Chapter Three
THE JOCK STRAP Part 1. The Thrashed Policeman
Intrigued by this cryptic remark, I turned the page with eager excitement and read on:
"You are not the first slave to wear this jock strap. Three other men have sweated in it and suffered in it. They have seeped and oozed and dribbled in it. They have each stained it with their semen. Need I say, it has not been washed between each usage. So, when you put it on you are sharing in the shame and pain of three other perverts and to help you identify with them, I will tell you something about each.
"The first was Mike, and it was his own jock. Mike is a young policeman, mad about rugger. He is built like a brick shit-house, 6'1", 16 stone, fair, good looking, and not very bright. He is only 24 but I do not think he'll ever make Chief Inspector! He is not at all queer even though he did admit he enjoyed beating up drunks in the cells after making them strip. For such a big, strapping fellow he has a surprisingly little cock, like a schoolboy's. Maybe that is why he is so keen to demonstrate how macho and butch he is, hence the aggressive rugger playing, the brutality towards helpless prisoners, his unnattractive boastfulnes and swagger - and the need that brings him to me.
"That need is to be beaten. Really severely beaten. He has actually begged me to thrash him "until the blood runs down my legs"! (I have never gone qiute that far.) He says that I am the only man who will beat him as savagely as he needs, which is why he comes back to me every six months or so even though he knows I will fuck him afterwards. Each time he begs and pleads with me not to do so, (he genuinely appears to hate it) but as he likes to be tied down very securely to be thrashed, there's not a lot he can do about it. He actually sobs while I hump him, which excites me . . . which tells you something about me too, that I am not a nice person, but I guess you had sussed that already!
"On every visit, Mike would beg me to come and watch him play rugby. No doubt he longed to show off how tough and manly he was, but I always dodged the issue for the idea of standing around watching 22 muddied oafs chase a ball about didn't seem too exciting. But on one occasion I said I would, provided he came straight back here with me without stopping to change.
"So it was that one wet and windy March day I went to watch the Police side play the local amateurs. The pitch started off waterlogged and before long was just a mud bath. Mike played like a demon, urged on by his supporters - at least a dozen of them standing on the touch line but it was rather pathetically obvious that he was playing to impress me. After each heroic tackle, pass, or try, which always involved a spectacular belly-slide through the mud, he would glance over towards me to assure himself I was watching. My feet were cold, I was bored by these macho heroics, had no idea who was winning and cared less. But there came a moment of drama when the enthusiasm of the Police team supporters communicated itself to me. A try was to be converted and success would give them the match. And who was to take it? Our hero, of course.
"With great to-do the ball was carefully placed . . . Mike paced back . . . ran up and kicked. Breaths were held as the ball spun through the windy sky . . . and missed! A groan from the police, jubilation from their opponents, and Mike sank on all fours in the mud, a picture of abject defeat and shame. No quick glance in my direction this time!
"Within minutes the final whistle went and the teams straggled back towards the Club House, Mike's team-mates crowding around him to try and console him. For a moment it looked as if he would be swept along with them, but he hung back and, to glances of surprise from his fellows, he turned and walked dejectedly over to where I stood. Without a word I led him to where the car was parked. I had taken the precaution of spreading a sheet of plastic over the passenger seat. Wearily, the mud-sodden loser sank into the seat and not a word was spoken as we drove home - though the tension was palpable.
"I took him in through the back door into the scullery and ordered him to strip. The sodden shirt, shorts and socks fell in a heap on the tiles, leaving his mud-wet and battle-bruised body naked, save for the jock strap. This too he was about to peel off but I stopped him. I liked the way it set off his nakedness and the muscular power of his body. I liked especially the way the elastic straps from the base of the pouch outlined his buttocks as they curved round up to the waist band . . . defining the target area!
"I said 'You realise that fiasco on the pitch will have to be punished?' - he nodded glumly - 'severely punished' I stressed and he nodded again. 'Speak up!' I ordered. He came smartly to attention and answered 'Yes Sir'. His eyes were glittering with excitement and I realised just how eager he was for it. It even crossed my mind to wonder if he had missed that conversion deliberately. Not that it made the slightest difference of course. He was going to be savagely beaten either way, that is what he had come for, but he might have enjoyed giving me an excuse.
"I told him to go straight up to the punishment room and wait. I had laid out on the flogging bench the three implements I had decided to use on him, neatly laid out in order of use, and I left him up there for ten minutes to sweat it out studying them and contemplating what was to come. When I went up he was standing to attention facing the bench. I hooded him and then locked the door - quite un-neccessary of course, but I wanted him to feel trapped like a prisoner in a cell. I put him face down over the bench, laying him atop the three implements, and made a deliberate ritual out of strapping his wrists and ankles very firmly. He was so tense his legs were shaking quite visibly. I slid the tawse out from under his body, slowly so he would feel it against his skin. It was the heavier of my two tawses, one I had not used on him before. Made of high density rubber, it is heavier than the leather one. I call it "the meat tenderiser". I brought it down hard onto the end of the bench near his hooded head. It hit with a terriffic thump. He nearly leapt out of his skin! He now had no illusions about its brute power, he must have felt the impact judder right through the sturdy frame of the punishment bench! I made him wait, knowing that the next impact would not be on wood but on his flesh.
