Chapter Twentythree
NIGHT USE AND MORNING BEATING
I followed him down to his bedroom, where he told me to lay the mattress on the floor alongside his bed, "where I can get at you." I was sent down to the basement bathroom for a piss while he used the one opening off the bedroom. I had no trouble finding it, for all was just as I had visualised through my blindfold, but it was fascinating to see for the first time the scene of the horrors of my first visit.
How vivid were the memories of what I had suffered there. Now, I craned my neck to try and glimpse in the mirror over the basin the latest damage to my arse. I was shocked by what I saw, but strangely pleased too. I had taken one hell of a beating and survived and was gratified to bear the marks of it on my flesh, like campaign medals. It was satisfying to know too that he had photographed the evidence. How I would love to see those before-and-after shots. I wondered if I would be allowed to - and all those he had taken during my first visit as well, especially those taken in this very bathroom.
Whilst having my piss, I gazed into the stained bath, trying to imagine a naked body in it, wrists tied to the taps, head wrapped in a piss-soaked jock-strap, writhing in pain from the metal clamps biting his nipples. Jesus!
When I got back to the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, reading. The light from the bedside lamp slanted across his bare body. God, but what a body! Those powerful shoulders, meaty arms and muscular chest shadowed by body hair! I longed to throw myself on the bed and bury my face in that expanse of hairy chest, but as he did not even glance up from his book to acknowledge my presence, I moved quietly round to the mattress on the floor, noting that a couple of grey Army blankets had been put on it. I lay down, spread the rough, hairy blankets over me and immediately was reminded of that line from Rupert Brook's poem in which he lists the things he loves, including "The rough male kiss of blankets". Indeed!
Now my master put down his book and leaned out to clip the dog-lead to my collar. The other end was already looped over the iron side-frame of his bedstead. So, I was to sleep tethered to his bed, on the floor at his side. He said nothing, just picked up his book and carried on reading. It was just after midnight, I noticed. Eight hours since I had set out from London after a hectic day, and crowded since my arrival with a non-stop programme of incident and savage sexual activity. No wonder I was utterly exhausted and I must have been asleep before he put out the light.
I woke in a panic. It was pitch black and I was being strangled. Where was I? What the hell was going on? I clutched at my throat - of course, it was the slave collar and the lead pulled tight. Obviously he had wakened in the night with a fuck-need, had swept his hand alongside the bed til he encountered the tether in the dark and was proceeding to reel me into his bed like a fish which, when landed, would be unceremoniously gaffed. I noticed the illumined bedside clock, it was 04.06.
He took a brisk, no-nonsense fuck and then kicked me out onto my mattress. It was 04.09. Wearily, I groped in the dark for my blankets, pulled them over me and returned to sleep.
The blankets were stripped off me, waking me with a start. It was light and he was standing over me, huge and naked. I had been sleeping with my hand on my cock and had a morning hard-on. Ashamed to be discovered playing with myself, I quickly rolled over onto my belly. This suited him well, for he wanted to inspect his handiwork and he crouched down to handle my beaten arse with deliberate roughness. As he squatted beside me, I could see his cock and balls dangling between his legs. Bloody hell, so much of it! Even when relaxed, he was one hell of a man and I remembered how I'd been hauled into his bed and used in the night. To think of that huge thing, swollen to twice its present size, pushed right into my body!
I was as randy as hell and longed for him to take me again. I wriggled my arse shamelesS and provocative under his hand, but he had his own agenda. He stood, and reaching over me unhooked the strap which hung over the bed head. Suddenly I recalled the Corporal on telling me how the Brig believed in always giving his slaves a morning beating "to start the day off right". The thought of my poor beaten arse getting another thrashing horrified me and I tried to turn onto my back to protect it, but he read my move and immediately clamped his bare foot onto the small of my back, pinning me helpless to the mattress. I wailed, begging him not to beat me any more, pleading with him, and even as I did so, wondering why, because experience had shown that if there was one thing guaranteed to rouse a sadist, it was to plead for mercy. But this man was no ordinary sadist, he knew exactly what he wanted to do and would do it no matter what his victim did or said.
Two lashes across the shoulders were what he felt inclined to give on this particular morning. Two lashes were what I got. I have no doubt that had he felt disposed to give me six of the best across my arse, he would have done that. Perhaps he simply did not wish to disturb the purity of the marks of the punishment beating? Anyway, it was not for the likes of me to try and guess his motives. All I had to do was take what he gave.
