Timmy and the Travellers – Chapter 1

Author's note: it shouldn't come as a surprise to hear that this story contains descriptions of sexual acts between boys, so if you're not supposed to be here for legal reasons, or if you have moral objections, this would be a really good time to go somewhere else.

This is set in the seventies, so nobody has a computer, or a mobile phone, or – at least in the case of the “town” boys – the remotest idea about sex, because sex education in schools was still in its infancy.

For the benefit of readers not acquainted with the English education system, prep schools are private schools that generally take pupils up to the age of thirteen, after which those who pass the appropriate exam move on to a public school (these, of course, are actually private and generally expensive, and represent the top echelon of the school system, at least in theory).

We saw travellers in our part of the world more often when I was at school than is the case today, though a good number still resist the attempts of successive governments to persuade them to stop travelling and settle in one place; On the whole they kept to themselves, and there was not a lot of interaction between traveller children and their house-dwelling counterparts, except when they stayed in one place long enough for the dread Authorities to catch up and pack them off to local schools. Sometimes, though, friendships did develop: I had a very close traveller friend when I was twelve.

This is a work of fiction. I have set it in a real place (though as usual I have changed the place names), but the characters are entirely the product of my own strange imagination.

Copyright February 2007 – all rights reserved. Please do not reprint, repost or otherwise reproduce this or any part thereof anywhere without my written permission.

David Clarke


The travellers had moved onto the patch of ground around the water-tower about two weeks ago, which was long enough for the boys to have done a little exploring and not long enough for the Authorities to come chasing them up about schools and so forth, and that suited the boys just fine. They hoped that because this wasn’t an official site it would take the powers that be quite a while to find out they were even there, and that ought to mean a decent spell of freedom before their on-again, off-again education was resumed. They were quite happy to stay out of school for as long as it took, particularly because the weather was surprisingly warm and sunny for mid-March.

Michael and Christy had already found themselves a brilliant hideaway: in the lane that ran down from their encampment there were a number of quite large houses, fairly widely spaced and interspersed with woodland, and one of these was clearly unoccupied: there were a couple of broken top floor windows, the hedges around the garden didn’t seem to have been trimmed in the past twenty years or so, and the rest of the garden resembled a patch of virgin jungle. The front door was very solid, as was the one at the back, and the downstairs windows were boarded over, and so they had not been able to get into the house itself, but at the end of a long overgrown drive there was a garage, and the side door to this had been left unlocked. There was nothing in the garage except for a few rusty tools on a high shelf at the back, but the floor was dry, indicating that the roof didn’t leak, and the high windows along one side admitted enough light for them to be able so see what they were doing.

They had found the garage four days ago, and since then they had scavenged an old folding table and a couple of chairs, which at least meant that they could sit and play cards if they wanted to. They had not as yet told any of the other boys about their find: they thought they almost certainly would, but they wanted to collect a bit more furniture first so that they could present it as a fully ready-to-use hideout. They also wanted to be sure that the grown-ups didn't find out about it - there's no point in having a hideaway if the adults know where to find you when they want something tedious done. So for now, this place belonged to the two of them and nobody else.

On this particular Wednesday afternoon they were wandering down the lane towards their hideout, having no particular plans. A short distance ahead of them a footpath ran into the lane, and a figure emerged from this and turned up the lane towards them. It was walking slowly, reading a book as it went, and so it didn't spot the travellers straight away. They saw a skinny boy with delicate features and quite long, very fine floppy blond hair, immaculately dressed in the uniform of the prep school that they had already discovered lay a short distance away from the lane: they had seen one or two other kids in that uniform, but none that looked quite as inviting as this one: this kid looked as if a good gust of wind would blow him away. They looked at each other and grinned.

"Let's have some fun," said Michael, pulling his knife from his pocket.

The boy was so engrossed in his book that he almost walked into them before he realised they were there. At the last minute he looked up and gave a gasp of dismay. Michael and Christy looked in some ways just like a couple of twelve-year-old boys, but their clothes were a dead giveaway: both were wearing tatty grey trousers, worn and unpolished shoes, and shirts that had seen better days several years ago. Michael had reddish-brown hair and a face full of freckles, while Christy's hair was darker, but if they had been wearing big labels marked "I am an Irish traveller" it wouldn't have made their origins any more obvious, and when they spoke their accents were enough to dispel any lingering doubts the boy might have had.

"What do you suppose this is?" Michael asked Christy.