"Then I began to beat him .... slowly .... deliberately .... brutally .... You had to admire him, for although I laid into him full force he didn't yell out - just grunted with each impact and writhed his body in its straps as he fought to come to terms with the pain. I beat him until his buns were bright red. I stroked my hand over them. The skin felt coarsened, lumpy and hot. Fiercely hot! Satisfied, I laid the "tenderizer" aside and slid out from under him the heaviest of my canes - the Big Bruiser. This too I cracked down on the bench with a report like a cannon. He flinched at the sound and whimpered. Actually whimpered! He who had borne the tawse without a cry, whimpered at the threat of the Big Bruiser. But then of course he had felt the bite of that once before . . .
"Slowly, as with the tawse, I delivered blow after blow, making his flesh jump and shudder under each impact. In fairness, he didn't whimper under the actual thud of the heavy cane. Not at first anyway. But as the relentless beating continued, he started making little gasps. These grew until he was yelping with distress at each blow. Satisfied, I laid the Big Bruiser aside in its turn. It had marked him well, but it would be over a week before that deep bruising would rise to the surface in a gaudy bloom of brown and purple and yellow - and a month before the bruising faded enough for him to risk sharing a communal bath with his team-mates after a game of rugger!
"But now it was time for the last and cruellest phase of the punishment to begin. With deliberate, even exaggerated slowness, I drew the final instrument from under his sweating body like drawing a sword from its scabbard. I wanted him to feel the length of it, my longest, slimmest cane, a vicious, whippy switch named The Slasher. As before, I swished it, singing, through the air to hit the bench with a sharp report. To thrash an untouched arse with this would be cruel. To thrash already bruised and beaten flesh was . . punitive! And that is what I set about doing. Inflicting pain. Lots of it! Not striking down into his buns as with The Bruiser but slashing across them to tiger-stripe them with vivid, raw weals on top of the previous welts.
"After a while I noticed that he was starting to make strange gurgling noises and his body was making convulsive jerks. I grew concerned, was he having some sort of seizure? A fit? A heart attack, even? The animal grunting and body spasms continued, grew stronger, then suddenly stopped. I realised he'd had an orgasm. Without anyone touching his cock he'd shot his load into his jock strap, under the stimulus of the beating alone! I'd beaten many men but never seen such a thing before. I was not best pleased as I do not like my slaves to get their rocks off before me.
"His body was drenched in sweat, which is something that always turns me on, so I covered him and mounted him. But he was totally inert, exhausted by pain and passion, so it was like fucking a piece of meat on a butchers slab. He didn't even beg me not to fuck him, as he had always done before. So I didn't even have the pleasure of feeling I was raping him which had made fucking him a particular pleasure in the past.
After I'd had a shower, I returned, removed the hood and unstrapped his feet. I pulled the dirty jock strap off him, deliberately dragging its wide elastic waist-band over his beaten flesh to make him whimper. When I'd released his arms too, he heaved himself up off the flogging bench painfully (he'd been splayed out on that for quite some time, after all) and knelt at my feet expecting me to remove his slave collar. But I threw his sports bag at him and told him to dress in the jeans and tee shirt he'd brought with him. He asked if he could have a shower first but I told him no. I was in no mood to extend him any favours. With glum obedience he dressed and made to throw the jock in his bag, but I told him to leave it as I could already foresee uses for that.
"He looked unhappily at his still mud caked arms, but knew better than to ask again if he could wash. He touched his face trying to judge how muddy that still might be and tried to rub the caked dirt off. So I scooped up the wet jock and tenderly wiped his face with that, amused by the piteous expression in his eyes. He knelt again and offered me his neck, expecting the dog's collar to be removed as usual. Thinking I had forgotten he went so far as to say "The collar Sir?" I gave him a hard stare and watched him crumple into shame at his presumption - and at the realisation that he was going to have to wear the collar on the bus home, in clear view above his tee shirt for all to see.
"He walked stiffly down the two flights of stairs from the punishment room and in the scullery he bent over to pick up the shorts and rugger shirt he had stripped off there and stuff them in his bag. As he did so, I noticed that damp bars were already beginning to soak through his jeans from the weeping weals across his backside.
"He phoned me that night to thank me for what he called my "corrective discipline", and told me that the mess on his arse had dried by the time he got home so that he could not peel his jeans off and had to sit soaking in a warm bath to soften the dried ooze from his wounds before he could do so. I told him he was to report to me again in ten days time so I could inspect his arse. Significantly, he immediately whined "You won't beat me again Sir, will you?" I assured him I would not, at least, not until he was ready for it, but that I just wanted to monitor how the bruising was developing and to photograph it. But it amused me that he who had complained that he could not get men to beat him hard enough, seemed to have had a belly-full this time!
"So, that is how I came by the jock strap and why it is the grubby grey colour it is. When you come to put it on, think of the tough, mud-soaked, young policeman who sweated his guts out in it on the sports field and then had an orgasm of pain in it. A man who, quite literally, had the fuck beaten out of him . . . and whose fuck is still there, soaked into that stockingette pouch which waits to clasp your cock in its embrace. But not yet. Before you even open the bag, I want you to know about the other two slaves who have worn it before you."
I lowered the pages and sat there stunned by what I had read. I was appalled. Shocked. Disturbed. But also sexually aroused. And most powerfully so, too! I longed to rip open the plastic bag and see its content . . . handle it . . . touch it . . . inspect it . . . smell it . . .see if I could still sniff the policeman's crotch-sweat, the policeman's fuck. No one would know if I opened it now instead of later, as ordered. Yes they would - I would. And would that matter? Yes, indeed it would! I wanted to give my master my obedience. Total obedience. And not just when he was looking. I longed to wank my dribbling cock, but that was forbidden too. In an agony of frustration, I did the only thing I was allowed to do, - I picked up the sheaf of papers again and turned to the next page. . .