Chapter 33
CONVERSION CONVERSATION
Today was Monday, the day I had to phone in to report every week. But just one day after "Nightmare Sunday", as I came to think of the horror in the breaker's yard, was too soon. What was I to say? That I had decided to be his slave no longer? That I needed time to think? Should I play it by ear and see what he said first? Or just not phone at all? I was in a dither of uncertainty, unable to make any decision. But for four and a half years, priding myself on my reliability and punctuality, I had lifted the receiver at precisely 20.18 and tonight was no different - except that my hand was shaking.
"Sweat-pig reporting Sir." Dammit, why had I called myself by my slave name? If I was not his slave anymore I shouldn't have done that.
"How are you boy?" I was stunned. Never had he asked such a question. I stopped myself giving the automatic "Fine!" response and said "Not good." And added quickly "My body is a mess after yesterday and so is my mind"
"Tell me." Unable to believe his interest in my well-being I waxed bold, even aggressive.
"You took me to a breaker's yard to have me broken. I was. I still am. Broken."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know what it fucking means. But I don't think I can go on. To think you would do that just for money!"
"For money?" He sounded puzzled.
"Forty five quid" I spat.
"Don't be stupid, boy. Do you think I give a damn about such a sum?"
"Well, you haggled over it hard enough"
"Listen," he said with forced patience, "Noah Lock is a gypsy. He's a horse trader. If he doesn't get a bargain he's not happy. If I took you along and offered you for free he'd be immediately suspicious. He'd be on his guard, wondering what I was up to. And by hiring you out for a fixed price I could impose my own terms as part of the deal."
"Like no fucking" I sneered.
"Yes. Like no fucking. Do you think I'd want that dirty old bugger's spunk up MY slave's arsehole? That I'd go poking around afterwards in another man's left-off?"
"But letting him shoot his spunk in my armpit was OK?" I snapped back with a shudder of disgust at the memory.
"No it was not alright" (He was getting angry. Be careful!) "But he had paid for you. He had his rights. And anyway it provided some good shots"
"Good shots!" I snorted, outraged. " Is that all I am to you - a subject for dirty pictures to show your friends?"
"Why not? Noah thought he had a good deal getting you for £45. He doesn't realise that is small change and I can get ten times that for the photos."
"Who'd pay £500 for a few dirty pictures?"
"Helmut Ritter of 'Ledermann' magazine would. And Bjoern Lingstrad of 'Svenske Ekstra' would. And Hank Burlsteiner of 'LA/SM' would." (This was before the days of the Internet, when porn was big money instead of free.)
I felt physically sick. "You mean you put me through that hell yesterday just to get some porno pictures?"
"Yes. Why not?"
I was deeply shocked. "Is that all I am to you? Just a porno model?"
"No, of course not," (my spirits soared) "you are a good fuck too and I enjoy training you. But you've got a nice young body that picture editors like and yesterday made a marvellous 'Beauty and the Beast' picture story."
A sudden, chilling thought struck me. "You've sold pics of me before?"
"Yes, of course. Often. Dammit, I own you, I'll do what I like with you. Or with pictures of you." he snapped.
I was blazing. "Not any more. I've finished. I just can't take any more." I was near to tears and prayed he could not hear that in my voice.
There was a pause. The pause stretched into a silence. When he spoke his tone was quiet and conciliatory. "I don't blame you. That bastard gave you a hard time yesterday, but you took it all like a trouper. I was proud of you."
Yes, I KNOW it is stupid, I KNOW it is pathetic but my heart swelled with pride. I had served him well and he was proud of me. Proud! "Thank you Sir" I grovelled. Then another thought struck me and I spat "Then why the hell did you beat the shit out of me when you got me back to the farm?"
"Beat the shit out of you? What do you mean?"
"Oh come on, my lip is still swollen where you split it with the back of your hand. And that fuck, that was violent and brutal and ugly. You meant it to hurt. And it did. And I'd been hurt enough by that sadist gypsy. If only you had said you were proud of me then! If only you had shown a bit of...of gentleness."
"I don't do gentleness with fuck slaves" he snapped. "What do you want, a master who's considerate? Who loves you and protects you? You've come to the wrong man, boy! I remember you writing that you wanted a selfish, greedy, demanding bastard. Well that's what you've got. And I treated you harshly when I got you back to remind you of that. If you didn't like it, hard luck, I did! OK?"
"Yes Sir" I murmured in craven submission. Well, OK, sneer if you like that my rebellion collapsed so easily, so quickly. But remember I had been trained to submit to dominant men all my life - and to this particularly dominant one for over four years. It ain't easy to break such ingrained habits.
"You are naked?" (Oh, typical. Bloody typical. He knew he had me by the balls and was going straight in for the kill. What chance did I have against such a man?)
"Of course Sir" He had trained me always to strip before speaking to him - or even writing to him!
"And where are you?"
