THE LABOURER by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 16
When the door next opened all three of the overseers were standing there, prods at the ready. They motioned for me to come out into the corridor, and I was tossed a pair of standard work shorts that I gratefully pulled on - whatever awaited me, I didn't want to face it naked! Then Sean commanded me to put my wrists together in front of me, and as I watched, he put thick, padded leather cuffs around my wrists and pulled the straps holding them tight before doing up the buckles. Only a short link of chain joined the cuffs, and Sean seemed to be particularly careful to ensure that they were tight enough so that there was no way that my big hands could slide out of them, but not so tight that there was any pinching of the skin. He seemed to be almost pitying me as he said "There you go, Steve. At least you won't get burn on the skin from the leather - you'll have enough to be bothering about, without that."
They led me along the corridor and through the barracks and out into the courtyard at the back, between the house and the barracks. All the other servants were lined up in two ranks, in the heads down, "supplicant" position I'd learned. I was marched over to the tall flag staff in the centre of the area, and then, with the proper ceremony, the flag was lowered and neatly folded. The hook holding the flag carrier to the cable was latched onto the chain on my cuffs, and Sean started to turn the handle that pulled it back up the pole. This caused me to move towards the pole and then, as the cable moved ever higher, to stand immediately next to it with my cuffed hands stretched out above my head. It's funny, isn't it, how you remember some things, and I suppose that having my face so close to the flag staff meant that I got a close-up view - but in my mind's eye I can still see all the little imperfections in the white paint that covered the metal staff as I stood there.
It's not easy standing with your arms stretched above your head, and I was glad when there was a slight murmur from my comrades, and I turned my head to see Rooney come out of the house, accompanied by the whipmaster - but gone was his neat uniform, as he was now wearing small, tight leather shorts that were cut high on his thigh, emphasising the power in his legs, and a kind of short, open leather "bolero" jacket that fully exposed his arms and his belly. I could see now the heavy muscles in his arms and all over his chest, which seemed to be emphasised by this bizarre costume.
Rooney and the whipmaster came over to me, and I heard Rooney say "Don't spare him - he's always been on the wild side, and as he's 'voluntary', I don't think he truly accepts his position. It will be a kindness, really, to teach him a lesson now that he'll never forget - after all, if I sell his contract on, some new contract owner might treat a servant who was in the slightest bit 'uppity' really harshly. If you flog it all out of him now, once and for all, it will be better for him in the long term."
"Yes, sir!", the whipmaster replied curtly, in a mature tone that reminded me for a moment of the way that my father used to speak to me when he was complaining that I wouldn't go to college or get a "proper" job. "These men are always changed by a proper flogging, and I'm sure you're right - not that he'll thank you for it, at least not in the short term! Now, let's make sure he's properly prepared...."
He went and turned the handle a little, so my arms were even more tightly stretched up into the air, then came and said, as if it was the most usual thing in the world, "Are you OK, son? It's best for you to be stretched now as all your tendons and fibres will loosen once the whip lands, and if you can move around too much you might injure yourself on the flagstaff. Now, your feet are nice and square on the ground...?" He bent as he said this, and I felt his hands run over my calves and probed gently at my bare feet. "Yes, that's fine...", he went on, kind of speaking to himself. "Now, let's put the kidney belt on you - it wouldn't do to cause them to be permanently damaged...."
I almost gasped as a thick belt of cold leather was wrapped around just above my waist, and he stood behind me, pushing his arms around me, to do up buckles at my front. I could feel his hot breath on my shoulders, and got a whiff of his male scent as he was pressed so close to me. The presence of this strong, masculine man was somehow arousing, and as he worked away, fiddling at the buckles and cinching the belt tight around me, I got occasional sensations of his hairy chest brushing against the skin of my back. "OK, son, that's you all secure. Now, we'll just take those shorts off you..."
