Chapter Nineteen
BACK FOR MORE
Would he summon me back for a second visit? On each Monday phone report I longed to hear him say when I was to go again, but he never did. The weeks passed. Then seven weeks after that memorable first visit came a note; "Be here Friday, 20.30 hrs. Drive, see sketch map. TH."
My first thought was "no more blindfold!" I felt honoured that I was now trusted enough (trained enough?) actually to be allowed to see my master's place. The map showed a turning onto a B road off the A road, then four miles on was marked "Private drive. Manor Farm 1/4mile." Under the map was written "Drive right round the house to the rear and under stable block arch. Park in yard. Back door straight ahead. Ring to announce arrival, enter, strip and look for further instructions"
Impressive! A 1/4 mile private drive and a stable block arch, sounded very grand. I bet there would be a clock over the arch on a white rooftop structure with a weather vane atop. It sounded that sort of place. I was very excited - though I wish he hadn't said I was to strip. I would naturally have presented myself to him naked. I had learned that much!
Again I left work early, terrified that Friday night traffic out of London would snarl up and make me late. Inevitably, I over-corrected and found myself at the entrance to his drive 50 minutes early. I drove past, found a pub and bought myself a brandy and a sandwich. I was a mess of nerves. I wonder if masters have any idea how much courage it takes to drive 250 miles so that some vicious pervert can beat the shit out of you? The brandy was good and I ordered another, but I had to force myself to eat the sandwich, telling myself that there was no knowing when I might eat again.
Time to go. I straightened up and walked tall to my car, trying not to show my terror. But my hand on the wheel was shaking. It was beginning to get dark as I turned down the drive. Big, old trees, fields, cows. Then round a bend between rhododendron bushes and there was the house. It was simultaneously modest and grand, in that typically English way. Mellow brick, early Georgian, a brick parapet hiding the pitch of the roof. Stone steps up to the front door with stone half columns either side and a fine fanlight over. Suddenly it struck me with absolute clarity that the space under the steps would be wedge shaped, giving onto a small, square room under the top platform itself - a distinctive space I had explored blindfold and with my hands manacled, a space I had thought of as "The Pit"!
I drove on round the house as ordered, the drive sloping down so that the back was lower than the front elevation. There was the stable block with archway and, as predicted, a clock on a white, cupola-topped structure above, (but no weather vane!). I drove through into the cobbled yard, parked as discretely as possible to one side and went through the back door into what I had envisaged as a scullery. It was smaller than I had imagined, but the stone flagged floor, big old Belfast sink and white-painted wall cupboards made "scullery" the most likely description. A note addressed "Sweat Pig" was propped up alongside the sink. My heart beat fast with excitement and eagerness to read his instructions, but I disciplined myself to strip naked first. The note told me to go to the foot of the stairs, kneel and wait. It was fascinating to explore these areas which I had experienced so vividly on my first visit even without seeing them. I turned left along the passage and there was the stone stair, but not at the end as I had imagined. The passage continued on as far again into darkness. I wondered what sinister rooms might lie down there. The stair had iron banisters, - very much a servants staircase. Of course! The ground floor would be above; I remembered the slope to the drive as one came round the house, so any rooms to the right of the passage would be basements - or cellars.
I knelt at the bottom of the stairs, naked and submissive and waited. It is surprising how quickly your knees begin to hurt on hard stone, and I started to feel cold. I peered up the stairs to the half landing above, hoping to see a shadow or hear movement, but there was only silence. I felt that perhaps I should not be discovered looking up, all eager and expectant, so I hung my head in modest submission and waited.
I must have heard or sensed something, for suddenly I looked up and he was there, standing on the top step, glaring down at me. My guts twisted into a knot, my heart banged in my chest and I found it hard to breathe. I shall never forget that first sight of my master. It was one of the defining moments of my sexual life. There he stood, monstrous and terrifying, an image of awesome power stepped straight from a masturbation fantasy. He was naked to the waist, showing off a powerful body. Riding boots and britches clad strong, straddling legs and a Sam Browne belt, as highly polished as his boots, encircled his waist, with the brass-buckled cross strap diagonal across his chest and over one broad shoulder. In his right hand he carried a long, slender cane with which he tapped his boot.
