He could feel the sweat running down the middle of his back, down into the crack of his arse and at the same time the roughness of the wall on his forehead. He was hot even though it was a cold and wet Autumn night in London. There was a distinct smell of hot, sweaty rubber whenever he moved his shoulders to ease the pain developing in them.
Despite the pain he did not move his legs or his arms crossed at the small of his back. He didn't move them, even though there were no restraints holding them in place. No handcuffs. No ropes. He had been told to stand there facing the park wall in this position. In full view of any passer by on this busy Saturday night. He could hear some shouting and giggling behind him as some fluffy queens left the gay pub to his right. He could hear them sniggering and talking about him. Probably pointing as well. He didn't care. He had been told to do this.
Just as he had been told to wear the rubber T-shirt and rubber chaps, under his Fred Perry and combats. To wear his 30 hole rangers and to wet shave his head using his own piss instead of water. To turn up at 9pm in a vanilla bar in Greenwich. To wait there standing out a mile in his skinhead gear amongst the fluffy queens in their cropped tops and glitter.
His dick tries to grow in his combats as he re-lives the embarrassment and the humiliation of it all. But this just causes him pain as it pulls on the cock and ball device fitted around his balls and dick, making the pins dig deeper into his stretched balls.
It had been a test for him he was sure, when his new Master had handed the device to him inside the pub in full view of everybody and told him to go to the toilet to put it on. He had turned red at this point and just bowed his head, taking the device from his Master's hand and moving clumsily to the toilets. His dick was hard by the time he fished it out of his combats to put on the device.
After what seemed like ten minutes and a lot of struggling he pressed the final stud home. He had chosen the smallest setting for each of the ball stretcher, ball separator and cockring. He wanted to show his Master that he was worthy, that he wanted to serve. The skin on his sack was stretched painfully over his balls, the veins showing clearly. There was also a dull growing pain between the bottom of his sack and his arse. But it was worth it.
He was brought back to the present by the agony of his anal sphincter clenching involuntarily against the large butt plug in his arse. He had never taken such a large one before, especially without using a lot of lube and teasing his arse open with his fingers. His Master had not given him these luxuries. He had simply been handed the plug in the pub and given five minutes to go to the toilet again and be back with the plug firmly embedded in his arse. If he failed then his Master would simply walk away.
No lube. Nothing. Just his own spit. He had licked at the butt plug as if it was his Master's dick, smothering it in spit. Fucking his mouth with it. Its taste was a mixture of muskiness and rubber. He thought of the other slaves who had probably had this plug up their arses but quickly dismissed the idea. There was not much time. He tried to relax and concentrate on opening his arse. He was doing OK until the bang at the cubicle door and a shout of "Get a fucking move on in there" from the other side. He had no choice but to push hard. His sphincter muscles screamed, he saw just colours before his eyes and tears ran down his face. Finally the thickest bit of the plug was past his sphincter and it shot home. He was breathing heavily as he pulled up his combats and went back to the bar.
His Master just smiled and said that he would be wearing the butt plug all weekend, except when his Master wanted to use his arse for other purposes.
More sweat was running down his back now and also down his leg inside the chaps to his boots. What next? He did not know nor care. He was obeying his Master and waiting for him. That was enough.
Next was a kick to his arse, which hurt like fuck. He lost his balance and fell forward onto his knees on the pavement, scraping his forehead on the wall. "Follow me, cunt." His Master strode off down the street.
He picked himself up and followed him, as fast as he could with the huge butt plug up his arse. He could see his Master's six foot-one-frame about 15 yards in front. His Master's shaven head glistening in the street light on top of his bull neck and the wide shoulders under his green bomber jacket. He could also hear his Master's 30 hole Ox blood doc marten's thumping the pavement as he walked up the hill towards the heath.
When he got to the top of the hill his Master was waiting for him. He was pushed against the wall. Without warning his Master slapped him across his face. Then again and again. The same side each time. His mind was spinning; he could not think straight as the blows just kept on coming. Again and again, always the same side, always the same ferocity. Relentless.
Then they stopped. It took him a while to notice. He had been feeding on the pain enjoying it. It was making him drunk.
His Master grabbed him by his throat, pushing his head backwards. He was forced to stare at his Master's ice cold eyes. They looked black under the street light. He lowered his eyes in submission. He tried lowering his head but couldn't. His Master tightened his grip on his throat making it harder for him to breathe. He had to struggle now for every breath. Then the slapping started again. Relentless. Again on the same side. That side of his face was burning, on fire. Things started to blur. He could just see bright colours in front of his eyes. Nothing else. No heath, no wall. Nothing. He was sinking into the pain. Absorbing it. Lapping it up like the hungry dog that he was.
Suddenly his Master let go of his throat and stopped the slapping. He coughed and sputtered, spitting the phlegm that had gathered in his mouth onto the pavement. He was breathing heavily now, trying to get as much air into his lungs as possible. "Still want to be my pig whore, cunt?"
"Yes Sir, please Sir. Please let me Sir!" He pleaded between panting, his voice hoarse.
Then there was silence. Nothing. Just his breathing. He could hear cars on the road about 50 yards away but nothing else. The longer the silence continued, the more worried he became. He so wanted to serve this man--to be degraded by him. To be his, to be used as he wanted. To have no choice. To be an object. He started to panic. His Master might not want him.
"Please sir."