and Timothy knows what he must do. He tears at the wound with sharp newly clipped nails getting it to spurt again. He feels faint and only a knowing look from Andy keeps him in control of himself. At a signal from Master he begins to dance again, this time spinning and twirling, blood flecking the cronies to their delight. The music becomes faster and faster, blood sprays and splatters his legs and the floor. Master urges him on but Timothy passes out crumbling to the floor.

When he regains consciousness he is called to lie at Master's side while the other boys go through a different routine. After the finale, which the cronies applaud, they slowly dance in a line as the cronies make their choices and invite them to their pillows. Soon all of the other boys have their heads under the robes sucking the cronies jaded members as they casually converse among themselves. The chalice, diluted with wine or juice, is passed around and all toast the sultan. Timothy, not feeling too well, is commanded to labour almost disappearing beneath Master's robes. Slaves serve a feast of roast lamb and rice followed by fresh figs, apricots and grapes, as the boys continue their undercover work. The lucky ones get a grape for their efforts.

Although Master's cock's no bigger than old Tom's he's never sucked one near this size before and gags a couple of times. "My little fledgling you must do better than that." Master commands and pulls his robes back, baring the boy's bottom. SMACK. He spanks him again and again and again as Timothy struggles to please. After about twenty spanks which have reddened his ass far beyond his rouged cheeks, Timothy gags and convulses. Master yanks him up and shakes him as the boy tries to get out, "Praise Master." Suddenly Master's visage softens and he smiles benignly at Timothy, "We must get at the root of this problem, my dear little fledgling."

The sultan rises, takes the boy and a guard and goes to the dungeon. "Mentor, I am displeased by the results of your work." The guard chains Old Tom face to a wall and hoists his robe revealing a backside ridged with scar tissue. Master takes a short, heavy lash, appropriate for an ox, and shreds the old man's flesh before laying down the bloodied whip.

Back upstairs Master tenderly tucks Timothy into his bed and goes back to his cronies. When he returns the boy is asleep. Master rolls him over and commands, "I was hoping for more lucky blood on my sheets.... No, no you can't use your hands except to get it hard.... I see you have the idea, now fuck the sheet." Master is not satisfied until the wound bleeds freely again and the sheet is well smeared from its fucking. The pain is intense and it is all that Timothy can do to force more of it on himself to obey Master's command. Then Master looks at him kindly, cuddles him like an indulgent mother with a baby, kissing him on the neck and behind the ears, making faces, rubbing noses, and affectionately caressing his crushed halo hair. Then he lays the boy out on his belly, legs spread and removes his robes. "Sheik Abdul was very envious, you may have a long career my little fledgling." Master claims what he owns and consummates the relationship. Timothy's rectal pain is worse than ever before but only one of several hurts. He doesn't think of trying his muscle training, he doesn't have to. Master is excited by his new ganymede, more aroused than he knows, and comes prematurely in the boy's narrow clinging orifice. "Devil child!" he spits in disgust and slaps Timothy's already reddened ass until it purples, before he resumes his assault on his sphincter and his hole. A painfully long, few short minutes, and Master comes again thrusting violently this time. Timothy is kissed on the forehead and returned to the dungeon.

"You fuckez les sheets no?" Raymond greets him and all the boys cluster around. Soon they are carefully helping him bathe and clean his wound and apply the ointment and bandages Old Tom left them to use. After lights out Andy crawls over to talk but Timothy's not half way through relating his ordeal when he dozes off.

Three nights later Timothy along with Andy and Raymond are called to Master's chambers. His cock is still swollen, heavily scabbed but decidedly healing from Tom's expert care. Master takes Raymond to bed and desultorily fucks him while studying Timothy. "I want to see blood on Andy's ass." Master commands. "But I give my darling fledgling a choice: You fuck him 'til you bleed, or you beat him 'til he bleeds." he indicates a thick narrow strap. Timothy hesitates only a moment, but his lack of skill causes his friend unnecessary pain and damage. Master comes quickly in Raymond's dextrous ass, and starts in again as Andy's ass begins to ooze and splatter from the blows.

