The grey room was exactly that – a small grey concrete room, with a simple metal bed and a couple of wooden cabinets and bookshelves.
Henderson pulled Caleb reluctantly into the room, threw him to the floor and closed the door behind them. He went to the first cabinet and opened the door – inside Caleb could see various packages of clothes, all neatly pressed and sealed in plastic. Henderson selected a packet and threw it to Caleb.
‘Put those on, quickly’ Henderson ordered.
Caleb did as instructed, although he was surprised to be told to put on clothes – it seemed like forever he had been walking around in the nude, although it had really only been since last night.
He opened the packet to find three items – a tight white cotton t-shirt, a pair of tiny white briefs and a pair of sports shorts, like boxers but made out of some sort of plasticky material, they were also white apart from two parallel back stripes running down the side.
The T-Shirt fitted easily, although it was very tight, and only long enough to reach to his navel. The briefs were a different proposition – they were at least a few sizes too small. Caleb was able to pull them up with difficulty, but they refused to go high enough to totally cover his manhood, and they left him with a good patch of pubic hair and skin showing at the base of his cock. They also felt horribly constraining, he hoped he wouldn’t have to wear these all day, or he might lose all blood circulation in his crotch. The sports shorts were also too small but compared to the briefs they slipped on easily.
Henderson watched the stud squeeze into his virgin suit and smiled. He returned to the cabinet with four pairs of handcuffs. Caleb was expecting to be ordered to lie on the bed, but instead, Henderson made him stand at the foot of the bed, and handcuffed Caleb’s left wrist to the bed frame, at a low enough height to force Caleb to bend forwards. He then roughly kicked Caleb’s feet apart, and attached handcuffs to his ankles, which he attached to metal loops set into the room’s floor about five feet apart. He attached the final set of handcuffs to Caleb’s right wrist, but did not attach them to anything for now. Caleb was going to need that hand free.
Henderson stood back, and admired his handiwork. Even though he despised these studs that the Master enslaved, he could not help admire the sight of this particularly beautiful young body, wrapped in white, waiting to be taken. He noted how broad and strong the boy’s shoulders and upper body was, compared to the narrowness and tightness of his waist, and how the skin of the legs and arms stretched and pulled to accommodate the large and powerful muscles underneath. He could not resist running his palm over the pert young buttocks, the shape of which showed clearly through the tight material of the shorts.
‘The Master will be here shortly’ Henderson said. ‘He will ask you some questions, there is only one answer for you to give, that is “Yes, Master”, nothing else will be acceptable. He will then take this fine ass and make it his own – I suggest for your own sake you try and relax as much as possible when he takes you. Also, I recommend you try as hard as you can to make the experience pleasurable for the Master – you may hate the experience, but believe me it is nothing to compare with the experience you will have if he gets bored of you, and decides to give you over to the General, and all the other perverts on this island.’
Caleb whimpered at the thought ‘Please sir’ He said, ‘I don’t want this. Please let me go, I don’t want him to take me like this...’
Henderson felt no sympathy for the boy.
‘You will take your punishment and like it’ he said. ‘You are not the first to be tied here, and you will not be the last. You will accept that this is your destiny to be here, and you had better learn to live with it, or your time here will be long and hard’.
Henderson went over to the bookcase and pulled out a large, photo-album type book, which he laid on the bed in front of Caleb.
‘Your Master will be here in ten minutes. Read this, you had better be prepared. Oh, by the way, in case you’re wondering, the Master has preferences about colours – he likes any slave who has never been taken from the rear to wear white’ Henderson said, and left the room.
Caleb pulled against his bindings, but without success, he was going nowhere. He looked up at the photo-album in front of him. Curious, he opened the book with his one free hand to its first double page spread.
The first thing that struck him was that, across one half page, there was a pair of skimpy white briefs, just like the ones he was wearing, except that the elastic along one side was split and torn. They were held in place in the album by staples.
Surrounding the briefs, a selection of photos, firstly a candid, beach shot of a young guy, maybe in his late teens or early 20’s, smiling as he ran through the surf on the beach. The photo looked like it had been taken from a long way away, with a telephoto lens. The guy was tanned and fit, with clearly defined pecs and abs, strong legs and arms, and wearing nothing but a pair of swimming shorts. He had a mop of distinctive chestnut brown hair.