"I don't know, but it really looks sweet, doesn't it? Look at the pretty clothes, and that lovely hair..."

The boy swallowed but didn't say anything.

"I reckon we should have a word," said Michael. "After all, it is standing on our lane."

The boy looked around to see if there was anyone else about, but there wasn't, and when he turned back to face them he saw that the one on the left had a knife. Before he could do anything the boy grabbed him and put the knife to his throat. He gave a shriek of terror and pissed in his pants.

Christy saw the spreading wetness on the boy's trousers and grinned: this was going to be even better than they had hoped.

"Look, Mikey," he said. "He's making a mess on our road."

Urine ran from the boy's left trouser leg and ran over his shoe onto the lane.

"Oh, now you're in trouble," Michael told him. "That'll have to be paid for. You'd better come with us."

"No! Please!" the boy cried, struggling feebly. "I haven't done anything!"

"That's not what it looks like to me," said Michael, dragging the boy's arm up into a back-hammer and propelling him down the lane.

Christy picked up the boy's school bag and book, which he had dropped, and followed them down the lane.

They marched the boy to the entrance to "their" house and dragged him down the overgrown path to the garage, shoving him through the door into it and following him in.

"What are you going to do to me?" asked the boy, trying not to cry.

"That depends. Do what you're told and we won't have to hurt you," said Michael. "Mess us about, and..." He waved his knife menacingly. "Maybe we'll cut your ears off."

The boy trembled but did not say anything.

"Right, let's see what you're carrying," Michael went on. "Empty your pockets onto the table, and don't forget anything. We'll check afterwards, and if we find anything - even a used bus ticket or a half-eaten Polo mint - you'll be in deep shit. Go on, then, get on with it."

The kid was far too scared of the knife to even contemplate disobedience. He started to empty the pockets of his blazer and trousers onto the table.

"Is that it?" asked Michael when he finished.

He nodded.

"You sure?"

"Yes...No!" With a look of panic on his face the boy pulled a small pocket diary from the breast pocket of his blazer.

"Now are you sure?" asked Michel, making jabbing motions with his knife.

"Yes, that's it," said the boy.

"Okay, I hope for your sake you didn't miss anything. Let's find out. Take your blazer off."

The boy removed his blazer and handed it to Christy, who carefully checked all the pockets. He found nothing and shook his head.

"So far so good," said Michael. "Shoes next - and I hope there's nothing hidden in them."

The boy knelt down and removed his shoes, handing them one by one to Christy, who checked them as if they were the property of James Bond: he checked under the insoles and examined the heels to make sure there were no hidden compartments in them.

"Nothing," he reported, when he was finally satisfied.

"Socks," demanded Michael.

The boy removed them, and Christy checked the right one thoroughly but collected the left one on his knife: it was still wet, so he made no attempt to turn it inside out as he had with the right one.

"Trousers," ordered Michael.

The boy hesitated, but only for a second, before undoing his belt and removing his trousers. Again Christy handled with care, not wanting to get piss all over himself, but he was able to check that the pockets were empty before dropping the trousers on the floor with the other clothes.


Once again Christy was thorough, looking for concealed pockets but again finding none.


There was only one pocket, and that was empty, but Christy checked the collar carefully in case something was slipped inside it. Nothing was.

"Looks like he's clean," he reported. "Let's see what he's got." He moved towards the pile of stuff on the table.

"Hold on," said Michael. "He's wearing a watch." He held out his hand, and the boy quickly removed his watch and dropped it into Michael's palm.

"And a St Christopher," continued Michael, remorselessly. The boy removed it and handed it over.

"And he could be hiding something in his pants."

"I'm not pawing through those," protested Christy. "They're soaked in piss."

"True - but the elastic bit isn't. He might have something hidden in there."

"You could be right," agreed his friend.

"No, please," begged the boy, who of course was now wearing nothing but his wet white briefs. "I swear I'm not hiding anything."

"Sorry, but we've got to check," said Michael. "Take them off."

"No!" Come on, please?" Now the boy was starting to cry properly.

Michael swished his knife through the air. "Take your pick - your pants, or your ears," he said.

Sobbing, the boy slipped his wet pants off and handed them over, hunching down with his other hand over his groin.

"Stand up straight, put your hands on your head and spread your legs," ordered Michael. "We have to be sure you're not hiding anything behind your balls or somewhere."

It was clear that he didn't want to, but it was also obvious that he was too scared of the knife to disobey. Slowly he straightened up, spread his legs and put his hands on his head. The two travellers took one look and burst out laughing.