"In my bedroom Sir"
"Stand facing a mirror"
"I am Sir. A full length one"
"Tell me what you see"
"Er - me, Sir. My reflection." I said, unsure what he wanted.
"Describe the figure you see in the mirror"
"A chap my age. my height.my build." I ventured.
"What else, boy? What distinguishing features?"
Ah! That was it! Now I understood. "A big tattoo spread across his chest and a big nipple ring through one tit Sir. The left tit - the slave tit"
"Read what the tattoo says"
" 'I am H's FUCK SLAVE. For his use ONLY' "
"Exactly. You have BEEN my slave. You ARE my slave. You will ALWAYS BE my slave. That is the central, inescapable fact of your life and it is indelibly inked into your skin, Sweatpig. So, what are you,boy?
Checkmate! There was only one possible answer, "I am your Sweatpig fuck slave, Sir"
"Exactly! And I'll fuck you any way that suits me, without having to account to you for it. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes Sir"
"Good. Now, I sent you a three-pack of black condoms a while back and only used one. You still have the others?"
"Yes Sir"
"Right, now this is what you are going to do. When I ring off you will toss yourself off into one of those rubbers, knot it, and get it in the post to me tonight. I want your semen delivered into my hands with the first post tomorrow morning."
"But Sir" I protested, "it is too late. The last collection will have gone!"
"Not if you get moving and get to a main Sorting Office. They take much later final collections."
"But I don't know where the Sorting Office is" I wailed, stupidly.
"Find it!"
"Yessir"
"And boy?"
"Yessir?"
"If you miss the last collection, then get a motorcycle messenger up here. Or drive up overnight yourself. I don't care how, but you WILL get that load of spunk to me tomorrow morning first thing. No excuses will be accepted. Understood?"
"Yessir!" My pathetic bid for freedom had been crushed with brutal efficiency. And the line went dead.
Miserably, I performed the ritual required of me, dropped the repellent, used thing in a small padded bag, looked up the Sorting Office address and raced there in my car. The last delivery times were clearly displayed and he was right, they were much later here, but I had still missed it by an hour. Damn! What now? Motorbike courier? Overnight would be dammed expensive but could I rely on it, even if they would be prepared to give 'cast iron assurances' of delivery by 8am? Slowly I came to the reluctant conclusion that I'd have to make the journey myself. A five hundred mile round journey, just to deliver a tiny package. Ridiculous of course, but what a wonderful way to demonstrate my recommittment to his service, my obedience to his will.
If I left now I could be back by 3am, 4am at the latest. Time for a couple of hours sleep before going into the office. I really could not afford to have more time off, having claimed Monday off for "ill health". But that would mean dropping the package through his letter box in the early hours and he would never know it was I who had brought it to him. I wanted him to know, wanted him to see the absurd lengths I would go to, to obey him, wanted to deliver the package directly into his hands myself. That would mean waiting for the postman, waiting a while longer to give Hugh time to discover that my package had not arrived, then knocking at the door ... he would answer in his dressing gown ... I would lay my semen in his hands with silent humility... he would lead me indoors... would accept my servitude... would reaffirm his ownership ...
That would mean I'd have to extend my "sick leave" through tomorrow morning at least. Well, sod it, why not? I went home to bed and set the alarm for 4.30 next morning. That would give me time to bathe, to cleanse my body for him, grab a bite and drive to Derbyshire for 8 am. At least the roads would be traffic free at that hour.
I arrived a few minutes before 8am, parked where I could see the entrance to Manor Farm's driveway and waited. The little red post van did not turn up until 08.20. I made myself wait until half past then drove up the drive, for the first time stopping at the main entrance instead of continuing on round to the back. I went up the stone steps to the porticoed front door, thinking of that grim, wedge-shaped space under the steps and of the cold, miserable hours I had spent in that dark hole. That gave me pause, but too late to turn back now. I rang the bell and after a short wait I heard the bolt drawn inside. Sudden panic - what if it was the Corporal who answered, what would I do then? But it was Hugh himself who opened the door, not in his dressing gown as I had envisaged but fully dressed.
With a silly, self-conscious grin I offered him the little padded envelope. He showed no surprise to find me on his doorstep. His face remained blank as he took the package without a word and closed the door! I just stood there, stupid and dumbfounded. If I waited a bit, surely he'd open the door again? He didn't. Should I knock again? Definitely not! There was nothing I could do except leave and drive all the way back to London.
The Humiliator? He had PRIZES for making you cringe with shame!
I was resentful at being so casually ignored of course. But as I drove south I was conscious of something stronger than resentment. I had made my first bid for freedom and seen it crushed with easy offhandedness, but I felt that in making the pilgrimage to the Farm I had demonstrated my re-committment to my master's service and felt it good that he had seen that, for I wanted him to know that I was his again. His to do with as he liked - and yes, even if that meant being sent away empty handed.