STRIPPED
An unpleasant story of humiliation and self discovery
CHAPTER 1. THE HIDDEN FILES
Ian had a furniture restoration business specialising in antiques. He dealt with "one offs" from private customers but Smartens, the local auction house, was his best client, sending a regular flow of items needing work.
Ian was very proud of the quality of his firm's work and of the six full time specialists he employed, all of them craftsmen of outstanding ability, even young Will, the french polisher, who was only 24. Ian had been worried about how to replace Joe when he retired because young people don't have the patience needed for french polishing, but after only two years apprenticeship Will seemed to have learned all that Joe could teach him and his workmanship was superb.
One day Laurie, Smarten's man, brought in a secretaire. About 1860, commercial work, but of superior quality. The veneer was badly faded from sunlight. "Reckon it'll need to be stripped right down and re-polished" said Laurie. They discussed cost and delivery estimates. As he was leaving, Ian asked him to tell Will to come and have a word. Ian checked for secret compartments and found two, both of them empty of course as they always are these days. Secret compartments may fool a casual burglar but everyone in the trade knows what to look for - which is why you never find anything, but you can always hope.
He looked up and watched young Will striding down the length of the workshop with his easy, confident gait. Not for the first time he thought of himself at that age, still diffident and unsure. Mind you, if instead of being lanky at 24 he too had had Will's physique, perhaps Ian too would have walked with an easy swagger. Will was wearing a sleveless, faded blue denim shirt which showed off his sturdy brown arms. Well, who could blame him? If you had arms like that, wouldn't you show 'em off?
"Find anything Boss?" he enquired, seeing Ian inspecting the secret compartment. Ian smiled and told him 'no'. "Nice piece" the young man said, pulling out the top drawer and ispecting the dovetailing. "Good workmanship"
Ian found it heartwarming that such a young man should have such a good eye and appreciation of the cabinetmaker's skills. He slid out the middle drawer, laying it across the top one and bent to pull the bottom one when Will said "Hang on, Boss. There's something going on here" He had picked up the middle drawer and was scrutinising it carefully. "What do you think?" he said.
Immediately Ian saw there was something not quite right. You get a feeling for this sort of thing and he was surprised he had not spotted it at once. A clumsy repair job perhaps? He turned the drawer in his hands and then twigged. "False bottom" he said, "Well spotted, Will"
A narrow fillet of wood, little more than a quarter inch, went the whole length of the back of drawer's base. It slid sideways smooth as silk to reveal a narrow cavity under the bottom. They peered in. "Anything?" asked Will.
"Something" Ian said, tilting the drawer backwards and patting the side. Out slid three, slim manilla folders side by side. As Ian put the drawer down, Will opened one of them. "Jesus!" he said. Glued to both inside covers was a collection of Polaroid photos showing a man in a black leather hood in various stages of undress, ending up stark naked, bound . . .and very erect!
Ian's reaction was swift, unthinking and stupid. He snatched the folder from his employee's hands, closed it and scooped up the other two, blurting out "Not suitable for your eyes, boy" and shoved them in the drawer of his desk and ostentatiously locked it.
He was concious that his heart was pounding and his face burning. "I'll have to talk to Mr Smarten about this" he burbled, adding lamely "After all, it is their property." Only then did he look at Will who was obviously taken aback by this absurd over-reaction and was staring at Ian in a most odd way.
"You are still working on the Phillip's armoire?" Ian said, trying to be casual but with a voice which sounded strained and false. The big young man nodded slowly. "Best carry on with that then." Will nodded, turned and walked away as Ian sat at his desk and busied myself checking the Work Book with unseeing eyes.
Why? Why had he behaved in such a stupid way? Any normal man would have shared the folders with his colleague, laughing and pointing out things. "Oh my Gawd, have you seen this?" or "Talk about kinky! There's no accounting for taste!" and "That's nothing, get a load of this one!" So, why hadn't he? After all, he was a perfectly normal guy, married with twin boys, not some kinky pervert. Yet that fleeting glimpse of the contents of the folder had churned him up in a most odd way and he couldn't wait for the end of the day for a more leisurely look when all the others had gone.