Suddenly a handsome, richly dressed youth with two companions bursts into the room from the entrance to Master's chambers. He confronts the sultan berating him, notices the white boys and sees Andy's battered buttocks. The sultan screams back and the youths leave in anger. Timothy recognizes the word, "terrorist" from the exchange, and the name of the youth, "Casmir", the sultan's son. The sultan angrily chastises his personal guards and those outside. Master is no longer in the mood for boys and they're back in the dungeon within minutes.

After lights out Timothy soothes Raymond with lips and tongue, his ass isn't ready yet, and the French lad sobs himself to sleep. Then he creeps over to Andy who welcomes him and they cuddle the best that they can.

"You know Tim, Sergie got fucked like that just before he disappeared, only Zoltan had to beat Lars. And there was trouble with the terrorists at the time too."

Next morning Timothy with Andy confronts Old Tom, "Do you know anything about what happens to us boys after?"

"Well, it's really nothing worth knowing."

"You mean we get killed, don't you?" Old Tom remains silent. "They kill us, don't they? you lying bastard."

"Well, perhaps not all. There is hope, a boy was given to another sultan in exchange for a favour a few years ago."

"How come you never told us before?"

"I said it was nothing worth knowing.... and isn't that right?"

"But...."

"Do you think I do not weep on those final nights when Master tortures the boy for hours, mutilating him horribly as he works out his frustrations and hate? and dumps them sometimes still breathing into the Pit.... I can only make things easier, more pleasant while you live. What else could I do?"

Timothy and Andy decide not to tell Raymond they know the truth.

A week later only Timothy is not called to Master's chambers. It's unusual but Timothy is glad as his cock isn't completely healed although sometimes it's worth a lot of pain and discomfort to escape the dank dungeon, see the sky or stars and perhaps tasted a fresh orange. He's getting ready to take off his tunic which he has just been allowed to wear when a guard unlocks the door and Casmir comes in.

"You're Casmir, aren't you?" the boy blurts.

"Ah, you speak English, good. The old man refused to say a word when I questioned him. I want to know what's going on here that keeps my father from his duties to the sultanate. I explored this palace as a child and never knew this dungeon existed, the only sign outside is the guarded steel door. I saw you in his chambers, but who are you white boy?"

"I'm Timothy, there's six of us and we were all kidnapped and made sexslaves.

"But my father denounced and abolished slavery when he became sultan. Everyone knows that."

"There's lots of slaves here, the old Englishman and most of the servants I think.... Can you get us out of here, free us?"

"I don't know, it's risky. It's only because the guards know I will be sultan someday that they were forced to let me in. I have the terrorists to worry about, they captured an outpost on the highway that night and my father refused to take the trouble to rally the soldiers, he was too busy with his diversions. I had to exhort the army myself and we managed to drive off the rebels."

Timothy tells Andy about his visitor but no one else. Things are unusually quiet. The pervasive boredom of their lives leads to tension and fights with both Einar and Zoltan getting unauthorized bruises. Old Tom says it may be deliberate, to increase their eagerness and passion for times they share Master's bed.

Timothy and Lars are called to Master's chambers one evening and after they have bowed and said their routine "Praise Master" he announces, "I have some special treats for you." He seems to be in a good mood. With a guard accompanying them they go to the pool that Timothy had glimpsed on his trimming day. Master orders them to have a good time frolicking in the pool while he reclines in a chaise lounge nibbling condiments and fruit brought in by the cookslave. He tosses them an occasional grape to scramble over as he watches them splash, swim and dive in the water. They know their fun won't last long but they do enjoy it. Then Master throws in an orange which Lars manages to grab after a spirited scramble. "My little sapling," Master commands, "you not only got yourself an orange but my little fledgling's bottom." The boys as ordered climb up on the sculpted diving platform and with a vermilion sunset illuminating them the little sapling energetically works his twig in Timothy's bottom. Master chews on nut rolls savouring their flavour as the boys fuck with practised grace. Master becomes aroused and announces, "My little sapling, your performance has earned you yet another reward." The guard ties Lars' wrists and ankles to a palm tree and Master parting his robes starts to fuck his little sapling becoming more and more vigorous. He stops, "My saplings little knothole seems to need encouragement." He starts fucking again, reaching around and grabbing, squeezing Lars' little balls. The boy's delicate features contort in agony, he writhes, screaming between his teeth until Master violently explodes in his ass. "You see, Master knows best."