The chestnut brown hair was what identified it as the same boy in the other pictures, but these weren’t taken at the beach – most of the pictures were in a room just like the one Caleb was in now, and they showed the youth undergoing a series of perverse sexual acts and tortures. The expression on the boy’s face told it all – he was not faking this for the picture, it was obvious that he was really in the midst of either extreme discomfort or an extreme orgasm, it was difficult to tell which.
One picture showed hot candle wax being dripped onto his chest, another showed a whip leaving one of several red marks across his back. Chains and ropes tied the stud in position as his abuser tormented him, and Caleb identified the abuser easily – it was the man who now was preparing to defile Caleb –the ambassador, Sir Harold – the one who was referred to as the Master.
Caleb flicked through the rest of the book, and each double page showed the same story – a different pair of briefs, sometimes white, sometimes red or blue, accompanying a candid shot of some young stud at the beach, and a varied and extreme selection of photos showing what happened to that stud at the hands of the Master.
There must have been a dozen different boys in the album, each undergoing a selection of wild and outrageous sexual acts. Some of the briefs stapled into the book were stained and dirty, all looked like they had been ripped or torn in one way or another – one pair was practically shredded to nothing.
Caleb turned to the last page, and confronted what he knew would be there – one picture only, of himself, Caleb, lounging on the veranda of the beach hut, probably taken only a day or two ago but feeling now like an antique from a past life, looking sun kissed and relaxed, his red Speedos covering up his manhood, his eyes closed as if sleeping, a cool drink by his side.
He realised then that he had been under surveillance for a while. He knew that these pages would soon be filled with pictures of him being tortured and abused, whilst the tight briefs he was wearing would be stapled into these pages, another trophy for his new Master. He looked up at the bookcase and saw now that the shelves were filled with twenty or so albums like the one in front of him, and he realised the scale of what he was mixed up in.
‘You can appreciate the importance of my endeavour, then?’ Said the Master’s voice from behind Caleb. He had slipped into the room quietly, and observed the boy reading the album. He too had been admiring the boy’s perfect body shape, emphasised beautifully by the tight clothing. The Master was already naked.
‘Yes, Master’
‘You understand that it is my God given duty to take unruly studs like you and break them down, erase their arrogance and ego and make them realise their true place in the world?’ he asked.
Caleb swallowed. ‘Yes Master’ he said.
‘And you are now willingly prepared to offer yourself as a sacrifice, in order that you may be purged of your wickedness and trained to better serve society, as a slave?’ The Master asked. Caleb did not answer.
‘Answer me now, slave’ The Master ordered.
Caleb did not want to answer, but he did so, anyway. What difference would it make?
‘Yes, Master’ Caleb said.
The Master nodded in approval. He moved up behind the boy and took Caleb’s free right wrist, which he handcuffed to the bed frame. Then, he wrapped a strip of tape, also white, around the boy’s face, covering his mouth.
‘I will now begin the process of destroying your wickedness’, the Master said. ‘You will experience the revelation of my majesty, and you will forever more be in my debt. My seed will enter your body and begin reforming you from the inside out, removing your wicked temptation and turning you into what you have always been destined to be – a servant of society, forever offering up your filthy body for the good of others.’
Caleb wanted to scream out – somebody rescue me from this lunatic! But the whole island seemed to be in awe of this strange, evil man, and Caleb knew that there was no rescue for him today. He had to cling onto that slender thread of hope from earlier, and ride out the storm...
The Master then began another detailed examination of the boy, running his hands all over the muscular chest and abs, whist at the same time pressing his crotch up against the boy’s firm buttocks.
He admired the feel of strength beneath the cotton of the shirt and then, reaching the neckline, he ripped the shirt open to the belly, reaching in through the tear to rest his palms directly onto the firm flesh.
Caleb struggled, vainly. He despised the feel of the man’s crotch, even through the material of the shorts as he rubbed up against him, and he knew how vulnerable he was here, but he knew he would not be rescued.
That album had explained to him how he was not dealing with some random abuser, who would make a mistake or suddenly change his mind.
