Chapter Twenty Seven
CALCULATED CRUELTY
It had been a rough session - a very rough session - but very exciting too and on three occasions I had begged him to make me or let me cum. Requests which, of course, he completely ignored. The result was that when, having satisfied himself, he went to bed with me tethered on the floor mattress beside him, he was soon asleep and snoring contentedly, while I was left in a torment of unsatisfied lust.
I'd been under celibacy orders for four days so the build-up of semen seemed to seethe and simmer in my balls clamouring for release. If only I was allowed to toss myself off I'd be able to get some sleep but that was strictly forbidden and I didn't want another night of crippling bondage in The Pit like the last time I took a wank without permission. So I lay there sweating and twisting in the grip of high arousal, my cock throbbing and dribbling on the dirty mattress.
It was no good, I had to do something so I got to my knees and pushed my head under the bed cover to seek out his crotch. My good luck, he was lying sprawled on his back.
Like a piglet seeking a teat, I snuffled through the hot, steamy darkness under the covers and found his cock lying limp between his big thighs. I inhaled the warm man-smell of him as I sucked it into my mouth and very gently, very slowly began to tongue it. It started to stir, started to thicken in my mouth. Then his quiet snoring stopped, he stirred and suddenly kicked me out of his bed with such force that I would have fallen backwards had my tethered neck not stopped me with a jerk which made me grunt. He snapped on the bedside lamp and, eyeing my rampant cock, said "Feeling a bit fruity, boy?"
He took down the strap that hung over his bed and I thought he was going to thrash me but he merely used it to bind my wrists behind my back. That done, he switched off the light and there was soon the sound of steady breathing as he slid back into comfortable sleep. And me? I spent hours of misery and sleepless discomfort, my cock absurdly hard, my wrists tiresomely hurting until sheer exhaustion sucked me down into unconsciousness and erotic dreams.
He kicked me awake. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, prodding me with his bare foot. I woke to stiffness and ache.
"Enjoy yourself last night, Sweatpig?"
"I was just seeking to pleasure you in your sleep, Sir"
"Bollocks! You were trying to use me for your own pleasure. Weren't you?"
I hung my head in shame. He was right of course. "Yes Sir"
"And that's not the way it works, is it? That's all arse about face, isn't it?"
"Yes Sir"
"So, tell it like it is"
"I'm here for your pleasure, Sir"
"Exactly! And time to remind you of that"
He unlooped the tether from his bedframe and strode off to the bathroom dragging me along behind on my knees with my hands still bound. He led me over to the lavatory and unceremoniously shoved my head into it so that my face was an inch from the water. He stood astride me and took his morning piss onto the back of my head. The seemingly endless stream drenched my hair and the warm, strong urine poured round my head to stream into the water off my nose and chin. I had to keep blow-snorting to stop it flooding up my nostrils as my head was practically inverted. The water turned dark yellow and the harsh, metallic stink of his piss assaulted my senses.
At last, at long, long last, it was over and he moved back but lowered the lavatory seat onto the back of my shoulders as a clear indication that I was not to move. He loosed the leather strap from around my wrists and I was able to grip the lavatory bowl and slightly ease the pressure on my breastbone which was hurting on the edge of the hard porcelain. But then he shocked me by clamping one foot down firmly on the seat, imprisoning me with my head in the bowl. Then he started to lash me across my back with the strap, laying on with a will. So, OK, this was the regular "morning beating" strap but this was no regular morning beating, he cut down with it again and again in a rapid fire of vicious strokes criss crossing my bare back.
I howled in anguish and my voice echoed inside the bowl. I twisted and writhed under the onslaught but was so effectively trapped under the foot-clamped lavatory seat that all I did was bruise my chest still more. And all the while, the stench of his piss in my nostrils. A miserable, miserable experience, but finally it stopped. God knows how many lashes he had given me. 20? More? Whatever, I clearly got the message that he was displeased with me.
As he moved away I decided to try and curry favour by whining my apologies for disturbing his sleep and promising never to do so again. "I should hope not" he growled "but stay there. I haven't finished with you yet." He wrapped a towel round his waist and went to the basin to shave, lathering his jowls vigorously.