Lars is still whimpering from his tortured testicles when they return to Master's bedroom. Timothy knows it's his turn now. Master disrobes and commands, "my little fledgling, it's perhaps time I reviewed the progress of your education." As he lies back on the bed his rigid rod makes his order clear. Timothy facing him lowers himself on the engorged member. He tries his best, all he's been taught and learnt, but Master appears unimpressed. Desperately searching his brain he begins massaging Master's massive cock through the flesh of his own belly. "Ah yes my little fledgling, one of Old Tom's prescriptions no doubt, but I know something much better." He sits up and turns to Lars, "my little sapling, hand me the strap.... Now stand beside me, your arms stretched over your head." Lars obeys and Master straps him smartly three times just above his still hairless pubes. "That is how I want you to encourage my little fledgling. It will also give you a taste of the power you cannot have so you will appreciated mine more." Lars' belly has blossomed bright pink. Timothy straddles Master again working his ass up and down as Lars smacks away reddening and ridging his soft white skin. "Not good enough my little sapling." Master shoves Timothy off, gets a guard to hold Lars bent backward his skin stretched taut, and labours his already bruised belly six times more. They resume the main task and by the time Master's immediate lust is satisfied Timothy's belly is much more bruised than his reluctant tormentor's.

Timothy then has to fuck Lars while he sucks Master's cock hard again. Master uses the strap on his fledglings buttocks to encourage him. Timothy manages to keep himself hard until Master spasms once more and a guard escorts them back to the dungeon. The boys examine their bruises gingerly, the happy minutes of boyish playing in the pool almost make them worthwhile.

Then after almost a week Timothy gets called to Master's chambers. But this time the guard takes him right through, outside Master's chambers to a small comfortable room nearby. Casmir is waiting for him and explains, "My father's in Basura right now, probably gambling, while the rebels threaten to take over the countryside. Corruption is out of hand, the IMF is on our backs and the army is completely demoralized. I must usurp my father to save the sultanate, kill him if necessary. I have influence but no solid loyalty from the soldiers, and he is too well guarded for any "terrorist" assassination to succeed. I need your help."

"What? You need OUR help?"

"You are the only ones whom I could possibly trust that have unguarded access to him. Only you boys could restrain him and his inside guards long enough to unbar the main entrance so that me and my men can break in. And only you as brutalized white slaves can justify my usurpation and perhaps murdering before the people and the world. I promise you your freedom and more."

Timothy figures things out pretty fast and offers ideas of his own. They decide the night after he returns from the city as the best time. His first night will be spent with delegations, his cronies and wives. But the second night he will probably want to spend with most or all the boys. They talk well into the night before conversation becomes trivial. Timothy becomes attracted to the richer textures of Casmir's body, but one that is not fatty or flabby like the other men he's known. Already close to the youth he strokes him below and behind his ears, a technique Old Tom has demonstrated, and notices a subtle change in Casmir's tone and manner. They establish a certain eye contact and nothing more is necessary as agreement flashes between them. Timothy slips off his brief tunic and helps Casmir with his more elaborate robes. Timothy wants to kiss but Casmir protests he's engaged to be married, but he lightly strokes the blondes slender body, flatteringly admiring his clean trimmed graceful cock as it quivers to his touch. His fingers are remarkably adept making Timothy's whole groin, thigh and belly skin as aroused as his tumescent rod. Timothy responds, returning his learning immediately, then reaching up he pulls the youth over him his legs encircling Casmir's dark golden hips, his eager asshole searching for his long engorged rod. Timothy feels a very visceral satisfaction as it slides into his ass and he works away enthusiastically, suspended below, long after Casmir shudders and he senses his spasms. After a long period of silent, simple bliss Casmir's fingertips and hands resume their adept play and Timothy feels himself brought closer than ever before to that elusive sexual ecstasy he knows older boys have.