No; this was a determined and experienced fiend behind him, who would never stop until he was satisfied.
Caleb felt the remains of his shirt being torn away, and then felt eager bony fingers probing the elastic of the sports shorts, pulling and tearing until the material gave way, and the plastic layer slipped to the floor.
Only the skimpy briefs defended him now, and they were already under attack, as one set of nimble fingers pulled and tugged, looking for weaknesses, whist the others busied themselves by probing for the boy’s cock, first stroking through the material, then finding where the shaft partly emerged from it’s too-small confinement, and feeling the flesh without mercy or compassion.
There was hardly enough room for anything else inside the too-tight briefs, but the fingers made it inside, stroking and examining.
And then the briefs were gone too, torn away in a sudden sharp movement. Caleb felt his Master’s cock against his buttocks for the first time, hard as a broomstick. He heard some sort of squelching noise as the Master applied some sort of lubricant, and then the bony fingers were gripping Caleb’s butt cheeks, prizing them apart.
His instinct said to pucker up, resist the invader, but he knew this was futile. He remembered Henderson’s words and, although it was impossible, the tried to relax. He felt the first probing touch of the alien invader.
Despite his best efforts at control, he lost it, and began pulling and fighting at his bonds, struggling like a caged rat, fighting this horrible injustice. But the bony hands landed on his thighs, taking a good solid grip, and the Master’s cock attacked with full force.
Caleb screamed as the white-hot rod entered him. It was by far the worst thing he had experienced in his time here, and probably in his entire life. He felt like he was being torn open as the cock pushed into him with incredible force. It was so strange and uncomfortable, and it seemed like it was going so far inside him that he half expected to look down and see the Master’s cock bursting through his stomach wall like an alien giving birth.
The cock withdrew, and then entered again, and the rhythm began, as the Master began to pump his fine firm ass, the one which he had worked on and modelled for so long. The initial burst of pain had passed but the pressure and the humiliation really began to take hold, as the Masters sweaty fingers clamped hold of his waist, and the cock pounded in and out of him.
He felt his own cock becoming involuntarily erect, and his shame doubled at the betrayal of his own body.
The Master looked down at the broad shoulders and fine slender back below him. He admired the way that the boy’s blonde mane of hair flicked from side to side as he impacted against the butt cheeks. This slave was worth teaching, he decided.
He could feel the familiar sexual pressure building up in his crotch. He began grunting. He spat on the boy’s back, and watched the spit run down the boy’s defined backbone.
Caleb did not even feel the spit on his back; he was now gripping the bed frame tightly, riding out the sensations. He even found himself reciprocating, in that his own hips were gyrating back against the Master’s pressure, intensifying the sensation. He did not know why he was doing it, but somehow it eased the humiliation, it was as if he was somehow a participant now, rather than just a sex toy.
The Master was pumping quicker and quicker now, enjoying breaking open this fine new ass, and loving the way the boy’s own gyrations increased the pleasure. Yes, he thought, this one is worth it. I will have lots of fun reforming this slave... He pumped harder, harder, grunting louder, absorbing the sounds of the boy’s own feeble wails and grunts, and then it was time for the christening.
He pushed one final time, a good stabbing thrust, and he felt himself let go. He felt a good healthy spray bursting from his cockhead.
Caleb felt the warm, damp sensation deep within him as the master ejaculated.
He let out a sigh, and felt the Master’s limp body fall across his back as the Master relaxed after the climax. He was revolted by the feel of that dry skinned old man against his own firm young back, but he knew he had been defeated, and his muscles were no match for the old man’s cunning and ingenuity. He felt broken and weak.
After a few moments, the Master pulled out. Caleb felt a warm, sticky sensation running down his inner thighs. Caleb collapsed to his knees – the pain from his backside was intense, and he wanted to cry in self pity, but a new strength had taken him – he would not show pain or fear in front of this man. He heard the sound of the Master putting on his clothes, while Caleb still remained tied and naked.
Henderson entered the room, and the Master instructed him to untie Caleb and lie him on the bed for half an hour’s rest. The Master left the room, and Henderson did as instructed.
‘I think you did well’ Henderson said, as he uncuffed Caleb’s ankles. ‘The Master seemed pleased with you’
Caleb said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Henderson lifted Caleb’s weak form onto the mattress.
