Chapter 29
FIRST ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL
On one of my regular Monday phone-ins he gave a date three weeks hence when I was to report to him. "That'll be the anniversary of my first visit" I said. There was a pause, then "Yes", he said.
I cringed with shame. Amazing how he could make me feel a complete, crass, dummy with just a pause and a "Yes". Of COURSE he knew! This manipulative bastard did nothing by chance and that date had been carefully chosen. That meant he had something special in mind. I felt a frisson of fear - and of excitement.
On the drive to Derbyshire I reflected on the long way I had come in the last year as his slave. I thought back with wry amusement to the blindfold journey of a year ago and the nervous, inexperienced, but eager trainee I had been then and of the carefully planned programme I had been put through in the past 12 months. Oh I was still nervous of course, who wouldn't be, knowing I was going to be brutalised and degraded. But I also had the complete confidence that whatever he had planned for me tonight, it would be within the bounds of the acceptable (just!)
On arriving at Manor Farm I was surprised to find him waiting for me in the scullery. Surprised too that after I had stripped and he'd fixed my slave collar about my neck, he did not indulge in the usual ritual of handling my flesh in that greedy, possessive way that I always found so exciting. It was as if he didn't have time for that this evening and I was fairly hustled across the stone-flagged passageway and through the door opposite into the big cellar.
He had not used this on my last few visits and my last experience here had not been pleasant! But now it was different. Bang in the centre stood the table-high "workbench" with its sturdy, splayed legs, sinister straps dangling and its numerous fixing points. Only now it was brilliantly spotlit with four tiny, dichroic spots mounted on the brick-vaulted roof in a square and focussed on the workbench, like an operating table. I felt my stomach clench in a spasm of fear. Oh God, what was he going to do to me?
He motioned me to lie on the narrow table. A strap was quickly buckled around my waist, trapping my hands at my sides, then another was thrown high across my chest and shoulders and buckled tight. Then he did something very odd. He fetched a little, folding card table and set it alongside me by my head. Then he spread a clean white cloth over it and, satisfied that all was as he wanted it, he left! So I was left there, spotlit in that gloomy cellar, strapped to the workbench like a specimen, and waited.
I heard the knocker on the front door overhead rap sharply and the Brig answer it. I could hear voices. Oh God, who was this being brought in? Footsteps approaching on the stone-floored passage - the ring of metal boot studs on the stone!
The figure who entered with my master was bizarre. Exceptionally tall and thin, he was dressed in motorcycle leathers. But the really terrifying thing was his face. Shaven headed (or just bald?) one side of his face was completely covered in the tattoos of a Maori warrior. The other half had no tattoos at all, instead it was disfigured by the most extreme collection of piercings I had ever seen. Lips, nose, eyebrow, ear, all bore multiple rings, with further studs through his cheek and below his lower lip. It looked as though his face had been attacked by a mad decorator.
This nightmare apparition strode over to me and regarded me in silence for a while. Then he asked "Why is he tied down?"
"I wanted him to feel helpless" was the reply.
"Has he agreed to this?"
"No need. He'll do as I want."
The tall man took off his backpack and set it on the card table before turning to the Brig and announcing that he would not work on anyone without their consent. I was impressed that anyone should challenge the Brig's authority in this way. I saw the "blue blaze" flash in his eye, but the tall thin man stood his ground. The Brig shrugged, turned away and said "OK, ask him"
"Alone" he insisted. I thought the Brig would explode, but after a moment he turned without a word and left the cellar! The tall man looked down on me and placed a consoling hand on one shoulder. "You don't have to go through with this you know" he said gently, "not if you don't want to"
I told him I didn't even know what he was going to do.
"Christ almighty!" he swore, "the bastard hasn't even told you?"
I shook my head, terrified that "the bastard" might hear and I'd be made to suffer.
"He wants me to pierce your tit" he said. He reached in his bag and pulled out a silver nipple ring and held it up. "This is normal size, but he wants me to fit you up with one like this" and he pulled out another, much thicker, much heavier. "Left side - slave side." he explained. "And, ah, he wants it permanent. Not removable. You understand? You'll be marked for life as a, you know, as a sub - a man-toy"
I gulped. The thought of wearing such a thing at work under my shirt.playing squash with my mates and stripping off for a shower afterwards, of going swimming, pierced with this brutal mark of shame. The thought was horrifying - and VERY exciting. To be permanently marked as his slave - YES!