The boy seemed to have no balls, just a darker circle of skin underneath his penis, which was itself no more than a small bump of pinkish flesh about the length of a thumbnail. There was no skin over it.

"Bloody hell," said Michael when he got his breath back, "he wasn't kidding when he said he wasn't hiding anything in his pants. Jesus, Christy, have you ever seen one as small as that?"

"Never - and I've looked after my baby cousin a few times. He's six months old, and a hell of a lot bigger than that."

Their victim was still sobbing and showed no inclination to say anything, so after a few seconds more of staring at his deficiencies the travellers turned round and started to examine his meagre possessions.

The watch was a cheap Timex, but the St Christopher did seem to be silver. The rest of the boy's possessions amounted to a handkerchief, half a packet of Trebor mints, a bus pass, a door key, a cartridge pen, a small pocket diary and seventeen pence. Christy had a look in the boy's school bag but found only the usual exercise books, a couple of text books, a foot ruler and a pencil case containing two pencils, some cartridges for the pen, a pencil sharpener and a rubber.

Michael opened the diary and found the name "T Collier" written on the inside cover.

"What does the T stand for?" he asked the boy.

"T... T... Timmy," stammered their victim.

"Hmm. Suits you, somehow. Where do you live?"

The boy gave an address in a village they hadn't heard of.

"How far away is that?" asked Michael.

"About three miles."

"And I suppose you'll get into trouble if you're late home?"

"Well... no, not really," said Timmy, surprising them. "My mum and dad both work and they don't get home until about seven. That's why I've got a key, so I can let myself in when I get home from school."

Michael grunted. "Okay, Timmy," he said, "we've finished with you. You can go now."

The boy stared at him as if he couldn't believe they were really going to let him go, but when Michael didn't say anything else he bent down and picked up his wet pants from the floor.

"Oi! Leave those, they're ours," said Michael.


"I said you can go, not that you could take our stuff with you. Go on, get out."

"B... but I can't... I mean, not like this..." protested Timmy.

"If you're not out of here in five seconds, I'll slice that little bump off the front of you and make you into a proper girl," said Michael. "Five, four, three..."

With a strangled sob the naked boy stumbled to the door, pulled it open, and went outside. The travellers waited a moment, because they knew it would be almost impossible for someone to make his way down the overgrown drive naked without getting torn to pieces by brambles, and then followed him out. As they had expected, Timmy was standing at the edge of the first clump of brambles, sniffling.

"I dunno, Michael," said Christy, "maybe we're being a bit hard on him? I mean, it's a bit much to make him walk three miles along a main road with nothing on."

"Not really," said Michael. "It's not like he's got anything worth hiding."

"Suppose not. Still, even if he makes it home he won't be able to get indoors without his key. He'd have to sit on the doorstep until his parents get home, and then he'd get into trouble."

"True. And if we gave his key back, he could use it to hide his knob behind - it would certainly be big enough. Still, I don't like him getting away with anything..."

"Perhaps he'd be willing to do a deal?" suggested Christy.

"Why should we offer him a deal?" asked Michael, at the same time as Timmy said, "what sort of a deal?"

"Wait there," said Christy, and he and Michael went back into the garage and pretended to confer for half a minute or so. Then they called Timmy inside and shut the door once more.

"What would you do to get your stuff back?" Michael asked him.

"Anything!" cried Timmy, who couldn't begin to imagine what he would do otherwise - he couldn't even get out of this garden, far less all the way home, without his clothes.

"Are you sure?" asked Christy.

Timmy nodded frantically.

"Okay, then," said Michael. "See, we only just came here, and we need someone to work for us, to get this place looking good and stuff like that. You look pretty feeble, but I suppose you could do it, and I like the idea of bossing townies about, anyway. So here's the deal: we'll give you everything back - even your money - if you agree to be our slave."

Timmy looked nervous. "I'm not sure..." he said.

"It's up to you, of course," said Michael. “If you'd prefer to go home naked, that's up to you."

"No! But... what sort of things would I have to do?"

"Anything we tell you to."

"But then... well, you could order me to take my clothes off and walk home undressed every day if you wanted - so I'd be miles worse off than I am now."

"We wouldn't do that," said Christy. "That wouldn't be fair. We won't make you walk home naked, or anything like that. If you do what we tell you we'll always treat you fairly."

"Of course, if you don't we'll have to punish you," added Michael. "But if you're a good little boy, you'll be okay and we won't have to hurt you at all."