I just knelt there, stupid with wonder and terror. I am sure my jaw must have been hanging loose as my eyes darted over him trying to gobble up every detail of this vision of brute power. When, blindfold on my first visit, I had tongued him all over, I had gauged him to be a big man - a very big man - but had felt that being blindfold might have distorted my judgement. Yet here he was, huge like a tree trunk - and mossy too, for he was very hairy. How had I not realised that when licking his body? The answer, I later realised, was that his body hair was fine and straight and lay flat on his skin, giving him a smooth, glossy pelt like a panther. Not just on his chest and belly but all over. Arms and shoulders too. He had more hair on his back than most men have on their chest. Dense, thick and fine, it showed most when seen around the edges of his body, rather than when viewed straight on, creating a most curious impression that his physique was delineated with a soft, black outline.
He brought the cane round and rapped it once on the nose of the top step. No words were necessary. Obediently I crawled up the stairs on my belly. I knew I must look awkward and ridiculous, but you don't need to be told that you don't walk up to such a man, nor even go on your knees. You get your belly down onto the hard, cold stone and you crawl! On reaching the top step I caressed first one foot, then the other, stroking the smooth, polished leather and slipping my hands round them - and yes, his boots were spurred too. I could feel the coldness of the metal and the thought of licking and kissing the boots of a spurred man thrilled me as much as before, only now I could see them too by licking my way round the side. They curved upwards, ending in a blunt round knob, for all the world like small, hard, erect cocks! He moved one boot forward till just the tip of the heel rested on the edge of the step and canted his foot up so that I was able to lick the sole. Every slave longs to grovel at the feet of his master, but I wasn't at his feet, I was beneath his feet! In abject humility I licked the sole of both boots in turn.
When he put his second foot back flat on the floor, I took that as a sign to move on and worked up the polished shaft of his boot leg to the wear-pad of chamois leather inside his knee. It smelled of horse sweat and the thought of those strong thighs gripping the flanks of a galloping stallion really churned me up. I steadied myself with my hands against the front of his thighs (so hard!) and climbed up him and pressed my face into his crotch. I slid my hands round to the back of his thighs so that I could pull myself harder into his crotch to nuzzle and sniff him. Oh God, the smell of him! The thrilling man-smell of him! His cock lay along his left thigh, I could feel it through the whipcord britches, thick and strong. I bit at it, firmly enough for him to know of my hunger for him, but not too hard! As I gnawed at him he slipped the slave collar round my neck and buckled it firmly. "Master" I mumbled into his crotch in an ecstasy of submission, wondering if I dared unzip him, but before I could do so he pushed me face down onto the cold stone of the landing.
The platform of the landing actually crossed in front of a tall window, to protect which, the iron hand rail continued round the back of the landing. There were lengths of rope tied at the base of two uprights. With these my wrists were bound, my arms splayed wide. From the waist up I was on the landing, from the waist down my body was down the stairs. He walked down past me, treading either side of my body. He grabbed my ankles and yanked me forcibly downwards so that my arms were stretched taut. Whereas my waist had been over the top step, now my ribs were, which made it very hard to breathe. (If you don't believe that, try it and see!) I gasped "I can't breathe sir, I can't breathe" but he took no notice and set about tying my ankles to the banisters too. Un-necessarily tightly, I felt. He walked back up to the landing where he had parked the cane and, steadying himself with one hand on the baniisters, he leaned out over me and set about deploying the long, slim cane. Jesus, but it hurt like hell! Of course, he was not thrashing me across my arse and back, but along its length, so a single strike could see the tip of the cane bite into the back of my thigh while the body of it striped my arse. Similarly, he could dig the tip deep into my buttock and let the rest of the cane score my back right up to the shoulder blade all in one stroke. He rained the blows down on me with vicious force.
"Why?" I screamed, "What have I done sir? Why are you punishing me?"
His answer stuck terror into my heart. "You are not being punished" he said, "you are being trained." With that he walked down the stairs again, picking his way beside my splayed body.
I thanked God that awful flogging was over - but it wasn't, for now he began again, lashing particularly at my legs - calves, thighs, arse, all displayed most conveniently for him, at a 45 degree angle up the stairs. I was terrified that he might catch my balls, but he studiously avoided them. He was out to hurt, not injure, and hurt he bloody did! He came up a couple of steps to stand between my ankles. Now he was well placed to thrash my back again, laying stripes from the pad of my shoulder right down my back to my waist.
