The Humiliator. Chapter Fourteen
PUNISHMENT
I lay there, my helpless body tingling in anticipation of the first blow of the tawse. But instead of the brute impact of leather, I felt a hand placed lightly on my knee. "This is what you were wanting last night, boy?" the Corporal sneered as he slid his hand slowly and sensuously along the inside of my thigh, almost to my crotch. Then the hand was withdrawn as the tawse hit the same place THWUCK!
The shock of the impact, the shock of the pain ripped me apart. To my horror and shame, my body reacted by evacuating bowels and bladder. That's right, I shit myself and pissed myself.
Despite my bonds, my body had leapt sideways so violently that the pad over my balls was dislodged and the piss sprayed everywhere. I could feel it over my belly and my thighs. Some must have sprayed over him too for he exclaimed "Ugh! You dirty bugger" and hit me again immediately - only this time on a wet thigh. I gagged with the pain, but when it eased I found myself apologising to him, saying how ashamed I was and how such a thing had never happened before. The stench was awful. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" I wailed, "I'm sorry, I'm s -" and he hit me a third time. I shut up after that. I was too busy wrestling with the pain of repeated blows and the sickening horror of it. Too much pain, yet even so, part of my brain still registered the precision and skill with which each strike moved along my thigh, only half overlapping the previous one until the sixth was nearly down to my knee. The entire length of my inside thigh had been systematically beaten . When he had done, he moved round the bed to start on my left leg. This presented a problem because there was simply no way that a repetition of such pain could be accepted. I informed him of this. No whining or pleading or begging. None of that. I simply told him it was not acceptable to continue. That it was necessary to stop right there. Would he please inform the Brigadier that I was sorry but we had to bring this to a close. I was balanced, reasonable and contained.
His reply was the first THWUCK! on that thigh. I was shocked, not only by the sickening pain but also by the realisation of my helplessness. There was nothing I could say or do which would have any effect on what was going to happen. All I could do was suffer. And I did. Again and again the leather fingers of the tawse clawed round the contour of my thigh to dig their tips deep into tender flesh. Six lashes to each leg, bollocks! Each strike of the four fingered strap was four separate blows landed simultaneously for maximum damage. Four sixes are twenty four. On each thigh. Fortyeight strap-cuts in all - and the worst I'd ever taken at one time before was twelve stripes of the cane across the backside! Jesus! And this was only stage one of my three-part punishment . . .
All things end eventually. I could hear his breathing now, from the exertion of the beating. Could hear too the foot-falls on the stair. But I wasn't frightened of the master's approach this time. I felt sure that when he saw the damage done to my thighs, he would cancel the rest of the sentence. Stupid? Yes, of course it was stupid, but you reach for any straw of hope in that situation. It just did not seem possible that more pain could be visited on such already tenderised flesh.
He arrived, "Christ! What a stink" he exclaimed. The corporal explained that I had shit myself with the first blow. "Ha!" he said "just like that Swedish hitch-hiker we picked up when we were stationed in Osnabruck, remember? That's the only other time it has happened. Hmm, interesting. I guess you could say he was shit scared, eh corporal?"
The minion dutifully laughed at this 'joke' but agreed that the young Swede had indeed been shaking with terror just at the sight of the cane. They agreed it was a good thing that the mattress had been removed from under me so that there was not too much harm done. The footsteps paced round the bed while he studied his victim. There was the flash and buzz of the camera again. "You seem to have done a sound job here, corporal." he said. "Thankyou, Sir" replied the corporal, obviously pleased to be praised. Photographing continued from every angle. I felt that my splayed and beaten nakedness was being recorded for later study and enjoyment. Perhaps shown to friends, to be pored over and commented on with lewd sniggers.
Then his hands explored the beaten flesh with obvious pleasure. "Yes," he murmered, "the skin hot and hardened, - lumpy, - rocky, - swollen. Yes, a good start, corporal. Well tenderised meat, ready for the cane"
My heart sank. The cane! The sadistic bastard was going to go through with it. All of it, with no quarter shown, God help me. "No, not that one, corporal," he said "we'll go for Upper School, not Lower School. I want to lay down some really deep bruising. The tawse bruising will peak in a couple of days and then fade in a week. By then the deeper bruising from the heavy cane will be starting to blossom on the surface to give continuity. And it should still be visible for two or three weeks after that, so the bugger will have a continuous reminder that my slaves are for my exclusive use. OK corporal, six of the best on each leg, as hard as you like."
This time he stayed to watch. And to photograph. Even as I threshed and howled and struggled under the remorseless blows, I was still aware of the rapid flashes and sound the of quick-sequence filming - the cane raised - the blur of the downward strike - the moment of impact into the flesh - the twist of the stricken body in its bonds - the striped weals on the beaten flesh. Every moment of pain lovingly recorded in detail. Sick!
When the corporal was done, his master thanked him and dismissed him. "I'll carry on from here" he said. I lay there, panting, exhausted and drenched in sweat as the corporal descended, leaving us alone. What nastiness did he have in mind that he did not want his servant to see, for God's sake?