Later he confers with Andy, after a friendly fuck, and explains the plans he and Casmir have made. They decide not to trust Old Tom though they realize he could be useful. Raymond is wildly enthusiastic, his hopes and spirits soar. And once Einar and Lars understand they're for it one hundred percent. But Zoltan seems to think it's some big joke he cannot understand and it's only when with frantic gestures and words they demonstrate they want to "Kill the sultan" do his eyes light up in joy. "Me, me kill." They figure the bigger dildos would make fine clubs and they could use some whips for tying up the guards, and the old volleyball net might come in handy, and Zoltan proudly shows his shard of glass.

The boys' mood is positive almost manic in the following days, they play the first organized games of basketball and volleyball since Timothy's been there and wrestling is revived with determined contests as if the boys are trying to get in shape. Old Tom is puzzled and comments on the new attitude but the boys just smile. And in the evenings the boys play, suck and fuck with more energy and passion than before. Then one time when Timothy has had his tingliest time yet in Andy's ass the little green eyed Aussie asks him, "Do you think we can really trust Casmir? Like he may want boyslaves too. He may just use us, kill us and cover up it all. I don't see that the scandal he says he wants is good for him, his father a kid killer? But then what else can we do? Like we're not going to get network TV coverage."

Old Tom somehow seems to know the day the sultan returns and busies himself and the boys in a new erotic dance routine he's devised, and is sure will please Master. The following night the boys wait expectantly reviewing their plans. They figure they need at least three of them in Master's chambers to have any chance at all. And then the guard comes down; Master wants Raymond, only Raymond for his bed tonight. Andy and Timothy are shocked, and Raymond's expression makes it obvious he knows. They all know. Einar and Lars weeping touch him tenderly and Zoltan offers him his glass shard, the blunter end wrapped in a rag. Raymond's face is completely blank when he shuffles out. The boys cry and console each other.

Maybe twenty minutes later the guard returns with Raymond. Master wants Timothy instead.

"Tell that fucking murderer I won't go!" Timothy screams.

The guard knows no English but gets angry, and starts to unlock the door. Raymond springing to life grabs the keys violently breaking the chain and tosses them through the slot. The guard clubs Raymond to the floor, obviously curses, and goes back up the stairs. Old Tom comes over to Raymond and starts treating his wounds.

Soon Master is outside the door with two guards and peers in through the steel grill. He looks at Timothy coolly, his indulgent sadism having triumphed over his anger. "I had great hopes for you my little fledgling. You were off to such a good start, special privileges and luxuries would have been yours, but, all you have earned now is a special session that will leave your joints and flesh pain racked for days. Now hand over the keys immediately if you value your life and want to save your friends from the most severe whipping of their lives."

"Fuck you with a ten foot pole." Timothy sticks out his tongue. He dangles the keys teasingly but his bravado is almost all desperation.

"All right, you've made your decision. The rest of you know what to expect, although I would spare the lad who takes the keys and gives them to me." No one moves. One of the guards reappears with a large axe and quickly smashes the lock open. He grabs the now terrified Timothy and with one hand holds him up off the floor in front of Master.

"You seem to like making decisions which is not a slave's prerogative. But then I may have recklessly encouraged you by letting you decide that Andy's buttocks and not your cock provide the blood where I desired it. And now you have decided you don't want to visit my chambers tonight. You fail to appreciate the real freedom of being a slave, one that I can envy, and that is freedom from having to make decisions. But as making decisions is important to you, and as I am a munificent master, I give you one more decision to make. You will decide to within a second when you Die!."

The guards suspend Timothy over the Pit and Master takes up the same heavy lash he used on Old Tom. Tom himself is still bent over Raymond, silently weeping. A guard makes sure the other boys stay in the dorm.

"You can let go now my little fledgling, but I don't think you will. Master would be disappointed, and I'm sure you don't want to disappoint Master. When I heard you were a trouble maker I was going to offer you the more elaborate fare I'd prepared for the French lad's last opportunity to serve me, but alas, I made you a promise - yet one more decision. I regret I will not be enjoying you as a eunuch. C'est la vie, my French feast will follow our little aperitif." Master positions himself in front of Timothy's pale dangling body. The boy trembles with fear but is still defiant. Master symbolically looks at his watch, "Shall we begin?" He flicks the lash for effect.

"At least I get to keep my balls."