‘You may rest now, and I will bring food and water. You’re going to need your strength for what follows next’
Caleb waited for Henderson to leave the room before he rolled up into a ball, and began, quietly, wailing.
A long, cold darkness enveloped him...
Caleb stared down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He knew he was having a dream, or a nightmare, but was unable to snap himself out of it. He could hear that familiar voice, high pitched, mocking, with that stutter, and that snake-like hissing lisp. The voice cut into him like a knife. It was a voice he had forgotten, and would have been happy never to hear again.
‘Caleb’ said the mocking voice. ‘Why aren’t you c-c-c-concentrating?’
Caleb looked up. He was in a huge, brightly lit classroom. The dream had transported him back three years, to a day just shortly after his 18th birthday.
He recognised several of the people sitting at the other desks – his fellow students from Twin Valleys College, the remedial college where he had gone to try and retake his exams. All the other students were working furiously, filling in pages and pages of paper.
He stared back down at the single, blank sheet before him. He had a pen in his hand, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not connect that pen to the paper.
‘I can’t do it’ he wailed. ‘I don’t know what to do...’
‘You really are a uselessss boy’ said the lisping voice . A ripple of laughter rang round the classroom. ‘You’d better bring your work to the front’
‘Don’t make me come to the front, Mr Queeran’ Caleb said.
But Caleb was already rising from his desk, unable to stop himself. He realised then that, unlike everyone else in the room, he was totally naked. What’s more, he had a rock solid hard on. Ashamed, he walked down the long aisle of desks towards the front of the classroom. All the other students put down their pens and watched him pass, laughing or calling out insults.
In the way that only happens in dreams, it seemed to take forever for Caleb to walk the length of the room, as if his feet were walking in treacle, whilst the other students whispered and mocked at him. He approached the lecturer’s desk, his shabby piece of paper held out before him.
Standing behind the desk, just as always, was Queeran. He stood there, wearing that threadbare grey cardigan he always wore, those thick-framed glasses, his black hair slicked across the prominent bald spot on his head, and with those familiar, tobacco-stained teeth showing between those thin, merciless lips.
The elderly lecturer grinned maliciously as his young victim came to a stop before him, and he took a long, slow look up and down Caleb’s body before he reached out a slow, leathery hand to take the piece of paper from Caleb’s outstretched hand.
‘Thisss is uselessss’ Queeran said. Caleb wanted to reply, to defend himself, but his mouth would not work. Shame and embarrassment ran through his body as he heard the class erupt into laughter behind him. He watched the piece of paper disintegrate to dust in Queeran’s hand.
The lecturer stepped closer to Caleb, who wanted to retreat, but was rooted to the spot. He felt the older man raise a cold hand and place it on Caleb’s shoulder.
The lecturer leant in close, too close, to Caleb’s ear, and that hissing, whiny voice began again.
‘Looks like you and I will have to s-s-s-s-stay behind for more teaching’ he said. ‘Do you hear me, Caleb? Wake up...’
The hand was shaking Caleb now, rocking him back and forwards.
‘Wake up’ said the voice. But it was not Queeran anymore. The voice was familiar...
Caleb, with difficulty, woke from his deep slumber and slowly opened his eyes. A man’s hand gently shaking him back into consciousness. It was Anderson, the Englishman in the white linen suit.
‘Wake up’ Anderson said, quietly
Caleb was disorientated. He looked around, and realised he was still in the grey room, still curled up on the bed in exactly the same position he had been in when Henderson, the butler, had left him. He had no idea how much time had passed, and had slept so little in the last few days, that this brief rest had really done nothing to take his tiredness away.
As he returned to full consciousness, he also realised that the rest had certainly done nothing to ease the pain he had recently suffered. Piece by piece, pain and discomfort returned to what seemed like every part of his body. He felt as if every inch of his skin had been tortured and beaten, but the most intense pain came from the site of his most recent violation. He did not want to move, he just wanted to die right there, on that filthy mattress.
‘Come on, get up’ said Anderson, sympathetically. ‘I know you don’t want to, I know you feel like shit, but you gotta try. I want to help you, but you gotta keep going. If you don’t keep going, the Ambassador will get angry, and then I won’t be able to help you. Come on, get up...’