"So, like we said, it's up to you," said Christy. "What do you think?"

Timmy swallowed. "Well... okay, then, if you promise to treat me fairly."

Michael grinned. "Right. In that case, kneel down so you can swear obedience to us."

Reluctantly Timmy knelt on the cold concrete floor.

"Say after me...." began Michael, but Christy interrupted him.

"Hold on a moment," he said. He went to Timmy's bag and pulled out a Bible.

"We're in luck," he said. "Must have had religious classes today. Now he can do it properly."

He put the Bible on the table and made Timmy shuffle close enough to be able to put his right hand on it.

"Carry on, Mikey," he said.

"Okay," said Michael, grinning even more. "Say after me: I, Timmy Collier, do hereby swear to be a good, faithful and obedient slave to Michael Kelly and Christopher Smith and to do whatever they tell me straight away and without argument."

Reluctantly Timmy repeated the oath.

"Good," said Michael. "Okay, now you can get dressed."

Timmy stood up and carefully picked up his pants, which were wet and smelly.

"I wouldn't put those back on," advised Christy, pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket. "Just put your trousers on without them. Put your pants in here so they don't get everything else wet and stick them in your bag."

"Thanks," said Timmy, who still looked as if he expected to be prevented from dressing at any moment. But the travellers let him put his clothes on and Christy even helped him by fastening the St Christopher round his neck for him. He put everything back in his pockets and looked at them distrustfully.

"Can I really go now?" he asked.

"Of course. We're coming with you," said Michael. "But we want to see you tomorrow after school - wait for us at the end of the footpath at four o'clock, okay?"

"Okay," said Timmy, though he didn't look very enthusiastic.

They fought their way back up the driver and walked up the lane together to the junction with the main road. A short way along the main road was a bus stop, and the travellers waited there with Timmy until his bus came about fifteen minutes later.

"Don't be late!" advised Michael, grinning at him, as he got onto the bus. "Remember, we know where you live, and my knife gets sort of thirsty sometimes..."

"This is going to be brilliant," said Michael as the bus drove away. "Have you ever seen such a pathetic little weed?"

"What are we going to do to him?" asked Christy.

"Anything we want. And he didn't even make us set a time limit, so he's our slave for ever if we want. Good, eh?"

"I do like the idea of making a townie slave for us," agreed Christy. "Teach them to look down their noses at us..."


The following afternoon they reached the junction of lane and footpath at about ten to four.

"Reckon he'll turn up?" asked Christy. "I mean, he can always go up to the main road the other way and then we'd never see him."

"I reckon he'll come," said Michael. "Like I said yesterday, we know where he lives, and he was so terrified of my knife yesterday that he pissed himself. I don't think he'll want to risk us turning up on his doorstep looking for him."

He was right: Timmy arrived at two minutes to four. His shoulders slumped when he saw them.

"What's the matter?" asked Michael. "Were you hoping we wouldn't be here?"

"No... I mean... well, yes, I suppose," admitted Timmy.

"That's what I like about him," said Christy to Michael. "He's honest. That's why I offered you a deal yesterday, Timmy: you told us where you lived, and you were straight about not having to be home straight away. Most kids would have lied and said mummy would call the police if they weren't home by ten past four, but you told the truth. Carry on like that and you'll be okay."

"Come on, then," said Michael, leading the way down the lane. "There's a lot needs doing today."

They fought their way down the driver and into the garage. Timmy put his school bag down beside the table.

"Okay," he said, "what do I have to do?"

"Well, you can get undressed for a start," Michael told him.

"Oh... do I have to?"

"Obviously. Slaves aren't allowed any clothes - at least, not unless they earn some by lots of hard work. Besides, I like seeing you naked: you've got the funniest knob I've ever seen."

Reluctantly, Timmy removed his blazer. Christy handed him an old wire coat hanger.

"Use this," he said. "We can hang it on the edge of the shelf, and then you won't get dirt all over everything."

"Thanks," said Timmy. He stripped off, barely hesitating when he was down to his pants: he obviously realised there was no chance of him being allowed to keep them on. He hung his trousers, shirt and blazer on the hanger, wrapped his tie round it, stuffed his pants into his blazer pocket and handed the hanger to Christy, who hung it carefully on the shelf. Timmy put his socks inside his shoes and put them under the hanger.

"Now what?" he asked, standing up and trying to resist the temptation to put his hands in front of his groin.