Couldn't he have flushed the bloody loo? I wondered. But no, that was not The Humiliator's style! Nevertheless I raised my head enough to be able to watch him for I loved to see him shave. The huge spread of his back with those amazing shoulders was towards me but in the mirror I could watch with fascination as he went through the manly ritual of shaving. I particularly loved the moment when, reaching round to scrape down the left side of his face, with two fingers of his left hand at the base of his throat, his right bicep flattened itself huge across his black-haired chest. The quintessential image of maleness and power. Greedily my eyes devoured the reflected splendour of his powerful body which never failed to excite me. Then our eyes locked for an instant as he realised I was ogling him. He said nothing, but the "blue blaze" flashed in his eyes and even when bounced off the glass that look was enough to cow me. I thrust my head deep into the lavatory bowl again and breathed deep of his piss smell, like a dog savouring the scent of a dominant male.
At last he was done, his face rinsed and towelled. He turned to me and told me to kneel up and face him. "You are still keen to toss off?" I nodded eagerly like an excited puppy and assured him I was. His next question puzzled me. "You are right handed aren't you?" I told him yes. He ordered me to stretch out my right arm to my side, level with my shoulder and then to rotate my fist clockwise as far as I could. What the hell was this all about? He picked up the strap again and slowly wound it once round his fist, in front of my nose, for a good grip.
"Right" he said "you can start jerking yourself off with your left hand while I thrash your bicep. I'll stop as soon as you cum"
"But I can't do it left handed" I wailed.
"Then you are in for a long thrashing!" he reasoned and with that he snapped the leather down onto my bicep. "Jesus!" I yelped, astonished by the pain. So that's why he wanted me to twist my arm - so that the muscle would be uppermost and taut. This bastard never missed a trick did he? And another swipe, perfectly judged so that the tip of the strap impacted the top of the muscle. God, but that HURT!
Frantically I jerked at my cock with my left hand, but it felt so awkward. Moreover, some pain is erotic and some isn't. Working my tits sends a bolt of stimulation straight to my cock. The act of bending over to submit to a caning is sexually charged. CBT is as sexy as hell (up to a point!). Being strung up by the wrists and flogged, that's sexually exciting too. But having your biceps beaten is positively a turn-off! Why? God knows!
He moved round behind me and continued, only now the tip of the strap flicked round to bite the top and front of my taut bicep instead of the top and back. I yowled, begged him to stop and tugged furiously at my cock to no avail. "I can't cum!" I wailed, "I can't bloody cum! Oh God, please sir, I can't"
Despite his threat to keep lashing me until I shot, he must have seen it was not going to work for he suddenly changed tactics, and moving round to my front again, started lashing me across the chest. He was aiming for the nipples of course, the cruel sod. My tits had been so extensively and brutally worked the previous evening they were too sore even to touch let alone whip. But the bastard got them of course, lashing alternately fore hand and backhand to target left tit, right tit, in turn. Flouting orders I grabbed my cock in my right hand and within a few strokes the much delayed orgasm kicked in. Rods of spunk shot up my penis and fired out across the bathroom to splot on the tiles. I shouted aloud, screaming curses as the agony exploded the ecstasy and the ecstasy fired the agony. The bastard had literally flogged the fuck out of me and I collapsed in an exhausted heap on the cold tiles at his feet. He threw the strap down onto my back in a gesture of contempt as if to show that he had finished with that and with me. He turned to leave, saying "Get this mess cleaned up" as he went.
He hadn't said "lick it up" just "clean it up". If I got some toilet paper . . ? But I knew that would not do - and he could see me from the bedroom. Wearily I dragged my naked body over the floor and in dull resignation set about the unpleasing task of licking up my cold semen from the cold tiles. That done, I just lay there, exhausted, drained, beaten and miserable. Surely this was the low point? I could not sink any lower than this, could I?
Well, that is what I thought, what I sincerely believed. How could I have possibly foreseen the other horrors he had planned for me.