Come 5 o'clock and he could hear the round of "Good night"s, some nodding to him as they passed his glass partitioned office at the far end of the long, narrow workshop. When he was quite sure they had all gone, he unlocked the drawer and slid out the three folders and laid them out side by side on his desk.
At first sight they seemed all much the same, showing a man being stripped in stages. In each case he started off fully clothed and ended up naked. And all three folders clearly showed the same man, for although his face was never revealed under the hood, the body with its smudge of body hair across the chest was evidently the same. Ian flicked back to the front of the folders and noticed a date on each: 26 May, 10 June and 15 July. No year, but they were also numbered 1, 2, and 3. Clearly the sequence was important so Ian arranged them in sequence and studied them more carefully, noting the differences - and that the Polaroids were numbered 1 to 12 in each file to ensure they were viewed in correct order. Obviously a bit of a control freak this photographer, for Ian automatically assumed it was the active partner who had compiled this record of perversion and dominance. Man or woman, he wondered. Could be either of course, yet Ian felt somehow that this was a homosexual act.
The May 26 file started with a pic of the victim standing, facing the camera and dressed in a smart, dark, business suit. White shirt, conservative tie, polished black Oxfords - and, bizarrely, a blindfold mask which covered the top half of the face like a Tudor executioner's mask. Sinister! Then Ian noticed he was not merely standing, he was standing to attention! No doubt about it: heels together, arms straight down the sides, head erect, this man was being paraded for inspection!
The second pic was much like the first at a quick glance, but on looking closer Ian noted the unbuttoned jacket, the tie knot loosened and askew, the collar button undone and, yes, the flies unzipped too. The smart businessman had been worked over and mussed up. he looked as if he had been ...HANDLED.
Pic number three was identical except for one major difference: the genitals had been scooped out and put on full display, balls and all. Why? Why would a man permit himself to be misused in this way - and allow himself to be photographed? For he must certainly have heard the snap and whirr of the camera; seen the flash even through the black mask. What power did the photographer wield that he could force this man to stand willingly at attention and permit such humiliating things to be done to him?
In the next shot the rigid drill position was slightly changed. Now the man stood with his legs a little astride, the hands were turned with the palms facing forward and the head tilted back in an unmistakeable posture of submissive surrender. Now the tie hung loose, the shirt was unbuttoned to below the sternum and the jacket was pushed back, agape, and almost off one shoulder.
With mounting fascination, Ian turned his attention to the picture labelled 5. Now the jacket was gone, and the tie. The shirt had been opened to the waist and the two sides pushed aside to bare the chest. A wooden clothes peg was clipped to one nipple and jutted out from the body aggressively. The belt had been unbuckled and hung loose and the other notable difference was that the cock was now fully erect, mimicing the aggressive jut of the peg. The inference had to be that tit-torture excited this man sexually. Clearly he LIKED being a victim, a notion which Ian found ... disturbing.
In the sixth picture the shirt had gone revealing th lean hard musculature of the torso. A man in his prime - mid thirties, forty? There were pegs on both nipples now and a dog's, spiked, leather collar buckled about the neck.
Pic number 7 showed the trousers dropped to around the ankles. No underpants! Ian glanced back at the smartly dressed businessman of pic number 1. Who would have guessed that he wore no underwear? Ian wondered whether he had been ORDERED to report naked beneath his clothes? The thought troubled him strangely and he was shocked to realise he had an erection. An erection from looking at photos of a naked MAN for God's sake! But he realised it wasn't the sturdy male body which excited him it was ... was what, exactly? Then he admitted it to himself, it was the submissiveness of this man that turned him on. A man who allowed an unseen persecutor to strip and humiliate him. To enslave him, no less. But a Master or a Mistress? There are plenty of men who get turned on by being humiliated by a dominant woman and for sure this guy looked manly enough. No milksop pansy. And yet... and yet... something made Ian feel sure that it was a man who stripped down this poor sod and photographed the process with such obsessive care.