Look, as I've said, I've never been ashamed of my body particularly, and by now I was used to being seen totally naked by all the other guys, by the overseers, and by Rooney. But it's quite different when you're standing there, totally helpless, and another guy pulls your shorts down over your butt and then tugs at your ankles to get you to lift your feet to free them - all the difference in the world between stripping in front of a lot of other guys who are doing the same thing, and being stripped by someone else, when you will be the only nude one. The whipmaster tossed the shorts casually aside, and I could see them lying there in the sand of the yard.
He ran his hands once more over my shoulders, then down my ribs and over my butt, stopping after he's passed over my thighs. "OK, son, you're ready.... A nice tension in your body. Now, prepare yourself - get your tongue well out of the way in your mouth, and keep your teeth clamped shut, at least initially: we don't want any accidents with you, as if you bite your tongue in shock, it can be bad. So, are you ready, son?"
If felt so stupid, having to say "Yes, sir" as I stood there naked against the flagstaff, feeling the cold of the metal against my dick and chest, and with the leather of the belt around my waist (which somehow seemed to emphasise the helplessness of my bare butt and dick), as everyone watched. But I knew I had to, and managed to do it properly.
I was aware that he had moved away from me, and then the world exploded for me. I just was totally unprepared for the effect of the heavy bullwhip, wielded by this big strong man. Look, when you're caned, it stings like hell, and then there's the dull glowing ache that spreads through you afterwards. When you're tawsed, the sensation is immediate, and afterwards your skin feels hot and sore. But the first thing that happens when the heavy whip hits you is that all the air is forced out of you, and you're knocked sideways by the sheer weight and power of the whip - or, rather, you would be knocked sideways if you were not strung up by your wrists! As it was, my arms were wrenched painfully as my body was forced aside, and my dick scraped painfully against the flagstaff as my body attempted to move.
I had heard the crack of the whip, but nothing prepares you for it. And even as I thought about the way the sheer energy of it was trying to knock me off my feet, the pain rolled into me, a terrible, agonising pain, a pain that I'd never known before, something all-consuming, totally overwhelming. I couldn't scream, though, as I had no air in my lungs. This wasn't like the cane or the tawse, which hurt but was bearable: this was utterly, totally devastating, and I stopped thinking rationally at all. I was some sort of wounded animal, and I could see now how a trapped fox could bite its own leg off to escape the pain of a gin trap - nothing before had ever been as bad as this, and I would have done anything - anything
- to escape it.
And then there was the sickening whistle and snap, and I reeled again.
Mercifully, I lost consciousness on the fourth blow. But when you're punishing a man with the bullwhip, that isn't allowed - he has to be conscious to fully remember the experience. So added to the terrible agonies I was feeling, there was now a new level of pain, a sharp, icy, stabbing from all over my back as a bucket of icy cold salt water was thrown over me.
The whipmaster was standing next to me, his face pressed almost into contact with mine. I knew that snot was pouring out of my nose and tears were streaming down my cheeks. "OK, son?", he asked rather unnecessarily. "The salt always revives a man. Try to think of it as being a fifth of the way through." He reached out and felt the pulse that was throbbing on my neck. "Yes, we can go on - your heart's racing, but you'll survive."
The fifth blow was across my butt, the sixth across my thighs, and after that I hardly knew where they landed, as my whole nervous system was simply on fire and I was hurting all over, everywhere. If I tried to think about it, I could localise specific shouts of pain coming from specific parts of my butt, thighs and back, but I wasn't certain that it wasn't my brain playing tricks on me. I lost consciousness again, and when the salt water once more shocked me back to this world, above the cacophony of agony that was all over me were horrible trickling sensations down my ribs, and my legs.
My head was slumped sideways, and I saw blood running down my ribs. I couldn't see, but I thought it must be the same down my legs. The whipmaster's face was now close to mine again, and I managed to stutter out "Blood...."
"You'll be OK, son", he told me. "That blood on your ribs is just from where the tip of the whip caught some of your underarm hair and tore it out... Nothing you won't recover from in a few days. Mister Rooney didn't want you to bleed from the whip lashes themselves as he doesn't want permanent scarring."
"But my legs..."
