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Even The First - PART TWENTYNINE
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Even The First - PART TWENTYNINE
"You've clearly had fun," Paul said as he thwacked the side of my head. My thoughts swum around and I nearly wept for a second before I could regain myself. I've no idea why he did that. I raised my arms to protect myself, but Paul said, "Stop!" and I stopped, standing up straight, wondering what he was about.
"Right Kev," said Paul, still standing behind me, "you've clearly had fun! This looks like a fucking Italian meal!" He must have been peering at the marks covering my shoulders, my back, my arms, the narrowing back of my waist, my buttocks, and the backs of my legs. "This is fucking jam!" He said. "What a mess. What a fucking mess. What the fuck!" He tapped my sore buttocks, the cut, bruised and bleeding target of most of Kevin's crop strikes, turning me round like a cork-screw, and finally noticing Kevin's scalpel cuts across my chest, bleeding amongst all the other marks blending together like train-tracks where Kevin beat me. He pointed at the cuts accusingly. "And what's this? What's that? What's all that? What the FUCK've you DONE?"
"You said to punish him," Kevin said half defiantly, half defensively.
"KFAG?! What's that? You fucking cut him? And then you STILL couldn't cum? and put your fucking cock back in your pants, you wanker! Right. What kind of a useless sadist are you?"
Kevin folded his penis into his rubber trews.
"He became unresponsive," he said.
"Right, I can fucking see that. Unresponsive. You beat him half to death!"
"You wanted me to punish him."
"Right, I know that. Not kill the fucker; and all this? That's going to scar, you fucking moron. That wasn't the fucking deal. Right."
Kevin walked round Paul, went behind me, put his arms around my chest, and held me like he was a fur coat I was supposed to be putting on, unconscious that he was pulling at my wounded skin, making the pain soar. "That was the deal," he said. His mouth was next to my ear so that his voice was loud and intimate at the same time. "I wanted something permanent." He reached down and rubbed my abdomen affectionately, smearing my blood around my navel, making my skin smart all over again.
I looked at Paul; he didn't seem convinced, "Right. First off: That wasn't the deal. That was not. And second, you: are a doughnut."
Kevin laughed nervously, "A ... a doughnut?"
"Right. A. Doughnut. Cs you have ruined a perfectly good one here now. What good is it now? You are a doughnut. I should've known."
"You owed me a favour, you said."
"I expected some sense, right? You, doughnut, have fucked it right up. Right."
"He didn't object."
"Didn't object, no? Right. Oh I see! Oh well if it didn't object then I suppose ..." - obviously, Paul was being sarcastic - "Right. Well. Robin. Let me explain. Right. Let me explain something bleeding obvious, Mary Jane: You know how you say some shit like, like, 'Oh, this shopping trolley has a mind of its own'? Right. Like such and such a thing has a mind of it's own? 'This computer has a mind of its own'? Right. Or, 'This lift has a mind of its own' when it doesn't go to the right floor? Like it literally HAS a mind of its own, and DOES go off like its thinking and does it's own thing, and what the fuck IT wants and and doesn't do like you tell it, and thinks about things, and makes decisions based on its own reasoning, hopes, dreams, desires? Ever had that with a shopping fucking trolley have you? Right. Like it can fucking function whether you or not happen to BE fucking there or not telling it what ...? Yeah? Recognise that?" - I could feel Kevin's head nodding -Right. Well THIS," Paul indicated he meant me by poking his finger at my face really close so I nearly flinched fearing another thwack, "THIS. Does. NOT. have a mind of its own. Right. This does not have. A mind. Of it's own. Right. No Will. No self determination. I removed it. Me! Myself. Do you know how long that's taken, bit by bit? Training years? I've made sure: There's nothing inside. It's empty, you. Doughnut. So d'you expect it to object when you say, Now shall we scar you permanently with some razor-blade or shan't we? You might as well'a expect a cardboard box to object. Right?! Oh, of course! 'Oh sorry Batman I didn't realise!' Durhh. No shit, Robin! Right. Didn't object? There's no one home, Mr Doughnut! Right. 'Didn't object'! How could it fucking object? Right. It couldn't fucking object."
Paul took a breath.
"You're in charge. You. It's up to you. Right. You make the, um, decisions. Right. You're in charge. Your responsibility. That's the fucking gig, moron. Don't you get what this is?" Paul took a breath. "TRUST! If you can't be trusted you aren't the master! Right. I said you could do the punishment. I trusted you to get that right, right? RIGHT??? Right, step away. We need to get this cleaned up ... Perhaps it'll heal. Step back. STEP BACK KEVIN!! Sean! See that hose. Grab it."
Kevin released me. Immediately I felt cold where his rubberised body and arms that had been pressing against me and was now exposed to the air, and where his hot breath on my ear no longer was. Sean leaped up like he'd been electrocuted and followed Paul's finger to where it pointed in the corner of the room, a reel of hose connected to a tap.
"You, Kev, turn it on. Right ... Go on then!"
Sean came round in front of me, holding the blue plastic hose between his chained wrists. A rod of clear water pouring out made his own penis look pathetic. The rod hit the floor with a wild explosion of freezing splash. When he saw the mess Kevin had made, he hesitated. His face was sad. Then he just lifted the hose, like a robot, and directed it at my face and chest; the freezing jet shocked me to jump. Sean laughed, a short embarrassed snort that seemed briefly to distract him from his sulk. He walked slowly round me, carefully washing off the mess everywhere, particularly between my legs, playing it carefully, until I was soaked, clean and shivering, and my penis had shrunk as well, just as his had grown slightly.
