Chapter 31
THE MARK OF SHAME
As the second anniversary of my enslavement approached, I began to wonder whether he would mark this in some special way, as he had the first. Then, on one of my regular Monday night phone reports came the terse instruction to present myself to him on the relevant date. And this year I avoided the crassness of saying "that will be our anniversary!" but I could not avoid private speculation as to what he might have planned for me this time.
Come the day I was more than usually nervous as I drove North, remembering what he'd had done to me last year - to say nothing of that dreadful follow-up night when he paraded me in public in that sordid leather bar in Manchester. But equally, it was reassuring to know that I was in the hands of a man who planned such things with such care and attention to detail. Whatever nastiness he had planned for tonight, I felt secure that I was in good hands.
Propped on the draining board of the scullery was the usual note of instruction to read as I stripped. "Come to my office at the end of the passage" it said. This was unusual for I'd never actually seen the inside of his office having been hooded on my only previous visit for the terrifying "Court Martial" of my first visit.
I padded down the stone flagged passage on my bare feet to the door that actually bore the word "Office". The door was closed and I could hear voices from within! Oh God, what now? I knocked quietly and waited for the call to enter. The quiet buzz of voices continued and I strained to hear what was being said, but without success. Should I knock again? No, that might seem importunate. But suppose they had not heard my discreet tap? I stood there, shivering in the cold passage, in an agony of indecision. I wrapped my arms about myself and stood first on one foot, then the other, to get some ease from the cold stone. Then, the Brigadier's sharp command "Come!"
He was sitting behind a large desk strewn with ledgers and accounts and files. It was from here that he managed the farm. Sitting sideways on to the desk was another man. He turned to face me as I entered and I was shocked to see one side of his face entirely disfigured by Maori type tattoos. Oh God, I thought, the "Decorated Man" come to pierce my other nipple. Or some other part of my anatomy?
He got to his feet, took my tit-ring and rotated it through my nipple, commenting that it had healed up nicely and that now I was to be tattooed. Tatooed! Not pierced again! I was so relieved that stupidly I said "Thankyou Sir"
"No need to call me 'sir' " he said "but you know me, I'll not mark or pierce any man without his consent. How do you feel about being tattooed?"
I looked to my master uncertain how I should respond but his face was blank. "OK I guess." I said. "If that's what my Master wants ." and gave a shrug. The Decorator picked up a piece of A4 paper from the desk and showed it to me. "This is what he wants me to tattoo on your chest. "
I looked at it aghast. It was not a scorpion or skull or any pictorial device. It was words. They read
I am H's
F U C K S L A V E
For his use ONLY
The first and last lines were in dark blue but the main two words were thick, inch high letters in solid red, outlined in dark blue. Subtle it was not! I was shocked and thrilled and horrified and excited. I was in turmoil at the prospect of such a blatant and crude message being printed across my chest.
"Think carefully" said the tattooist, "once done there is no going back. It would take a skin graft to remove that. He wants me to do it this size, in these colours, exactly as he has drawn it, and high across the centre of your chest. Unbutton your collar on a hot day and you are at risk of displaying your shame. Go to the doctor and he says 'just slip your shirt off,' could you face that? You want to go swimming on holiday in Turkey where homosexuality is a punishable offence, what then? Ten years hence you meet someone and fall in love - how long can you go on undressing in the dark? You are a young man, TWENTY years hence you want a relationship - with that written on your body? You will be literally marked for life, and how long do you think the Brigadier is going to want you? Be advised my friend, don't do it!"
I heard his voice, I heard his words, but I was not listening after he said "exactly as he has drawn it". The thought of my master sitting down with coloured ink marker pens to design this proclamation of his ownership ; the wording: the size: the colours; the lettering style, all exactly as he wanted it, filled me with pride. Of course I would regret it. Of course I would be constantly shamed by it. But the shame and the regret were part of it. I WANTED the shame as I wanted the pride of being publicly branded as his property.
I answered the tattooist but my eyes were fixed on Hugh's face. "Do it." I said, and I swear that a ghost of a smile of approval touched my master's lips and my heart swelled with pride. He rose and came round the desk holding my slave collar. I dropped to my knees and proffered my neck to him. As he buckled the collar he said that had I refused I would never have worn his collar again. I took his hands and covered them in kisses of gratitude.
He gave a dismissive nod to the tattooist and told him to bring me back here when he had finished. So! he would not even bother to watch. I felt very hurt. The Decorator led me to the cellar where he had pierced my nipple a year ago. There was the table seemingly afloat under the four bright spot lights in the surrounding gloom of the cellar and beside it a small table with the needles and inks and swabs laid out with surgical precision. He motioned me to lie on the table and as he stripped to the waist he commented that there would be no need to tie me down this time. Again, I stared fascinated a his tattoo-covered body, so long and lean and hard, as he swabbed my chest with antiseptic and laid out on my belly the "crib sheet" of my Master's design.
I was surprised how painful it was. Much more than I expected, but I clenched my fists and my teeth and hung on, exploring his bizarre jumble of tattoos as he bent over me.
Finally it was done. Another swabbing of antiseptic and he straightened up, regarding his work with satisfaction. I asked if I could go across to the basement bathroom to look in the mirror and he gave a shrug of indifference as he started collecting his equipment. There was a large mirror over the wash basin and I looked with mixed pride and horror at my disfigured body. Even reading backwards in the mirror, those two huge, multicoloured words splashed across my sternum fairly screamed their message, branding me "F U C K S L A V E" for all to see. That plus my owner's initial and the fact that I was reserved for his use only. I mopped the slight ooze of blood on the big words with toilet paper and returned to the cellar, only to find it empty so I continued on to the Office. The door stood open and Hugh was handing over a fair wad of cash to the tattoo man who was now dressed again in his leathers. My master studied my marked body and nodded with apparent satisfaction. "Nicely done. Nicely placed." he said to the operative who took his leave without more ado.
Apparently ignoring me, Hugh set about spreading a thin polythene sheet over his chair and stripping naked. I noticed a surprising interloper among the papers and ledgers on his desk - a tub of Greek yoghurt. Sitting naked in his polythene-covered swivel chair, he took up the yoghurt pot and proceeded to slop the stuff over his chest - into his armpits - over his belly - a generous flob of it went down into his crotch where it was worked in well - more smeared over his thighs - and finally he wiped his hands on his biceps. That done he leaned back in his chair, legs splayed and said "OK fuck slave, feed."
With due humility I went round to his side of the desk, knelt between his legs and proceeded to feed off his body, patiently licking the body-warmed sourness from his smeared hairyness. Diligently I licked his chest, scoured his warm armpits and tounged his groin, slurping and sucking till his manhood swelled to its full magnificence under my lips.
Suddenly he got to his feet, urgently swept a clear space among the papers on his desk and put me across it. He invoiced me and filed me and taxed me and returned me and double-entried me(ouch!) until finally he invested in me. Heavily!
Still buried deep inside, he lay sprawled and sated over me, pulsing his cock obscenely inside my body. He put his heavy-breathing mouth close to my ear. "Fuck slave" he rasped, "That's what you are, boy. My fuckin' fuck-slave" and he gave a further brutal thrust to underline the point. He rotated his hips, stirring my cum-wet hole with his still hard rod like stirring a cauldron of porridge with a broom handle. "Mine to use, any time I want" he hissed. He rammed himself into me again with deliberate crudeness. "My tame fuck-hole"
And it was true. All of it was true. I was his fuck slave. And I was labelled as such for all to see. On my journey down to the very bottom of the pit of degradation, I had indeed finally arrived!