"First of all we need to make a file for you," said Christy. "That way we can keep track of how you behave. Get your pen and sit down."

He shoved a piece of paper in front of him.

"We want you to write down your full name, your address, your telephone number and when your birthday is. We'd do it ourselves, but your writing's probably better than ours."

Obediently Timmy filled in the paper in his best writing:
Name - Timothy Spencer Collier.

"Spencer!" said Michael, giggling. "What sort of a name is that?"

Timmy didn't answer, but continued to fill in the sheet:
Address - 1 Broadwater Lane, Bridgehanger.
Telephone - 74915
Birthday - February 26th...

"How old are you?" asked Christy, looking over his shoulder.

"Thirteen," said Timmy, provoking splutters of disbelief.

"Don't lie!" said Michael.

"I'm not! I was thirteen last month," insisted Timmy.

"God, I've had guessed that you were about ten," said Michael. "You really are a weed, aren't you?"

"Put down that you're thirteen, then," said Christy, so Timmy added Age 13 to the sheet.

"Any brothers or sisters?" asked Christy.

Timmy wrote No brothers or sisters on his form.

"What else do we need?" asked Michael.

Christy shrugged. "How tall are you?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," said Timmy. "Sorry."

"Let's find out," said Christy. "Stand against the door."

Timmy went and stood against the door while Christy used his pen to make a line level with the top of his head, and then he took the ruler from Timmy's bag and used it to measure.

"I make it about four foot ten," he said. "Don't suppose you know how much you weigh?"

Timmy shook his head.

"About two stone," scoffed Michael.

"Doesn't matter," said Christy. "We can put that in later. Just put down your height for now."

Timmy obediently added his height to the record.

"Right," said Michael. "Now we just need the photo to go with it."

Timmy thought he was joking, but he wasn't: Michael pulled a Polaroid camera from his ratty duffle-bag and opened it to turn it on. In fact the camera belonged to one of his cousins, who had got hold of it by unorthodox means, which made it easier for Michael to "borrow" it without the risk of too much comeback. The films were expensive, but Michael reckoned he could shoot off three or four pictures without his cousin realising that the camera had been used.

"It's a bit dark in here," he said. "Come outside. Don't worry, nobody's going to see you - there's no other house near this one, and the hedges are far too thick anyway."

Nervously Timmy followed them outside, but it was certainly true that there was no risk of being seen, unless there had been someone actually inside the abandoned house, which was clearly not the case. Michael positioned him in as bright a spot as he could find in the overgrown garden and aimed the camera at Timmy's head and shoulders.

"Smile!" he instructed, and Timmy, relieved that this wasn't going to be a full-frontal shot, was able to oblige. The camera flashed and a photo emerged from the slot at the front.

"Hang on," said Michael, as Timmy turned to go back inside. "We haven't finished yet. Back where you were."

He handed the developing picture to Christy and stepped back a bit so that he could get a picture of Timmy from the knees up.

"Smile!" he ordered, brightly.

This time Timmy found it much more difficult to conjure up a smile, but he managed a sort of grimace, and the camera clicked again.
Finally Michael moved a bit closer and slightly off to one side and took a close-up of Timmy's groin.

"I thought we really had to have one of that," he said, closing the camera. "Nobody will ever believe us otherwise. Okay, let's go back in."

"You're not going to show that to anyone, are you?" asked Timmy, nervously.

"Not if you're a good boy," Michael assured him. "Of course, if you're naughty, we might have to sneak into your school at night, make some copies and put them up on all the notice boards..."

Back in the garage they waited until the three pictures had finished developing and then inspected them. All three had come out well: the head and shoulders one was quite a nice portrait, and even Timmy said he liked it. He was far less enthusiastic about the other two, but both looked good, by Polaroid standards.

"Okay, that's enough paperwork," said Michael. "Now... we're going to need a bit of gardening done around here. Can you get a pair of shears, or something? We need to make it a bit easier - but not too easy - to get down the drive."

"I don't know if we've got any of those," said Timmy.

"Well, bring something when you come tomorrow, even if it's only a pair of scissors. Oh, and bring some shoe polish. My shoes could do with a clean."

Timmy looked at Michael's shoes, which didn't seem to have been cleaned since the time of the Boer War.

"And keep an eye out for any old furniture," added Christy. "This place is a bit bare at the moment."

"You can go now," said Michael. "Tomorrow evening you can come straight here. But make sure nobody else gets to find out where you're going, otherwise those pictures will be out of date: we'll need to take some new ones showing you with no knob at all."