"You sweat like a pig" he said. It was true - and a long time source of embarrassment to me. In summer I always wore a tee shirt under my shirt to soak up the sweat, otherwise my shirt hung like a wet rag, dark with sweat, which people found distasteful. "Sorry, sir" I apologised. "No, no" he said, "don't worry, I like it. I like the look of young bodies shining with sweat. I like the feel of wet flesh." and he slipped his hands over me. "I even like the smell of it - and the salt taste!" With that he lowered his head and began to lick my chest while his hands continued to maul. I was shocked. Oh, I had often licked the bodies of dominant males of course. But that was expected of a slave, after all. It is one of those things slaves do. But for a master to lick his slave's body was something new to me - new and shocking. Worse still was the way he did it. He sucked and slurped and slobbered, greedily hoovering up my sweat. When a slave licks a master his first aim is to give pleasure, but as before, this man was only concerned to take pleasure. The dirty bastard was feeding off me! No wonder he didn't want the corporal to see. He even unbuckled the broad strap across my chest and licked the sweat off the inside of that.
"Sweat pig" he said, "that's a better name for you than Fuck Face. That's what you'll be called in future. But that's no reason why a Sweat Pig can't have his face fucked too!" And with that he moved round to the end of the bed where my head hung and fitted his cock into my mouth while continuing to strip the sweat off me with his tongue. This whole disgusting sweat business clearly turned him on. He worked his cock slowly round and round in my mouth while rotating his belly on my wet chest and licking my thighs. He was an animal!
Suddenly he pulled away from me. "Yes, well, there's unfinished work to do here." he said,exploring my thighs with his hands. "Please, Sir" I whispered, "I can't take any more." "Oh?" he said " and what do you plan to do about it?" There was no answer to that because there was nothing I could do about it. Even with the chest strap removed, I was still completely helpless and he could do whatever he damned well liked with me. The feeling of utter helplessness overpowered me. I remembered the brutal lesson I had learned last night in the bathroom - what do you do when the pain is unbearable but cannot be escaped? You bear the unbearable, that's what.
In a voice of quiet reason, he patiently explained that after the brutality of the tawse and the heavy cane, a different approach was called for with the final six cuts. "Something clean and stinging and sharp and pure" he called it. This turned out to be a length of simple, two-core lighting flex doubled into a loop. Compared to what I'd been through, this didn't sound too drastic.
Christ! How wrong I was. The vicious hornet sting of it ripped me apart. Such a searing, sharp, scalding pain! I screamed threats and obscenities at him and he lashed me. I sobbed and howled and begged for mercy and he lashed me. I promised obedience and total servitude and he lashed me. And he kept on lashing at my poor, bruised thighs with pitiless regularity until all twelve cuts were delivered and the punishment was finally complete.
"Now that," he said "should be a lesson you'll not forget in a hurry, that you don't offer your thighs to other men - nor any other part of your body. You are mine, Sweat Pig, all of you. Understood?" I assured him that yes, I had got that message! With that he set about untying me, finally pulling me to my feet. I heard the mattress dumped back onto the bed frame and the squeak of the springs as he sat on it. " Get my boots off" he ordered. I knelt and groped for his leg, pulling his foot up onto my chest and struggling to pull the boot off.
"Not like that, you fool" he snapped, "get the boot between your legs, with your back to me." I did as bidden and gripped the foot and heel, trying to push it off rather than pull it. He planted his other boot on my arse and helped by thrusting against me. Suddenly it came free and I pitched forward onto my knees. "Now the other one." and the exercise was repeated only this time with his bare foot pushing on my bare arse. Again the bed springs sang as he got up, "Get my britches off." Kneeling at his feet, I unbuckled his belt, un-zipped his fly and eased his britches down, noticing with slight surprise as I did so that he was wearing under shorts. Should I remove these too? Tentatively I raised my hands to the waist band. "Not with your hands" he ordered. This man missed no opportunity to twist the knife of humiliation! I pushed my face into his warm belly and got my teeth into the waist band.
Any one who has never done it might imagine it is fairly easy to strip a pair of briefs off a man with your teeth only. Actually, it is surprisingly difficult, requiring dedicated application and diligent work. I remember my own surprise at that discovery the first time I had to do it, on the orders of a Belgian miner in a hotel room in London. Now as then, my master stood patiently while I laboured between his legs - and why should he not be patient, for it is no hardship to stand there while a naked slave works to undress you with his teeth!
Once I had got the elasticated waist band down over his hips, which is the difficult bit, I let go with my teeth, preferring to complete the exercise by pushing my face into the crotch pouch and lowering my face to the ground between his feet, savouring the warm, fragrant man-smell of him, and holding the garment there while he stepped out of it. The bed springs spoke again of him sitting, then lying on the mattress and I could imagine him sprawled there naked. How I wished I could see him! "Now," he announced, "it is time for you to do a bit of tongue-bathing. Start at my forehead and work all the way down to one foot, then cross to the other and work your way up to my crotch, finishing with my cock. Slowly, mind. Slow and thorough."
"Yes Sir" I said and knelt at the side of the bed to do his bidding.