Old Tom looks up, stands uncertainly, then runs screaming at Master, knocking him into the Pit. The guards are aghast. One guard starts clubbing Tom while the other peers anxiously down the Pit. The boys spill out of the dorm, they're everywhere. The guards uncertainly begin to chase them swinging their clubs. Timothy works his way along the bar, jumps down, sneaks past the others and starts up the stairs as one guard spots him. He bangs on the panel, is observed through the peephole and manages to shout in their dialect, "Master's dead." The pursuing guard grabs Timothy but is apparently asked if what he said is true. His terrified expression convinces the guard inside and the panel opens to admit them. They go about shouting and gesturing in despair, "Master is dead." And before they realize it the other boys, including a groggy Raymond supported by Einar, pour into the room. The last is Zoltan holding his bloodied glass shard. The boys lift the heavy bars from their brackets and yank the doors open before the guards can stop them. "Sultan's dead!", Timothy and Andy shout imperfectly but intelligibly in the dialect. The outside guards are stunned by the words and watch the continuing chasing and scuffling inside, reluctant to enter where they've never trod before. Casmir and a dozen armed companions force their way through the gathering crowd and bewildered guards outside. Master's two remaining guards, the ones who'll be held responsible, rush up to Casmir, pleading, prostrating themselves in front of him and impede his way. Timothy sees some of Casmir's men going after the other boys and ducks, crawls and squeezes through the crowd at the door and runs, runs where he's never been before. He runs, making himself seen and eluding a few confused pursuers. Curious servants, citizens and officials all turn to stare at the strange blond boy running, running naked, shouting through their midst, "Sultan's dead, sultan's dead."

The palace is immense beyond his imaginings. Wide terraces look out on mountain crags silhouetted against the evening sky and lights twinkle in a distant valley below. Ornate, filigreed brass lamps cast complex shadows in sombre rooms hung with tapestries. Timothy runs past long colonnades, splashes through pools, dodges through kitchens and stables. "Sultan's dead, sultan's dead." People stop and stare, hundreds see him, thousands more will know. The running, naked, blond boy enters the attached village that serves the palace, "Sultan's dead, sultan's dead." Motorcycles, Mercedes and merchants jam the narrow street, and Timothy exhausted is stopped by some soldiers. A curious crowd gathers around him as he tries futilely to express himself.

But other cries have gone out, wailing has commenced. The sultan is truly dead, a feared and hated sultan Timothy soon learns. But who is this strange blond herald of his death? Interpreters of sorts come forth and the boy tells his story, and it is retold, retold with embellishments becoming several different stories as it spreads through the crowd. For some he becomes a Faerie child, for others a golden angel come to fetch the sultan's soul to paradise. Only a few approximate the truth and only a scattering of the terrorists among them suspect he's the kidnapped Timothy boy. But the hated old sultan is dead, angry shouts break out, scuffling occurs, fists are raised and the mob surges into the palace, the people will have their due. Timothy is born by the vanguard.

Back at Master's chambers Casmir has taken control. The doors are re-barred and his men round up the boys and take them and the two grovelling guards down to the dungeon. Casmir follows and after hearing the guards' excuses which bear on the truth he has them shot. The boys are locked in the gym and watch through the grill on the door as Casmir's men work with ropes and hooks, and finally a daring man descending with extra ropes, retrieves the sultan's body. His gestures indicate there's many more. Then Old Tom's body and those of the guards are dumped in, and the planks are carefully replaced. A growing clamour can be heard even in the dungeon. Spies, the boys believe, report and confer with Casmir and then he goes up to proclaim himself the new sultan.

Casmir speaks to the angry mob, they quieten and listen to his soothing words, as he builds up to climax many cheer loudly and long. He makes magnanimous gestures reinforced by dumping out his purse. Timothy strains to understand words he cannot, and two of Casmir's men surreptitiously capture him.

Re-united in the dungeon the boys discuss all they've seen. Timothy adding his story. Then Casmir, by himself but armed with a pair of long barrelled pistols appears at the door saying there's things he wants to discuss and explain, and mumbles something about "political considerations." It would be best if he spoke to Timothy privately. The boys, their hopes up, agree although Andy can't understand why they all can't hear.

Casmir leads Timothy up to Master's chambers where they appear to be alone. "What do you want to talk about? and when are you going to let us go?" the boy demands.