Compared to the brutal thud of the heavy punishment cane, two swipes with a strap may not be as damaging but by Christ, they stung. He kept me pinned under his foot until I ceased to squirm, then he yanked me up onto my knees and, kneeling behind me, he clamped me to him with one arm across my chest. "OK" he breathed, his mouth just behind my ear "now toss yourself off"
You must understand that I had been forbidden to ejaculate since Monday's phone report. It was now Saturday morning. Not just any five days of enforced celibacy either, but five days of intense sexual excitement as I approached my second visit, followed by almost continuous sexual activity since the moment of arrival. To have been allowed to masturbate only minutes earlier, when I had awoken with a teriffic erection, would have been blissful. But now, when ordered to do so, I couldn't! Oh God, the shame of it! I yanked furiously at my suddenly limp cock, to no avail. I could have wept with shame.
Any other man would have whispered "Relax. Take it easy. There's no hurry." Not this bastard. Not The Humiliator. Immediately sensing my distress, he saw his opportunity and rasped "What's the matter? Can't you do it? Come on, you dirty little fuck-hole, wank for Christ's sake."
Whimpering with shame and rage, I jerked and jerked at my cock, to no avail. The bloody thing which had been in a state of near-permanent arousal for five days just would not respond.
"Come on, come on" he urged, making it much worse, "I can't wait all day for you to toss yourself off"
"I'm sorry sir" I wailed, "sorry . . . sorry . . . sorry." I wished the ground would open and swallow me. OK, so I was only a slave, but I was a lusty slave, a virile slave, a randy slave, stuffed full of spunk, manly, sexy, tough and always ready to serve, ready to spurt. That is why enforced celibacy is such a misery for me, with so much spunk seething in my balls, eager to burst out. That was my self image, but here I was, shamefully limp.
Still with his left arm clamped high across my chest, he leaned forward and reached with his right hand onto the bedside table. A metal tit-clamp! Holding me tight against him, he positioned the clip with surgical precision and released it suddenly. I screamed as the metal jaws bit. He reached for its pair. He craned his neck over my shoulder to see my left nipple. I could hear his breathing close to my ear as he unhurriedly placed the clip over the very tip where it would hurt most. I too watched in horrified fascination as he removed the clip, turned it through 90 degrees and slowly, this time, - very slowly - released it, allowing it to bite deeper, deeper, and dear God deeper still, into my flesh. I sobbed with the pain and writhed in his grip. With a contemptuous swipe of the back of his hand, he knocked my own hand away from my cock. And there was my bloody penis as proud and erect as you could wish. The wretched thing rampantly betraying my response to cruelty in general, but to this particular cruelty in particular.
Only my second visit and already my shameful secret was blatantly revealed: that a man, any man, any time, had only to get a good hard grip on just one of my tits and I was his, helplessly randy and ready for any sexual activity he wanted. To know that was to have more power over me than I really cared for any man to have.
Bollocks, that's just not true! I loved him to have power over me, WANTED him to have power over me, so who am I trying to kid?
Oddly, he didn't wank me with his fist gripping my cock, but with just two fingers and a thumb, almost fastidiously, as if to underline the contemptuous ease with which he could manipulate my body, when I could not even do it myself. In just moments I was swamped by a massive tidal wave of an orgasm and the spunk exploded out of me, thick gobbets of it shooting the length of the mattress right up onto the pillow.
Drained, shamed, emptied and exhausted, I slumped in his restraining arm, wanting only to be left in peace, to rest, to sleep. Unfortunately he wanted me to lick up the mess. I explained that I just could not do that. Oh, I had taken plenty of man-spunk in my mouth in the past, no problem. But my own spunk, immediately in post-ejaculation revulsion - no, that simply was not possible, I explained.
The Humiliator was not so named for nothing however, and managed to persuade me that I was mistaken. He was really quite insistent on my sucking my semen off the dirty pillow, - every last drop of it, God help me. Only when he was completely satisfied did he tell me to go down to the basement bathroom for a shower and then to report to the Corporal in the kitchen.
In the kitchen I found the Corporal apparently waiting for me, reading the paper. He gave me instruction in preparing the master's breakfast and how everything was to be laid out on the tray, in precise detail. I had a strong impression that this was something he had done before with other slaves and that I was merely the latest in a long line of such contemptible creatures.
