The Humiliator. Chapter Thirteen
BONDAGE
The corporal dropped his end of the Follow Me and I felt it swing against my shins as it hung from my balls. He crossed the room, his boots sounding hollow on the bare boards of the empty attic. There was a "flumph" sound as of a mattress being thrown off a bed onto the floor. He took me by the upper arms and guided me backwards till my calves touched the cold metal of a bed frame.
He made me sit on the bare wire grid mesh, then grabbing me by the ankles he swung me round to lie flat. I was so far up the bed that my head hung uncomfortably over the end and I made to work myself down but he snapped "Stay!" But at least I had managed to get so that the slave collar cushioned the back of my neck on the sharp corner of the iron frame. My wrists were quickly strapped to the side bars and I saw the point of dispensing with the mattress, to allow easy access to a variety of fixing points, rather than just to make it more uncomfortable to lie on, as I had supposed. Though I daresay that was seen as an added bonus.
Next, a broad leather strap was passed under the wire lattice below my armpits and buckled high over my chest. I expanded my chest as he tightened it so that it was not too tight when I relaxed. Stupid. This man was an experienced professional and knew damn well what I was doing. He simply waited for me to breathe out and yanked the belt tighter around my chest. With wrists and chest firmly secured I was now helpless and any faint thought of resistance was gone.
I could, of course still kick my legs or heave my hips up off the bed, had I a mind to do so. But a rope passed under the mesh and knotted tightly round my waist effectively ruled out any hip movement. I began to feel panicky as my options were removed one by one while this unknown man, unseen in my blindfold darkness, worked quietly and efficiently to prepare me for punishment.
Now he began work on my legs. He tied a cord round one ankle, then the other, but leaving a short length between them like a hobble. I was puzzled by this until he grasped my feet and turned them so that the soles touched. Imagine you are lying on your back, the soles of your feet together. What happens? Exactly! Your knees splay, exposing your inner thighs - the target area designated for flogging! You can protect such vulnerable flesh a bit by pushing your feet straight down as far as the ankle bonds will permit. The Follow Me, still gripping my balls with its spiked teeth, was now pulled taut and tied to the cord between my ankles. Push your feet down towards the end of the bed now and you can only add to your own suffering . . . you had to admire the care and thought which had gone into this.
There was still one self - protective gambit open to me: I could simply close my knees together, but somehow I felt that this would not last. Indeed, cords were knotted below each knee and tied to the side bars of the bed, effectively splaying them open and keeping them there. Then it was done. A long silence followed. Was he still there? I couldn't hear him breathing. But he must be, I'd have heard him on the bare boards if he had gone. His job done, he was waiting. Just standing there . . . waiting.
And then I heard it, he heard it, we heard it, the footfall on the stair. Two floors down but unmistakable, the sound of spurred boots treading the wooden stairs.
HE was coming . . .
My heart was thumping so loud that the corporal must surely be able to hear it. Then, as the footsteps entered there was a sudden CRASH which was so startling it made me start and leap against my restraining bonds. The corporal had stamped to attention on the bare boards. "SAR" he bellowed, "Prisoner bound and ready for punishment. SAR!"
In the silence which followed there was only the sound of The Humiliator's boots as he paced quietly round me inspecting the work. I felt like a trussed chicken, helpless and horribly naked. I felt his fingers probe under the strap about my chest. Quickly, I expanded my chest to make it tight, but too late. "Tighten this up, corporal" he said. The corporal unbuckled it and tugged to tighten it, but I expanded my chest again. "Can't get it any tighter, Sir" he reported.
"Out of my way" the master said. He unbuckled it' explaining "You need to get your boot against him for leverage" and I felt his boot heel planted firmly against my side, then an almighty wrench as he pulled the belt crushingly tight across my chest, restricting my breathing. "It's not enough to tie him down," he explained, "he's got to FEEL the restraint." He paced down to the end of the bed and tugged at the cord linking my ankle bond to the bottom rail. "Get this tightened up too." he ordered. "I was afraid of pulling his balls off if it was any tighter, Sir" explained the corp. The master assured him there was no fear of that yet, and accordingly this bond was loosed and then yanked brutally tight which not only dragged ny balls further down towards my knees but also tightened the Follow Me through its steel slip-ring, digging its internal spikes deeper into my stretched scrotum. But I didn't yell, didn't even whimper. I just gritted my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my suffering.
The only trouble now was that my balls were stretched so far down that they were liable to restrict his freedom to lash my thighs. The master asked the corporal for the leather pad to protect my testes. "We don't want to go flogging his balls now, do we? At least not with heavy things like these." he added sinisterly. I felt a leather pad spread over my balls and tucked under my thighs to hold it in position. All was now ready.
"We'll start with the tawse, corporal"
"The rubber one, Sir?"
Pause. "No, I don't think so. The leather one will do well enough. It is a first offence after all"
Was I supposed to feel grateful for this? I hated the tawse. A master I had in Notting Hill used to love using it on me - mainly, I think, because he knew how I hated it. I often wondered what sort of vicious Scottish bastard invented it. For the tawse was to Scotland what the bastinado was to the Inquisition or the dreaded knout was to Russia - with one important difference: the tawse was invented for use in Scottish schools . . . on children! It takes a particularly sick mind to devise such a cruel means of punishing kids, for God's sake. You can imagine him, tall, thin, mean and sandy haired, cutting a two foot length of heavy rawhide three inches wide to use on his cowed pupils. He finds it hard to grip such a wide blade of leather, so, with meticulous care, he carves out a scoop on either side to form a handle. That gives a better grip, but a thicker handle would be better still, so he carefully marks out two more thicknesses of leather to match but only about six inches long and these he sews flat on either side of the handle to give a really solid grip.
Can't you see him, waxing the cobbler's thread, absorbed in his task, then punching the holes and sewing the triple thickness together with neat welt stitches. Finally his labours are complete. He straightens his back and hefts the thing in his hand, relishing the brutal weight of it. Suddenly he whacks it down onto his workbench with a crack like a gun shot. He envisages the pale, bare buttocks of young Wullie MacEvoy and thrashes his new toy down on the workbench with even greater force and greater satisfaction. But there is a problem - the benchtop is flat but young Wullie's bum is rounded (beautifully rounded!) Will the thick, flat, leather impact a curved surface as powerfully as on a flat bench? Pehaps his oh-so-carefully-crafted invention is flawed after all?
And then, in a flash, inspiration blazes. He sees, quite clearly, the stunningly simple modification which will ensure that his invention will be used by sadistic Scottish schoolmasters for generations to come - he slits the blade of hide along its length three times. He now has four leather fingers to fit themselves to any contour, snugly, precisely, intimately. And generations of children yet unborn will suffer the savage caress of those fingers on their bare arses. And not only children, but adults too. Adults like me, depraved and perverted enough to surrender themselves into the hands of a Dominant Male ready to teach the rituals of servitude.
But my master was not merely cruel, he knew how to wield the whips of shame too. "Right, corporal" he announced, "I have some phone calls to make, so you carry on here. Six lashes to each thigh - the tender inside of the thigh, mind. I'll be back shortly. Lay on with a will, corporal."
Another stamp to attention. "SAR!" he yelled. And then the sound of retreating foot falls going down the stairs. Oh God! Not only was he going to have me beaten by his servant, he would not even bother to watch! Not for nothing was he named The Humiliator! I seethed with anger and shame. But I was alone with the corporal. I was bound and helpless and he held the tawse and had his orders.
Truly, "corporal punishment" was about to begin and I was powerless to do anything about it.