Timmy got dressed and left, while Christy and Michael giggled over the pictures.

"Who shall we show them to first?" Michael wondered.

"That's a bit nasty, isn't it?" said Christy. "He hasn't done anything wrong yet."

"Oh, come on! We can't keep something as good as this to ourselves. You're not going soft on townies, are you?"

"Obviously not. But we've got to make sure we don't tell anyone who's going to yap, otherwise it'll spoil our fun."

"I know. I reckon some of them would be safe enough, though. We'll think about it over the weekend. But I'm not letting this one go - we can have more fun with him than we've ever had before, I reckon."

They slipped the photos and Timmy's file into an envelope and hid it at the back of the high shelf, which they thought would be safer than trying to hide it in one of their caravans. Timmy would need to get onto a chair to reach it, and they didn't see any reason why he should even look: he would certainly expect the file to be well away from here.

On the Friday evening they reached the garage at about five to four, and found Timmy already at work with a pair of garden secateurs, snipping away at the worst of the brambles.

"We finish school a bit earlier on Fridays, so I thought I might as well come and start," he said.

"Good. You're not supposed to be wearing any clothes, though," said Michael.

"I know, but... well, I thought if I tried doing this undressed I'd get all sorts of scratches on me, and then mum would ask me about it when I get home, and... you know."

"Okay," said Christy. "We'll make it a rule that if you're cutting thorns and stuff you can keep your clothes on, but you have to get stripped as soon as you finish, okay?"

"Okay," agreed Timmy.

"And don't cut back too far at the lane end of the drive," added Michael. "We want this place to look completely untouched from the road."

"Okay," said Timmy, once more.

They watched him for a couple of minutes and then went into the garage and started playing cards. A while later Timmy came in and asked if he could borrow one of the chairs.

"What for?" asked Michael.

"There's some ivy and stuff over the windows. If I can cut it back it won't be so dark in here."

"Good idea," agreed Christy, standing up. "Use this one."

Timmy took the chair and they followed him outside and watched while he stood on the chair and snipped away at the ivy that covered the two windows nearest the door. When he had finished they had to agree that it was appreciably lighter inside the garage.

"Good job," said Michael. "Now strip off and get my shoes cleaned."

He removed his shoes, then he and Christy resumed their game of cards while Timmy got undressed and produced some shoe-cleaning stuff from his bag. And for the best part of half an hour Timmy brushed and polished and brushed and polished and buffed and buffed, kneeling on the concrete and putting plenty of effort into it, until finally both pairs of shoes were, if not pristine, at least a lot blacker and shinier than they had been for months. Timmy had smears of polish on his hands and on the inside of one knee, and he looked tired, but there was no arguing with the result.

"Nice job, Timmy," said Christy, doing his shoes back up.

"Pretty good," agreed Michael. "I reckon you're going to work out fine. Course, so far we've let you off easy - don't expect every evening to be as simple as this. But I reckon you've worked enough for today, so you can go when you want."

"Thanks," said Timmy, putting his cleaning materials away in his bag and starting to get dressed. They watched him transform himself back into a smartly dressed little schoolboy.

"Okay - Monday at four o'clock," said Michael.

"Bye, Timmy," said Christy.

"Bye," said Timmy, picking up his bag and heading for the door.

"Well, we've got him tamed nicely," commented Michael. "Next week we can start pushing and having some real fun. I wonder how long before he starts bawling and pissing himself again?"

Christy shrugged. "What are you going to do to him?" he asked.

"Don't know yet. But sooner or later I'll find something he refuses to do, or can't do, and then I'm going to whip his bum till he screams. By about Wednesday, I should think. Face it, Christy, it'll be fun making Little Miss Perfect shriek and scream, won't it?"

"Yeah, I suppose. But aren't you scared that if you go too far he'll grass and drop us in it?"

"Don't think so. He's too scared of my knife, and I bet he'll do anything to stop those photos finding their way into his school. I reckon I could do pretty much anything to him and he still wouldn't grass. Besides, he's sworn to obey us, remember? And he's the sort of boy who thinks he'll burn in hell if he breaks his word. No, I reckon I can do whatever I want to him. It's going to be fun deciding what to do to him first..."


Oh, dear, Timmy's in trouble, and it's going to get a whole lot worse. Right now it's hard to believe that this is actually a love story, isn't it? All will become clear in a couple of chapters' time. Comments and criticism – preferably constructive – gratefully received: mail to gothmog@nyms.net.