"You don't have to, you know. Say no and I'm out of here"
"It's OK" I assured him. "My master knows best. Do whatever he wants". I saw The Brig standing in the doorway and felt proud that he must have heard me say that.
"You are quite sure?"
I fixed my eyes on Hugh's. "Quite sure" I said. Hugh smiled approvingly as he re-entered the cellar and my heart could have burst with pride.
The Decorator took the tools of his trade from his bag and laid them out with professional precision on the little table. Next he prepared himself by unzipping and removing his leather jacket. At first I thought he was wearing a sort of paisley design T-shirt, but then I realised his body was completely covered in tattoos, each one jostling the next. Bizarre! His long thin bony body was a mess of eagles and snakes and geisha girls and coiling dragons and skulls pierced with daggers dripping blood. Celtic motifs entwined his arms and Che Guevara 's portrait glowered from his belly while his back was filled with a gaudy likeness of a Hindu god glowing with radiating light rays and multiple arms.
Having stripped for action he began by swabbing my tit with a strong antiseptic, then he picked up an aerosol. "What's that?" the Brig enquired and was told it was an anaesthetic spray to deaden the pain. "No." he said "I want he should feel everything" The Decorator protested that although normal piercing could be done with no pain killer, the oversized ring to be used on this occasion required a bigger incision and that it would be very painful. My owner shrugged an insisted that no painkiller should be used.
Again the tall operative glanced down at me, "That OK with you, son?" This was too much for the Brig. "He'll do as I say - and so will you, or get out now!"
The piercer hesitated a moment. He'd stood up to this big man before and won, but faced with this full blast of authority and raw power, he capitulated, lowering his eyes - and the canister of painkiller. His eyes sought mine and I lowered my eyelids in assent. He picked up the piercing tool and forceps . . .
I lay there, strapped to the operating table helpless and terrified. But I was not going to scream. That was definite. There was no way that the torturing bastard who controlled what happened to me would have that satisfaction. No matter what it took, he'd not hear me scream. I glared defiance at him as he stood over me, his arms folded across his chest, impassive as a rock. The Decorator held my nipple extended in the gentle grip of a pair of forceps as he deployed the piercing instrument.
I screamed. Loud and long. The thick metal ring was inserted through my flesh and I whimpered like a kicked puppy. The ends were closed and sealed and I screamed again. While the blood was being swabbed away I lay there limp and sobbing piteously. It had not taken long but it had seemed to scour the guts from out my body and I was full of hate for the brutal fucker who had stage-managed this bizarre nightmare of pain and humiliation. And he had just stood there the whole while, arms folded across his chest, watching impassively while I suffered. I tried to put my hatred of him in my eyes but he either did not notice or did not care.
The Decorator packed up his equipment and pulled his leather jacket on. "You are a hard man" he said to the Brig. My master made no reply, just handed over a wad of notes saying "That's what we agreed. And here's another £50 to keep your mouth shut. I don't like my business to be discussed. Understood?"
He nodded, took the money and as he left he placed his hand briefly on my shoulder as if to say "Best of luck, mate." The Brig escorted him to the front door and I could hear his boots echoing from the Prison Pit as he went down the front steps which formed its roof. Then the sound of a motorbike starting up and fading away as the Brig returned.
Silently he released the two straps and swept my feet to the floor. Then gripping my upper arms he raised me to my feet and did something totally unprecedented and unexpected. He kissed me on the mouth for the very first time! I felt the power of those huge arms about me as he opened my lips with his teeth and entered me with his tongue. I melted against him, not minding the pressure of his chest against my torn nipple, relishing the warmth of his body through his shirt against my nakedness. I felt that I was being rewarded for submitting to the brutality of what had been done to me. Hatred? What hatred? As his strong tongue swept around inside my mouth, I simply adored him. Finally he pulled away and as he did so I breathed "Oh MASTER!" in an ecstasy of submission. "Anything" I murmured, "Anything at all, Sir." He ignored this and in an entirely matter of fact tone said "Come" and turned to stride from the cellar with me padding along behind like a faithful hound.