"Now, son, don't go fretting about things like that. I've done this a lot of times before, and most guys do that.... It's nothing to be ashamed of. Your body just hasn't been able to control your sphincter as you're being lashed, and that's just the remains of your crap trickling down you. You've pissed as well, but I don't suppose you know that."
Even in my misery I felt somehow even more humiliated, knowing that I'd shit myself with all the other guys watching., and if you can believe it, I felt even more miserable as now I was disgusted with myself as well.
Look, these memories are just too terrible for me, and I don't want to write about them any more. I'll just say that the terrible lashing seemed to go on and on for ever - my whole world closed down, so that the universe didn't exist for me except for the pain, the dreadful whistling of the whip, and the crescendo of fresh agony it caused. I certainly lost consciousness several times more, and each time was revived. And then, it all seemed to be over.
The whipmaster's face was next to mine again, and through a halo of light, I heard those blessed words "That's it, son! Now just hold still whilst we get you down - we don't want you falling in the dirt." I felt his body, warm against mine, as he put his arms under my pits and held me as the flag carrier was lowered, and he was right - I couldn't stand by myself, and slumped into him, only to have new waves of hot, angry pulsing sensation flash through me as my torn pits and battered skin reacted to the pressure of my weight.
I heard Rooney calling something, and then my arms were around two necks - I suppose I managed to think about it, as I was somehow aware that Craig was now supporting me on one side and Ted on the other. I just hung there between them, my head lolling, unable to move myself and totally out of control. Rooney spoke again, and then there was another indignity - one of the guys was kneeling in front of me, jerking me off! I suppose I'd got an erection as all this punishment was going on, and now Rooney was having me forcibly masturbated in front of my fellows. I really know nothing about it - that sweet sensation as you shoot, even in the most humiliating circumstances, was completely overwhelmed with everything else that was happening to my body. I didn't even know who it was that was doing it, as the effort of focussing my eyes and looking down was just too great.
Rooney was speaking again, and I dimly heard the whipmaster reply "Yes, I can do that of course, it's one of the punishments some owners use."
I was dimly aware of Craig and Ted tensing as we all three stood there, but I didn't know - or care - why. Someone was again kneeling in front of me, and through the blur of distorted sensations I was getting I saw the cropped grey hair of the whipmaster. It didn't seem possible, but above everything else, an icy, sharp, scintillating pain shot through me, and I moaned feebly. I guess I must have been screaming all the time the punishment had been going on as my throat was raw and I was kind of aware that my cries were hoarse and feeble.
And then I was being helped, dragged, carried - I don't really know which - away from the terror and towards the barracks. Once inside the building Craig and Ted seemed unsure about what to do, but I heard an overseer - it was Ryan, I think - say "Leave him in the showers. There's so much blood and stuff that he'll ruin the bed", and then I was gently lowered down.
The floor tiles were blissfully cool against the burning hotness of my skin, and I just lay there, totally unable to move, indeed not wanting to move, as I tried to shut off the sensations flooding trough me.
In one of those strange things that happen when you're in the state I was in, I was aware of odd things - the dripping of a shower head, the sensation of the joins in the tiles against my skin. But most of all I had to focus on not moving, on keeping perfectly still - if I did this the pain diminished somewhat, or, rather, I got used to the constant background agony. But the slightest movement, even the twitch of a finger, and it seemed to peak again.
My fellow servants clustered around and tried to help, but I managed to tell them to leave me alone - anything else was just too terrible to contemplate. When Mex bent down and tried to raise my head to give me a drink of water, I actually cried out again as my neck moved and it restarted the terrible sensations all trough me. Ultimately the overseers came in and ordered them all to bed, ready for work the following day, and I was left alone.
"Shall we get him a blanket or something?", I heard Ryan ask, and Sean just laughed. "You're new to this, aren't you? If you get him a blanket, it will just hurt him: he can't bear to have anything touch the skin. He'll get cold in here tonight, but that will help the body take more pain if it's cooler. Just leave him - if he needs to piss, or crap, he can just do it as he lies there and we can get the place cleaned up tomorrow."