Caleb didn’t want to move.
‘I can’t do this anymore’ Caleb muttered, his voice quiet and weak. ‘I can’t...’
‘Yes you can’ Anderson said. ‘You have to. You have to power through it. You’re a strong boy. You’re powerful. You can’t let him break you’
Caleb looked into the eyes of the thin, pale Englishman. He began to beg.
‘Please help me. Please help me get out of here’
Anderson smiled. ‘I will get you out of here, and soon. But you’ve got to hold on. I know this is difficult, but you have to find the strength to carry on until I can formulate a plan.’
‘How long was I asleep?’ Caleb asked, as he wearily tried to sit up.
‘Maybe an hour’ Anderson answered. ‘You were only supposed to rest for thirty minutes, but I managed to get you a bit more time. You definitely needed it.’
Caleb wanted to thank the pale Englishman, but the words dried up in his throat. The best he could manage was a small nod of acknowledgement. Anderson seemed to know exactly what he meant, and gave a brief nod of the head by way of reply.
‘Who is Queeran, by the way? You were talking in your sleep.’ Anderson said.
Caleb blinked. The dream was still vivid in his head.
‘Mr Kieran. His nickname was Queeran. He was a lecturer at the college I went to’ Caleb explained.
‘What did he do to you?’ Anderson asked, innocently.
Caleb thought back.
‘You could never satisfy him. He seemed to take a real hatred towards me, don’t know why. When I was eighteen, I had to take remedial courses, to get my diploma. He was the teacher in charge, and I don’t know why but he really began to get at me.’
As Caleb spoke, a dozen little incidents popped up in his mind, petty taunts and insults from his former tutor which had festered away in the pits of Caleb’s mind.
‘He was always calling me back after class, sitting me there making me redo the work over and over while he paced around behind me, always putting me down, saying I was stupid, brainless, a moron. Even said he wished he was allowed to use a cane on me, like the good old days he said, as it was the only way I’d learn anything.’
‘And what happened to him?’ Anderson asked.
‘I graduated.’ Caleb answered, flatly. ‘I heard he got sacked some time later, some kind of scandal. What has this got to do with anything?’
‘I bet you thought there were times you could not take it anymore? You felt like telling Queeran to go fuck himself, and to hell with graduating, but you didn’t, did you? You held on. You had the strength to see it through. Well, you’re in a similar situation here. You’ve got to find some of that strength now, to get through this. I know it’s hard but you gotta try...’
Caleb thought about it. Somehow, having Anderson there, talking this over with him made it all a little easier. It did not change the horror of the situation, but amongst all this insanity at least some of what he was saying seemed to make sense.
‘Put these on...’ Anderson said, and he handed some jeans to Caleb, along with a new pair of the familiar tight white t-shirt and tiny white briefs combo. ‘...and then we have to get down to the stables’
Caleb suddenly remembered what was planned for him this afternoon. The ambassador had arranged for a prostitute – the one he described as the ‘the oldest, ugliest, most foul whore on the island’ to take Caleb’s virginity. Caleb recalled, with a shudder, the conversation between the Ambassador and the General that morning, where they had coldly discussed what was due to happen in the stables.
‘I don’t want to’ moaned Caleb. ‘I don’t want my first time to be... like that. With everyone watching. I don’t want to...’
‘Trust me’ said Anderson, ‘The first time is overrated, anyway. You don’t want your first time to be with the sexiest girl in town, you’ll just overheat and blow it. Better to be with an experienced woman. It’ll be over in a flash. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.’
‘Please don’t make me do it’ Caleb begged.
Anderson leant in close.
‘Listen to me. It’s not just you on the line here. The General is down there now, waiting for a show, and on this island he gets what he wants. You might think the Ambassador is crazy, but even he has limits. Believe me, the General has no such limits. He can do whatever he wants to whoever he wants. People disappear on this Island all the time. If he doesn’t get his fun, someone will have to pay. I went out on a limb for you, I said let him sleep some more, and they did, but I’m not going to take the rap if you don’t deliver. You have to see this thing through. I delayed as long as I could, I let you sleep longer, I’ve been as kind to you as I can, but be can’t put it off any longer. I don’t want to, but if I have to force you, I will. So get dressed. We’re running out of time...’
