Chapter Twenty Four
PATTERNS OF SERVITUDE
For the next six years I was owned by Brigadier Hugh Markman-Ryder of Manor Farm, Sterndale, Derbyshire and was very happy to be so.
One of the remarkable things about him was his ability to surprise me, to keep me constantly on my toes by his seemingly inexhaustable sexual imagination so that a visit to him never became a predictable routine. Nevertheless there were certain patterns on which variations were played and those patterns were laid down right from these first two visits.
For example, frequency. The six week gap between the first and second visits was quite typical. Four weeks was the shortest, thirteen weeks the longest. Over those six years, five visits a year was the average, some 30 in all. In between were the regular Monday phone call reports - and I had learned on my second visit that I missed one of those at my peril! Regular they were, but predictable they were not. I never knew whether I'd get just a grunt of acknowledgement, a string of abuse, detailed instructions or orders to masturbate then and there. (Even in a public phone box!)
The pattern of visits was usually to arrive Friday night and be dismissed Saturday afternoon after a bit of slave labour on the farm, but I never knew. Sometimes he chucked me out at midnight on the Friday when he had finished with me, sometimes I was kept until the Sunday. Once he demanded that I arrive on a Wednesday night, but that was for a special reason (see "The Whip Hand")
Some things were absolutely regular, however. For example I always had my slave-collar buckled about my neck on arrival or very soon after, and wore it continuously for as long as I was there. Similarly, I always stripped naked the moment I entered the house and was kept naked, even in the depths of winter, though even here there were variations, as when he'd be waiting for me in the scullery and would personally strip me, often taking a whole sequence of photos as he peeled off each item. (God, but I loved having him strip me. He would make it last five minutes, always in complete silence. There was something terribly intense and sensual about it, right up to the moment when he had me stark naked and would produce the collar and I'd kneel, proffering my neck in absolute submission.)
Morning beatings were another fixture (but see "Casual Cruelty" and "Deliberate Cruelty" for variations on that) and of course, so were the fuckings - after all, that is what I was for. But there was certainly nothing repetitive about that! I was fucked in the scullery, the cellar, the living room, kitchen, bedroom and on the stairs as well as in the punishment room of course. But I was also fucked in the garden and out in the country - laid across a fallen tree, in a barn, in a garage (see "The Wrecker"), in a deserted farmstead and in a limestone cave. Some fuckings were long, langorous affairs, others short and vigorous, others briskly efficient or brutally violent. Some, I swear were designed to give me almost unbearable pleasure, some were simply punishment by other means.
Unless I was incarcerated in The Pit or left in miserable bondage in the cellar, I normally slept on the mattress on the floor, tethered to his bed. I would like to report that being hauled into his bed for use during the night, as on that first occasion, was a common experience, but in fact it was quite infrequent as he was usually sated with sex by the time he got to bed. (Nice for him, hard luck for me!) That did not alter the humiliation of knowing that I was tethered there for his convenience should he wake in the night with the fuck-lust on him. More often though, he would give me a morning fuck prior to going for a piss, returning for the morning beating. Typically I'd get three or four fucks a visit (quite enough thankyou!) so he had his cock up me at least 100 times during my years as his fuck-slave.
Another ritual which was never omitted was that he never sent me away without making me toss off - though only once per visit. This impressed me for two reasons. First because it showed his professionalism. How often other masters, having satisfied themselves, dismiss you as being of no further interest to them, with no regard for your being left frustrated. The Brigadier knew that to keep a slave coming back, time after time, year after year, he had to get his share of sexual satisfaction too. But some men make it obvious that they are doing this as a favour or as a duty.
Not with The Humiliator. He always managed to make me feel that he had violated me by forcing me to ejaculate against my will, that he had cold-bloodedly stripped the spunk out of my loins and left me drained and useless. Oh there were many times when, with a week's build up of semen boiling in my balls, he would manipulate me into such a frenzy that I'd beg him to let me or make me cum - which of course, he never did. He always managed to contrive to make me cum when HE wanted to, never when I was screaming for it!
Another ritual, fixed right from that first visit, was that I had to write a detailed report after each visit, alledgedly for the delectation of a sadist friend with whom he exchanged experiences. Did such a friend exist? Or was this just a neat way of checking my reactions to ensure he was not pushing me too far, too fast? Or, worse still, that he was not pushing me hard enough? All of those, maybe?
Anyway, what follows are accounts of some of the various means he employed over the years to humiliate, train and use me, in no particular order. Just a random catalogue of perversions and cruelties suffered over those six years of servitude to a dominant, brutal and magnificent male - the most completely fulfilling years of my sexual life . . .