And then they left, and I just lay there. There was something wrong, I knew, as when I pissed it was like fire surging along my dick, but there was nothing I could do about it as I wasn't about to move to find out what was going on. At least it was in working order, as I was dimly aware of the pool of cooling piss in which I was lying, so it couldn't be all that bad.
Did I sleep? I don't know. There's only so much the human brain can take before it drifts into unconsciousness. But is it sleep? Certainly I remember the other guys coming in and using the sshitters and the shower as they got ready for work, and all of them kept saying things like "Hang in there, Steve?", and "Can I get you anything...", to which I managed a feeble 'No."
It must have been some time around midday when I was aware of Joey kneeling by me. "Steve, Steve....", he was whispering, but fortunately had the good sense not to shake me awake! "Steve, let me get you a drink..."
I tried to mutter "No" again, but he was almost lying on the floor now, so that he was at the same level as my head. He pushed a straw towards me, and I was able to take a long, drink of cool water without having to move my head.
"Here, Steve.....", he said hesitantly, and he pushed something towards my lips. I was amazed - it was a strawberry! I'd not had any fruit at all since I came to Rooney's, and now here was Joey with a strawberry!
"How...?", I muttered.
"Eat it, Steve. But please don't tell anyone... I stole it from Mister Rooney's breakfast - he didn't eat it, and I sneaked it of the tray as it was going back to the kitchen. But please don't tell anyone, Steve - he'll whip me, as he'll say it's theft, and a servant who steals from his indenture owner gets whipped...."
"Joey, it's OK... Calm down.... You did this for me? You risked a whipping...?"
"Steve, yes. I like you, Steve, you're always kind to me.... Even when Mister Rooney made you fuck me, you were as gentle as you could be, not like some of the others.... I really like you, Steve, and I want to be like you when I'm a man..."
I felt tears stinging my eyes. "You are a man, Joey! More than the others. You risked a whipping to be nice to me.... Thank you...."
That's all I could say, and I drifted into sleep again, the taste of the luscious fruit zinging through me. And when I woke up, I don't know when, he was still there, and pushed the straw to me again so I could drink.
By the time the other guys got back from work I was able to move - feebly - and they helped me stagger to my feet. I'd been lying in a pool of my piss, and, to my shame, I realised a slime of diarrhoea had trickled out of me, too, and was staining the tiles. I knew I had to endure the showers, and I was dreading it - rightly so, as even though there was only a trickle of water, it might as well have been hot lead pouring down onto my damaged skin. And then, as I moved around, trying to ease my back and butt, it was as if a red hot iron had been pressed against me - I almost screamed with pain, and looked down to see all blood all over my dick.
It was Craig who said "Just hang in there and get the dried blood off it!"
"What the fuck...?"
"Hey, Steve, you're like the rest of us now - Mister Rooney had the whipmaster 'skin you at the end of the whipping. Don't you remember? He had a knife, and just did it there in front of all of us - it was terrible, as Mister Rooney required us all to stand easy as usual, and we all wanted to grip our own dicks as we saw him slicing your 'skin off."
Fuck me! That was so typical of Craig. I was in real, terrible pain from having my 'skin cut off, and all he could think of was that stereotype male thing of worrying about your own dick when you see another guy suffering with his.
"He can't do that..."
"He can, Steve, and he did. You're a ten-year guy, right? And an owner can require 'reasonable modifications' to your body, for health and safety.... That's why they can cut our hair, shave our pubes... Losing your 'skin, he'd argue, if it ever got to court, that it was unhygienic or unsafe for you to keep your 'skin, as you're doing so much fucking..."
I slumped, no longer caring, or even knowing, I suppose. Taking my 'skin broke through the last bastion of my resistance, and I sobbed like a baby as the guys tried to wash me, and then led me into the barracks and helped me lie there on my bed.