I noticed him eyeing the weals on my body, but he said nothing and made no attempt to touch me, thank God. In the breakfast room, the master was already at the table with a copy of the Times. I felt suddenly embarrassed by my nakedness in this oh-so-normal domestic setting. I laid out the breakfast things before him exactly as specified by the Corp and turned to go. "Pour the coffee" he said, quietly. Damn, I'd forgotten that bit and was annoyed with myself. I'd so wanted to get it right. I asked if there was anything else. "No" he said, without bothering to look up, "get yourself some breakfast and tell the Corporal he can put you to work until after lunch."
This was very much the pattern on future visits - after dark I was his fuck-slave, during the day I was just a farm labourer, but it was literally slave labour - bloody hard work and unpaid of course.
There were the two hunters to muck out and groom, cows to be milked, ditches to be cleared and no end of work in the walled kitchen garden, digging, planting, spraying, watering, spreading manure etc. Outside the house I was allowed to dress of course, and although there was no doubt that out there the Corp was boss, he never abused his authority, never touched me, never beat me. He was a tiny, scrawny little bugger, but as tough as hell and a tireless worker. We'd go to his gatehouse quarters for lunch, invariably bread, cheese and beer, but within half an hour he was back at work with me trailing behind him, aching from the unaccustomed exertion. When he told me to go and fetch another barrowload of compost or whatever, it never occurred to me to refuse. He worked so hard himself, that I, younger, taller, better built, felt obliged to try and keep up with him. We never had any conversation, and if I asked him about himself, the Brigadier, or how long he'd worked for him, all I'd get was a sour silence. He'd roll another of his foul little fags and say "That lot needs weeding" and I'd get down on my knees and set to.
On that first day, it was warm after lunch and sheltered from the wind in the walled garden. The Corp had set me to deep digging a section of the vegetable patch so I soon worked up a sweat and peeled my shirt off. I was so involved in my work that I didn't even notice that my master had arrived and was watching me, til I heard him say quietly to the Corp "Leave us." Without a word, he left, closing the gate in the wall behind him. The Brig said nothing, just stood there watching me work, so I put on a bit of a show, digging furiously, showing off my body for his benefit. And oh but it was good to feel his eyes on me, knowing that he found me attractive, knowing how turned on he was by sweat. It is marvellously erotic to know that someone lusts for your body, and when that someone is a man who excites you, then it is doubly sexy.
Eventually he came over to me, clasped his huge hands around my body and lifted me up as if I were no more than a child, until my chest was level with his face and he could feed on my sweat, rubbing his face into my chest, sucking and licking my still-sore nipples.
Eventually he set me down, told me to drop my jeans and he put me down on all fours. He mounted me from behind and used me like a dog. My arms gave way under his weight and the onslaught of his humping so I ended up with my face and chest pressed into the freshly dug earth. He drilled me remorse- lessly and planted his seed in my furrow, grunting and grinding me down into the warm soil.
He got off me, stood up and tried to brush the dirt off the knees of his slacks while telling me to dress and go. I indicated the much worse mess I was in and asked if I could go into the scullery to clean up a bit. He made an irritable gesture with his hand, "Just go," he said, "I've finished with you for now" and he turned and walked towards the house. Clearly I was dismissed.
I pulled on my jeans over my muddy knees, picked up my tee shirt and followed at a discreet distance, back through the stable arch to where my car was still parked in the courtyard. Stupidly, I hoped he would appear and say he had changed his mind, but of course no such thing happened so I got in the car and simply drove away.
As I drove back towards London I could feel the seat of my pants wet with his semen seeping from me. I liked that. And I thought of the bewildering torrent of sexual abuses that had been heaped upon me since my arrival last evening - barely twenty hours before - and I liked that too. How was it possible to have experienced so much degradation in such a short time? I relived some of the appalling things he had done to me and said out loud "Christ, but I've been HUMILIATED!"
A few miles down the road, I turned into a lane and parked by a small wood. I went into the wood, leaned my soiled, man- used body against a tree and tossed myself off, remembering the grip of his hands and the urgent thrust of his cock. . .
But more than anything as I continued my drive back to London, going over and over in my head, were his last words as he dismissed me: "I've finished with you for now" FOR NOW! It wasn't over, and it was oh so good to know that there was more to come. "Anything he wants" I said to myself. "Anything!" And again, "Anything at all"