Up to the kitchen he led me where he took from the fridge two plates of chicken salad and a bottle of white wine. He thrust the plates to me to carry, scooped up a couple of glasses and headed for the sitting room. There he settled himself in his favourite chair and switched on the telly just as the News was starting.
I sat on the floor at his feet and together we ate - and drank - in silence, listening to the news. Such casual, relaxed domesticity was a completely new experience and I felt so proud. It appeared that I had graduated through a year-long trial of grinding humiliation, culminating in that hideous ritual in the cellar tonight and now I was elevated to a new level of service.
When we had finished eating I returned the plates to the kitchen and settling myself at his feet once more, I gently stroked his sturdy thigh and he idly dropped his hand onto my head in a gesture which could even have been affectionate. He kneaded my neck and brought me round between his legs until my face was pressed into his crotch. This always felt like coming home, home to where it was the most natural place in the world for me to be. I nuzzled his crotch like a dog, breathing the warm man-smell of his loins and feeling his cock thicken and harden against my face through his slacks.
He slid down in his chair, splayed his legs wide and unzipped. Unhurriedly I scooped out his cock and his balls too, laying my head on his thigh and gazing in pleasure at the sheer splendour of him, while gently caressing his shaft with my fingertips. But his hand on the back of my head told me it was not fingertips he wanted. I licked his scrotum, mouthed his testicles and, twisting round, even managed to slobber-suck the fragrant, secret place behind his bull-bag while his scrotum flobbed soft and warm over my face. Then it was time to begin on the rearing totem of his manhood. I worked my tongue into the very base of his shaft above his balls and slowly, slowly, started to lick my way up it like a small boy climbing a tree.
Halfway up the thick bole I met a dribble of fuck-juice sliding down. Eagerly I consumed it and followed the sticky trail up to the glistening purple dome and the slit which disgorged the man-slime. I licked the tip clean, wet my lips and slid them down , ever so s - l - o - w - l - y over his helm and sucked him. Spasms of pleasure jerked his hips and he moaned with sensual fulfillment as I goged myself on him.
Although I had gone down on him many, many times, he had never cum in my mouth. I had even said what a pleasure it would be to be allowed to taste his spunk, to chew it and swallow it, but he enjoyed his fucks too much to waste a good orgasm anywhere but buried deep in a slave's belly. But tonight he started saying Yes! Yes!! Yes!!! and I began to dare to hope that this time perhaps I'd be allowed the prize. And so it was, and that magnificent weapon fired slug after slug of cum into my mouth and I relished the sickly sweet taste of it and chewed it and swallowed it and savoured it.
I lay my cheek on his thick thigh and murmured "Thankyou, Sir." over and over. It was clear to me that a new phase in our relationship had been reached and that the ring in my nipple was like a wedding ring proclaiming that I belonged to him irrevocably. In future a more relaxed and sharing tone would characterise our union, I felt sure of it. So when, quietly sated, he got to his feet and said "Bed", I trotted eagerly behind him knowing that tonight I would be taken into his bed to sleep beside him.
Imagine my dismay therefore to be motioned to my usual position on the dirty mattress on the floor beside his bed. Imagine the even greater horror when he tethered me to his bed as usual, not by my collar but BY MY NIPPLE RING! By my new, still painful, still slightly oozing, nipple ring. He said nothing, just acted as this was the most natural thing in the world. He undressed (and damn him, it still gave me a thrill to see him strip off his shirt!) and went to bed.
I lay there in the darkness in a storm of emotions. Anger and disappointment and hurt feelings and rage at his crass cruelty. Anger too at myself for having allowed myself to believe that this pig-bastard manipulative sadist could ever have had any feelings of tenderness toward me. I was dirt to him, had always been dirt, would always be dirt. Just once in a while he would look down and spit on me - and here was the crunch - I'd be grateful even for that!
Eventually I slept, only to wake with a yelp of pain as someone stabbed a hot stilletto into my chest, right through the tit. I had turned in my sleep and the tether had snapped taut and yanked at my poor nipple.
"What's wrong?" his voice demanded from above me. I explained. "You woke me." he snapped. "Be more careful"
"Thanks a bunch, Pig" I thought.
But what I said was "Yes Sir." and settled down quietly.