"Can't, is more like it. But enough of politics...." He gazes at Timothy with a look that says, "I want sex with you."

"You let us go first."

"Timothy?"

"NO."

"Timothy, I'm giving you a last chance, I don't think you understand, I'm not like my father, I want to modernize the sultanate, I'm going to appoint a larger Democratic Council. And, of course, I intend to abolish slavery. You don't understand, I love you. I'd hoped you'd rush into my arms at first chance. I'll do anything, you name it. You could be like a prince. I'll arrange for you to be legally adopted in the sultanate after your parents disappear."

Timothy's confused and angry, he doesn't want his parents killed like Andy's. "Go fuck yourself."

"TIMOTHY"

"You can rape me, but that's all you get. And they'll get you. I told them all about what's been going on."

"I do not know what you told them, but I do know what they believe. Many think you were a heralding angel come to fetch my father's soul to paradise. Why already people are seeking your help, the blessing of the Golden Running Angel, to intercede on behalf of the souls of their loved ones. The crowds cheered when I promised to dedicate a shrine to the Golden Running Angel in honour of my illustrious father."

"But I told them all about the dungeon, the beatings...."

"It seems you mentioned what happens to evil doers, unbelievers even if they be children, who are taken to some hellish netherworld and tormented by a demon."

"What? You can't....?"

"I can. There's one more thing you do not understand: I am MASTER."

Casmir loosely ties a hand and a foot to the posts of the bed, the playing field of sultans, mounts him from behind and starts to fuck. Timothy lies there like a log.

"What's the matter? it's not like last time, it's not like I'd expected.... Timothy, slavechild, you're not doing your job." He resumes fucking but the boy doesn't help. Becoming enraged he starts slapping the boy's buttocks.

"That won't work."

After a few more slaps on the inured boy's bottom to relieve his frustration Casmir decides on a different approach. "Well then, what do you suggest, my stubborn little gazelle? I really don't want to bruise you right now."

"What about my buddies and me?"

"That dark haired one wounded one of my men, he needs to be made an example.... perhaps my father's last victim."

"No way." Timothy shakes his head.

"I'll put him in chains if he tries anything more.... And actually, come to think of it, I wouldn't mind if that Lars slave visited sometime.... and I'm rather curious about that French lad my father was mounting that night."

Timothy slips free of his bindings quite easily and makes love, or whatever, with expert professionalism as his lessons pay off handsomely. His fingertips lightly loop, touch and tease Casmir's magnificent physique. He licks along his muscled thighs and sucks, tongue palpitating, his newly mansize balls. By the time Timothy's lips reach the new sultan's knob he is almost begging. And he comes, not when he intends, but gloriously. Timothy doesn't let his arousal subside. Gently soothing fingertips soon become subtly stimulating, setting Casmir on the road to the peak again. This time his ass beckons, and he makes it improbably elusive until with wriggling, moaning fanfare, he welcomes Casmir's many inches into his asshole's clever depths. The young sultan comes quaking again and again. But still Casmir gets no rest as the boy's tongue toys and teases the noble anus before a slender boy finger delights his sphincter and beyond. And Timothy keeps his own rod rigid, flattering to the new Master's ego until bliss dazed and grateful, "Why my little gazelle, you've been untied all along." He tickles poor Timothy to tears.

The news back at the dungeon is both good and bad, they won't be freed but at least they may live for a while. The boys discuss and plot, the only hope they see is the terrorists, and sometimes they hear their new guards mention them excitedly, but that's all they know. But their new guards are young, husky youths, not doubly cut eunuchs, cock and balls, like their former ones. And one of them seems fond of cute little Andy giving him oranges and patting his bum, while the other has taken dreamy eyed Einar to heart, letting him wear a fine gold watch taken from one of the dead guards. Soon Old Tom's cot gets put to use again as the guards take turns sporting with their favourites. But Casmir does not appear, presumably busy with affairs of state, his father's funeral and perhaps dedicating a shrine to the Golden Running Angel. The boys can only wait.

It is several days before Casmir can engage young Timothy in political dialogue again. In Master's chambers the new sultan greets his slavechild smugly, "My little gazelle, the people love you, in fact they literally worship their Golden Running Angel. Your little escapade to attract attention has backfired to my good fortune. Many believe I have been anointed by the Deity. But enough of politics my little gazelle. Master desires.... What other things did my father have you do? and do to you? I want everything he had, I want to know and experience everything and MORE."