Unfortunately the pain and the futile threshing about and tugging at my bonds only had the effect of bringing me out in a drenching sweat. I could feel the slip of the sweat under my belly and chest on the stone of the landing. I remembered him saying how much sweat turned him on and I feared that my sweat-wet body was exciting him to even greater savagery. But then again, my excessive sweating may have saved me too, for he suddenly stopped the flogging and I heard the cane clatter to the bottom of the stairs. He lowered himself over me and began that peculiarly repellent feeding frenzy of sweat eating. He licked my ripped thighs and guzzled on my welted buttocks. He slobbered and sucked at my whipped back, scraping the sweat off my skin with his teeth as if with a strigil, and all the while making the most disgusting noises as he slithered greedy hands over my wet body.
He was so obviously aroused that I was terrified that he might fuck me. Already his weight on me was making breathing almost impossible. "Please master, I can't breathe. My ribs . . ." I gasped, fearing that they would break under the pressure. Fortunately he got off me. There was a pause. Where was he? I couldn't see down there. What was he up to? A click and a flash gave me the answer. And another . . . and another, as he came up the stairs. Then, from the landing, looking down. I thought of his sadist friend, the one he had made me write the account of my first visit to. Were these photos to show off to him? Or for his own benefit so that he could re-live the pleasures of caning a helpless man into a sweat-wet mess of submission? Probably both!
My hands were untied and I was told to free my own feet. Oh the relief at being able to get my bruised ribs off the edge of that bloody top step! He sent me down to retrieve the cane and I carried it up and knelt to deliver it to him. He took it and clipped a dog lead onto my collar. (Where had that come from? His pocket? Or hung in readiness over the upper banister? Either way, it was further evidence of his careful preparation.) I followed him, dog-like, on hands and knees, as he lead up to the entrance hall. Yes, there were the turkey rugs on the polished floor which I had "seen" with my bare feet before. And here the handsome staircase with its deep treads and shallow risers of polished oak. You wouldn't put a stair carpet on such wood! Up these stairs to the first floor and into what was clearly his bedroom - what you might indeed call the Master Bedroom! Here he led me to a wall-mounted, full-length looking glass and pulled me to my feet. He unclipped the lead and threw it on the big bed, then he came and stood behind me, looking at our reflection. For the first timeI realised just how big he was. I am just under six foot, so no midget, and with a fair physique, but he seemed to tower over me. His shoulders were set several inches above mine and much wider. A very impressive figure of a man indeed!
With his eyes fixed on mine, he stripped off the Sam Browne belt and holding me by the upper arms guided me backwards towards the bed. He sat on it and raised one leg, the boot jutting between my own legs. "Boot" he said. I bent to grasp the spurred foot in both hands and he planted the other boot on my thrashed arse and pushed. Eventually the boot came free, and the ritual was repeated with the other leg, only this time of course, it was his bare foot which was planted on my bum to push with. I could tell he enjoyed wiggling his toes into the raw welts on my arse, the bastard.
He stood, snapped his fingers and gestured to the waist of his riding britches. I dropped to my knees and raised my hands to unhook the waist belt, but as soon as I had done so, he knocked my hands away with a brusque gesture. There was no doubting his meaning. With difficulty, I got the zip in my teeth and managed to work it down - a process much easier to write than do!
Still using my teeth only, I now set about getting his britches off him. Again that sounds easy if you've never had to do it, but it must have taken near on ten minutes of bloody hard, concentrated work. At last I got them down to the ground and held them there with my face pressed into the crotch while he stepped out of them. At last he was as naked as I was, and I naturally assumed my next duty would be to attend to his cock. Wrong! He pulled me to my feet and stood me once more in front of the mirror with himself behind me as before. He slid his great hands round me and pulled me back against his hairy nakedness and I squirmed against him with shameless sensuality, rubbing my hot bum against his crotch. Clearly I was due for a hot fuck and was eager for it, but again I was wrong, for instead there began a most extraordinary activity, quite unlike anything I had experienced before or even imagined.