Reluctantly, Caleb began pulling on the briefs. They were just as tight and constricting as the ones he had been give an hour earlier. The jeans, however, were a much better fit – although tight and quite revealing, they gave him at least some freedom of movement.
As Caleb pulled on the tight t-shirt, Anderson decided to continue the earlier conversation.
‘Why did they call him Queeran?’ Anderson asked. ‘Was he a fag?’
‘I don’t know. It was a nickname. Someone said he liked to watch the guys when they were showering, that’s where it came from, I don’t know if it’s true or not. He had a thing for 18 and 19 year old guys, that’s what I’m told. I never noticed it myself.’
‘Are you sure?’ Anderson asked, probing a bit deeper. ‘Maybe the reason he had all those private, one-to-one training sessions with you was that he wanted you?’
Caleb paused and thought back. He remembered Queeran’s strange, whiny voice, and the way he stared as Caleb worked, or the way he always seemed to get unnecessarily close when he came to look at Caleb’s work, or how he was often just ‘accidentally’ brushing against him as they went through the doorway.
The thought had never occurred to Caleb before, maybe he had just been dumb and a bit naive, but now he thought about it...
And suddenly a realisation came to him, that the dream he had just been woken from was part of a nightmare he had forgotten for the last three years, the same nightmare he used to have every night... the nightmare of Queeran’s weird s-s-s-stuttering voice, echoing in the dark, getting closer and closer until it was whispering just inches from his ear...
Caleb remembered being 18 years old, waking in a cold fearful sweat from those nightmares. He could not remember what the voice had said, and he did not know what the dreams meant, but ever since, the sound of Queeran’s voice had always put him on edge. There was something foul, unclean about it.
‘You have to put these on, too, I’m afraid’ Anderson said, handing the first pair of handcuffs to Caleb.
From his sitting room window, the Ambassador watched as Anderson led the slave across the lawn towards the stables. Anderson had handcuffed the boy’s hands in front of him, and was pulling the boy forward by a chain attached to a broad leather collar. A separate pair of ankle cuffs with only about half a metre of chain between them meant the boy could only walk in fast, hobbling steps.
The Ambassador did not normally approve of slaves wearing clothes outdoors, although he had to admit the jeans really accentuated the pertness of the boy’s muscular butt. Maybe he would enjoy some future sessions with the boy wearing those, he thought. He had no desire to watch the deflowering that was about to take place in the stables, and even if he was interested, regrettably he did not have the time, as he had some appointments to keep this morning.
Today he was going to see those two imprisoned youths. What were their names again... oh yes, the American was called Tate and the Scottish one was called Angus. They were still being held in the holding cell at Hun Kok prison. The Ambassador sighed. All these young studs, all out of control, not realising their true position in the world. It looked like his work was going to be cut out for him. He packed his briefcase and walked out to the waiting car.
Two weeks later, and 2,000 miles away...
The old man sat in his one room apartment, alone. The TV was on, showing some daytime soap opera, but the volume was down. He was not watching the TV, instead he was staring at the photograph in his hand and cursing under his breath.
Only a few years ago, the old man was a senior lecturer, well paid, commanding respect, cruising gently towards retirement. Now he worked in a supermarket, stacking shelves.
His career was over, forced to resign over some stupid infringement of the ‘no contact’ rules. Who ever thought of such a thing?
Some of these young punks, they only responded to force, and sometimes the only way to get their respect was to bend them over your knee and give them a few sharp slaps. One minute they’re a cocky 18 year old stud who swaggers around like he’s some sort of gangster, and a dozen belt strokes to the backside later he’s crying like a juvenile, calling you ‘sir’ and begging you to not spank them any more – it was pathetic.
But apparently that wasn’t the way things were done these days. Some overprotective parent had complained, apparently their six foot, muscle covered hunk of a son, who was old enough to drive and was probably having sex with every girl in the school, still needed to run to their mother to sort things out for them.
Things had escalated and now there was even the threat of police involvement – it was absurd!