The next shot showed the man now completely naked, standing with legs apart and his hands behind his head. The mouth, below the mask showed signs of considerable distress, for no apparent reason. The penis was hugely erect.
The picture numbered 9 was different. A close up. Not of the face but of the crotch. A leather strap encircled the base of the genitalia, another the base of the engorged penis itself and two others separated the testicles. Separated them? Yanked them brutally apart, more like. The previous picture showed the pain in the contorted mouth, this one showed the sexual arousal in the pain. And he had stood there passively and LET this be done to him. Ian was shocked and sickened by the blatant perversion - and aroused by it too.
The following picture was also a close-up shot only this time of the chest. The single nipple peg was now replaced by a pair. But not wooden clothes pegs but metal clamps whose iron jaws seemed to grip the sensitive flesh ferociously. Worse, from each clip hung a metal pendant and from the way the tits were dragged down by the weight there could be no doubting that the metal was lead! Ian winced involuntarily as he inspected this image of deliberate cruelty so lovingly recorded. "Bastard!" he hissed under his breath at the unseen torturer who had inflicted this obscene pain with such surgical precision.
The eleventh shot showed the poor sod, still with his hands clasped obediently behind his head but now he was on his knees, his sturdy thighs wide spread and his cock rampant above the strapped balls. The mouth was gaped wide and the head thrown back. Then Ian noticed something else - the shine on the skin. His body was wet. His chest, his belly, his thighs and yes, his chin too, all had been drenched. And that gaping mouth! Ian knew with absolute, sickening, certainty that here was a man who had been pissed on. And not just on, either, but IN as well. He had passively knelt there, mouth agape, while his master had pissed into his mouth! Oh God, the horror of it! Ian could imagine how he must have choked and glugged and spluttered, how the endless, remorseless stream of urine had filled his mouth until it overflowed and poured down his body, drenching the tortured nipples in their weighted clamps, soaking the leather-harnessed genitals, washing down the splayed thighs to form dark stains on the bare floorboards. And all this was not some sadistic excess visited on a helpless victim. This man was not bound or held helpless by a couple of bully boys. He had willingly submitted himself to being stripped down for inspection, to being crudely manhandled, tortured and humiliated. What sort of man would allow such things to be done to him, Ian wondered?
The final shot in this first file was quite different. It showed the victim from behind, bent over what looked like a workbench, baring his arse with the leather-strapped testicles clearly to be seen, hanging between the splayed thighs. Lying on the base of the spine was a used condom. The man had been buggered and the product of that sex act was blatantly flaunted and photographed for all to see. No doubt now of the sex of the torturer.
Ian visualised how that man, sated with sex, had pulled out of his victim's body, peeled the cum-bloated rubber from his cock and tossed it down onto the other man's bare back in a final gesture of contempt - and then photographed it so that he could ever after humiliate the other with the evidence of his shame.
Ian felt sickened and disgusted, but was aware too of being hot and of the wetness at his crotch as his engorged cock dribbled fuck-juice. As he closed the file a sudden sound made him look up in alarm at the wood rack overhead. Someone lying flat on his belly up there among the mouldings and dowells laid across the rafters could easily look straight down into his partitioned but roofless office. "Who's there?" he shouted, aware of the furious blush of shame that had flooded his face. In the silence that followed he was aware of the sweat droplet trickling down the side of his face. He sat, frozen for several minutes, his heart thumping, before deciding it must just have been the wood settling in the hot roof space. Nevertheless he had been so rattled by the thought of having been watched, he decided to leave the other two files unexamined for today and slid all three into the drawer and securely locked it before leaving and locking up behind him. He drove home to his wife and twin boys, firmly resolved to dismiss any further thoughts of those strangely disturbing images from his mind.
Up in the stuffy heat and semi darkness of the wood racks in the rafters, Will eased his aching limbs and smiled to himself . . .
TO BE CONTINUED IF ANYONE OUT THERE IS INTERESTED. MAIL ME AT
questorius@yahoo.co.uk