Back in the dungeon the boys are particularly provocative, promising a plethora of puerile pleasures. The naughty children have been holding back on their delights. Becoming overwhelmed with excitement the hirsute young guards strip and are titillated tits to toes and back again and both end up sandwiched between boys' asses and cocks. With careful planning and control they're made to simultaneously climax, and in their moments of ecstasy, off guard so to speak, they are subdued and left locked in the gym. Going up stairs the boys find the panel unlocked as expected and quietly sneak up on Master's bed. The new sultan is moaning and writhing as Timothy, tired and dripping with sweat, pinches his nipples with one hand as the other pumps the largest of the ebony handled, shiny white porcelain dildos in and out his ass. The six are able to secure the sultan spreadeagled to his own bedstead.

He struggles helplessly, "You can't get away with this, you'll never get out."

"Now? Now?" Zoltan shakes with excitement as he holds the blade of the sultan's ceremonial kris to his stretched out scrotum. "Cut? Cut?"

"My men would torture you mercilessly!"

"Please, Tim." Zoltan begs.

"All right, you can go free. I'll even have my men drive you straight to Basura in my bulletproof Rolls."

"We can't trust him." says Andy scratching his crotch, "And he's right, we can't get out."

But then Raymond remembers his guns, a beautiful pair of matched pistols, the barrels big as dildos. Zoltan hardly has any fun before their hiding place is revealed.

And so it is minutes later, when the boys unbar and open the doors, a ceremonial procession is ready to leave. Casmir most regally robed with an extra long train made from curtains commands the guards to stand aside. Five fair angels appropriately nude accompany him. Little Andy leads, hips swaying, hands prayerfully posed followed by Timothy haughtily waving his blessings. Einar and Lars, stepping spritely each hold up one of his highness' hands while Raymond solemnly brings up the rear, a pistol concealed in the solid gold chalice. The sixth angel, dark haired, walks crouched, hidden beneath the train holding a pistol up Casmir's ass. They pass through marbled corridors, down broad flights of stairs as people stare in wonder at the sight. They stop briefly at the Golden Running Angel Shrine where the awed worshippers prostrate themselves, seeing their demigod incarnate. The Rolls is readied and they head down the mountain road, Raymond driving like a Frenchman. Only the bullet proof glass saves them from a terrorist ambush and more rebels are seen advancing on Basura. Raymond offers to let Casmir out then and there.

"They'd kill me, they'd kill me." he pleads.

"How about if we dropped you off at the police station in town?" Timothy asks.

"No, nowhere will be safe.... except maybe? But I'll have to renounce my titles and wealth...." They leave him by a temple.

The rebels quickly take over most of the sultanate but the army finally finds its mettle defending the Central Bank. It becomes a stalemate and both sides make unthinkable compromises when they agree on elections.

A joyous, chanting procession of the Golden Running Angel cult led by Casmir holds up traffic in front of the once grand but now three and a half star hotel facing the central square in Basura. In the lobby the boys and some of their just arrived parents are gathered. The boys are all dressed in new western attire, much of it ill fitting though Andy and Lars have found some nicely snug jeans. Mr. Jensen looking much like Einar only fat hugs his two sons as the mother weeps happily. Zoltan's father, an immaculate rich looking man seems to be upbraiding his son over his unruly hair. Raymond embraces his mother as if he'd read too many novels for a boy his age.

"Oh Timmy," his mother Marion exclaims, "I was so worried, from the initial reports I thought? But I can see you haven't changed."

Timothy, brimming with excitement gives a sanitized version of his story ending, "and then we stole the chief terrorist's car from right under his nose and we made our getaway bullets bouncing off."

"Quite an adventure you had son," father beams proudly, "but I can see you're still your old excitable self." George hugs his son and smiles.

"Dad, can we adopt Andy? Like the terrorists killed his parents."

"Well we can see, Marion always wanted another child."

"But you might have to share your room with him, would you mind?" mother points out.

"Certainly not."

"Well we can see," father looks thoughtful, "I could probably pull a few strings."