"Sean concentrate. Face. Chest. Right, keep still! Ok, give it here."
Paul grabbed the hose from Sean and, keeping a distance, played it more directly over my chest; it splashed my face. Sean stood back in the gloom, hands behind his back, head down, and I once again noticed the points and large circles of his vulnerable, dark nipples.
"Keep still. Right, Sean, turn it off."
Sean reacted quickly.
"Good boy. Right. Now get upstairs; make some tea. Could do with a cuppa. And bring some biscuits!" Sean nodded. He'd have trouble doing all that with his wrists linked. Then, before bothering to say, "Sir Yes Sir," he turned and flew up the stairs, jumping the steps athletically two at a time.
His leg-chains made an almighty racket.
"Now ..." said Paul, poking a finger in his ear comically, because of the noise. "Those chains are fucking ridiculous. Now. Let's see ..."
He dropped the hose and walked up to me, staring at the scalpel cuts across my chest. "Stand up properly." I looked at his face. He really did only see me as a piece of meat, an animal needing veterinary attention, like preserving my resale value was his only concern. As he pushed the broken skin, carefully pressing it back into place, trying to see if I could heal without scarring, I felt his warm breath and wondered whether he could care deeply, emotionally, with his heart and soul, about anything - and then, whether that would in any case look any different? After all, when you've got the shepherd caring for his flock, the farmer and his dog, the worker with his tools, the manager with his workforce, the husband with his wife, the master with his slave; isn't that the most a man can feel: The same care and concern that an artisan feels for his craft? The love of a man as he chisels a groove into a piece of wood, lavishing all his attention on that perfection of ideal work, the job well done? Can a slave hope for more than that care a master takes of him like that, to use him as he should be used? Can anyone ask more of a man than that protection of use? What more can a man ask of another man?
"Don't cry," said Paul. "It isn't hurting."
The freezing water had numbed away all my pain.
"You're not in any pain, are you?"
"No Sir."
"Sure?"
"Yes Sir. I'm sure Sir."
He grabbed my genitals and gripping them mercilessly looked me in the eye before kissing me. "Right. That was your punishment. Thank you Sir."
"Thank you Sir."
"Mean it."
"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir. I mean it Sir. Thank you Sir."
His grip had me in agony. I nearly collapsed. My lips pressed against his. His beard ground onto my face.
"Right. That's for going awol. You understand?"
"Yes Sir."
"It's for your own good. Don't go getting ideas. You're stuck here for good. You're not going anywhere. Right. Don't do it again. Trust me."
"No Sir. Sorry Sir."
I smiled, despite myself.
"Good boy. Right." He released me, and stepped back, admiring his work like an artist might inspect his canvas. "I think that'll be ok. It's not too deep actually. Keep it clean. Hope for the best. Right. Hope for the best. I think it'll heal. Just have to hope for the best, won't we Kev?"
I was in so much pain again I wanted to crouch until it passed, but knew I couldn't.
"I'm sorry Paul," I said.
"Right."
Paul was such a man as this, his self confidence blended cruelty and indifference with self-interest to produce a type of kindness that more affectionate people cannot replicate.
Paul turned to face Kevin, "Kev: We done?" Kevin was quiet. "Right. No harm, probably. Your weedy cuts, drew blood but that's all. Close, but no tomato; Kev, I trusted you, gave you the run of the place, but you don't own it. Get your own fucking slave. Right. Then you can do what you like: Brand it, scar it, castrate it, put a ring through its fucking nose. Right. Until then you do what's agreed beforehand and no more. How'd you like to ... Right ... ... Right. Now clear off."
"But ..."
"Clear off, boy. Just grab your jeans and clear off."
"Fuck Paul, I just did what you say. You ..."
"I've had enough. Right. I get it. Just clear off. We'll talk later. Where's that Sean?"
"You sent him to make tea," said Kevin, angrily.
"Right. So where's the tea?"
Kevin didn't answer.
"Brilliant," said Paul, "another muppet."
He ran up the stairs. I was alone with Kevin. Kevin approached me and grabbed me by the waist, kissed me, and then grinned.
"Coming back for you later," he said, releasing me, "and your face stinks of shit." Then he followed Paul, up the stairs.
I don't see how my face or any part of me could stink of anything after the washing down Sean and Paul had given me. Kevin was a prat.
Now, everyone was gone. I was left standing in the centre of the basement room, freezing cold, hurting all over, and, to be honest, just plain sad, sad at how lonely and meaningless my life had become. Lonely because no one cared for me except as a sex dogsbody, and meaningless because I knew that was all I amounted to and ever had.
I crouched down, to relieve my legs. All I really wanted was to go to bed, a soft bed with clean sheets and a cosy duvet, to sleep and sleep and sleep, with the radio on playing sweet music, and the curtains open, and the hot afternoon sun streaming in, caressing my closed eyes like the soft warm caress of my mother's kisses, and the way she used to stroke my forehead, and brush my hair to one side, and smile when it fell straight down again over one eye, and hum a silly song, and say she loved me more than anything. More than anything in all the world.
And she used to say I could have anything I wanted.
That's when I heard a shout upstairs. That's when I heard shouting. There was a loud bang, footsteps and then, there was complete and utter silence.
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END OF Even The First - PART TWENTYNINE