He had wanted to fight it, but it was made abundantly clear that he would not win. It had been agreed he could resign quietly and move away, and that is what he had done. To hell with them all, he was sick of them anyway.
Of course, once he was out, word had got out on the grapevine, and nobody wanted to employ a 55 year old lecturer with a suspect past. From there onwards his life had slipped downhill, and he pessimistically expected things to stay like that from now onwards.
He had a watered down pension and a short, miserable life of seclusion to look forward to. What a perfect end to a great career. All thanks to those spoilt rich kid muscle boys. Someone should seriously teach them a lesson.
That was his world, up until today, when everything changed.
At nine o’ clock in the morning, amongst all the bills and junk mail, a single, slim envelope arrived in his mailbox. The postmark was international, maybe the Far East.
Inside was a photograph and a letter. The photograph immediately got his attention – it showed a good looking, young blonde guy, maybe in his early 20’s, dressed only in Speedos, reclining on a sun lounger, apparently asleep. There were tropical trees in the background. He savoured the image for a few moments, then opened the letter. It was brief and to the point.
‘Dear Mr Kieran. I understand you favour strong methods of discipline when instructing your students. The student in this photograph is in need of an education. If you are interested, please call me at your earliest convenience.’
The letter was signed ‘Anderson’ and an international phone number was written below.
At first Kieran had been confused. What did it mean? And then he examined the picture in more detail, something which was not an unpleasant task, as the boy in the picture certainly looked hot lying there, just those small swimming shorts protecting his vanity.
If that is what ‘interested’ means, then yes, I am interested, he thought. If ever there was a boy who needed educating, it was this one in the photo.
He looked closer. There was something vaguely familiar about the boy, and then it struck him. It looked like that dumb blonde kid from Twin Valleys College. A bit older, a bit more built than he remembered. What was his name again? Began with a ‘C’. I remember that one all right. But why would someone be sending him a picture of a young stud who he taught two or three years ago?
He ran through the options. Maybe someone was trying to blackmail him? Some hope – he had no money and no social standing. Besides, he knew he had never laid a finger on this particular boy – despite him obviously needing discipline. He remembered that he had been disappointed at the time that the opportunity to tame this young muscular buck had never arisen.
Maybe it was the boy himself writing? Maybe he was one of those ones who secretly wanted to be tied up and disciplined? The thought excited Kieran, with all the opportunities for creative physical and psychological punishment such an idea created.
He sat on his sofa for several hours before he plucked up the courage to ring the phone number. It took a long time to connect, and when the line began ringing it was crackly and indistinct. But it was answered quickly, and the voice of an Englishman answered. Kieran asked for Anderson, and the man on the line confirmed it was him who was talking.
‘Thank you for calling, Mr Kieran’ Anderson said. ‘We were wondering if you fancied an overseas teaching appointment’
Kieran chose his words carefully. ‘I’m not t-t-teaching at the present’ he said.
‘That’s right. You’re stacking shelves, I understand. How’s that working out for you?’
Kieran did not answer. Whoever this soft spoken man was, he had obviously done his research.
‘Why me?’ Kieran asked, eventually.
‘Because we have one of your former students here. His name is Caleb, and I think it’s fair to say that you made a great impression on him. He needs more teaching, and I think you’re the one for the job’
Caleb. That was the name of the boy in the picture. Kieran remembered now.
‘What subject do you want me to teach him?’ He asked.
‘Discipline. Old fashioned, hard, merciless discipline’ Anderson said. ‘He needs to learn respect for his betters. I know all about you, Mr Kieran. Why you had to leave your job. Trust me when I say, we don’t follow such new age thinking here. On this island, education is by the strap, or the cane, or the whip. The more the better, in fact. We’ve got a real problem with rich spoilt kids coming onto the island, with no respect for their elders, and we want someone like you to start putting things right. We’d like to fly you out here, first class, and give you a try out. Shall we say a salary of ten thousand a month for starters? If it works, we can see the post becoming a permanent position. Are you interested?’
As the offer was laid out before Kieran, a certain calm seemed to envelop him. A little voice inside his head said, simply, ‘yes. Justice is served. This is how it’s meant to be’. He smiled to himself.
‘When would you like me to s-s-s-start?’ He asked.