They say that whipping changes a man. It certainly changed me. Before that I'd been "Steve", the guy who was proud of his body, so proud of it that he wanted to use it, and use it hard. So proud that he'd agreed to be caned and tawsed to get the most out of him. And all the time I'd been an indentured servant I'd clung to that core of myself, that I was a man, that I had choice, that I was doing it because I wanted to. But now I knew differently. I now knew that I'd do anything, anything at all, to avoid the whip. I was no longer Steve, doing it because , deep down I wanted to. I was a miserable nothing, a nonentity who could be ordered to do anything, anything at all, and I'd rush and grovel to obey in case Mister Rooney ordered the whip again. I had no more free will, I had no more rebellious streak, I had no more desire than to do anything to please Mister Rooney. I had to obey him, no, I needed to obey him, as that was the only way that I could prevent myself from having to endure this torture again. And having had him order the removal of my 'skin simply reinforced the fact that he was my owner, he was in charge, he was in control: he'd taken part of me, an important part, and thrown it away. He hadn't asked me, he didn't care - I was his, and he'd done as he wanted to me. The whipping, and the 'skinning, turned me from a man into an abject, cringing, totally obedient servant, totally devoid of free will.
I was only allowed to stay in bed for a day, then was told I had to do light work around the place - sweeping the leaves, washing the trucks, that kind of stuff. Showers and shards of pain went through me almost continually as I forced my muscles to work, wanting, no, needing, only to obey Mister Rooney's orders as transmitted through the overseers. He mercifully allowed me to work totally naked, so that I didn't have to have the horror of the polo and shorts against my tortured skin, and I was pathetically grateful to him for his mercy in allowing the scars on my dick to dry in the open air and not to have them stick to the fabric of shorts.
After four days, though, I was back at work "properly", but on the site the Overseer made allowances for me. I was grateful for not having the hardest work, but it made me seem even less of a man than the other guys, who were caned and tawsed as usual for the slightest failure to work at their fullest. In a way, it was almost a relief when Sean first tawsed me again.
Sexually, even when the scabs on my dick healed and dropped off, I still was not right, though. Losing my 'skin, having this part of my manhood removed, played to my feelings of now being a total servant, and I just couldn't get it up. Once it was clear that I was working again and being punished like the others, the guys started to hint that they'd like me to fuck them.
But I couldn't - my dick just hung there, flaccid. I lay in bed at night trying to jerk off, but it was no use - even when I thought I was going to get wanking sores from the friction, no amount of teasing at it with my hands would make it go hard. I suffered the ultimate humiliation about a week later when I woke up in the morning to feel cum all over my thighs and in my pubic hair - I'd had a "wet dream", just like a kid who hasn't discovered that real men jerk themselves off. I'd sort of got used to having the other guys whispering to each other that I was no longer a proper man, that I couldn't fuck, but when they saw me, and my sheets, they all started laughing at me.
When the call came for me to go to Mister Rooney's room in the evening shortly afterwards, I no longer cared. I had got used to dreading those evenings, when Rob would be there to fuck me, but now I didn't care. If Mister Rooney wanted to fuck me, or to have Rob fuck me, that was fine. I belonged to him, he could command me to do whatever he wanted, and I would obey, obey totally and completely, to avoid the whip.
I stood in the showers, cleaning myself almost mechanically, and followed Ryan obediently down the corridor to stand in front of the fireplace waiting for them, as usual. But now as I bowed my head in supplication, it was genuine - I was no longer pretending, no longer knowing that I did it only because it was what a servant was "meant" to do. Now I had my head bowed as that was what Mister Rooney wanted me to do, and whatever he wanted, I would do.
As usual Mister Rooney and Master Rob came in and sat on the couch, laughing and joking, then Mister Rooney called me over and told me to strip. I pulled the polo over my head and dropped my shorts, then clasped my hands behind my neck so that my chest thrust forward emphasising my pecs, and I eased my hips forward so that my belly was taut and my dick was towards him. Mister Rooney held out his hand, palm up, and I knew that he wanted to feel my balls. I stepped forward, and eased my sac down onto his palm, and thrilled as the gentle warmth of my owner's hand stroked my balls. My head was bowed submissively, and I heard him say, quietly and gently, "Look at me, Steve."
My eyes met his as he continued to stroke my balls, and I was not afraid - previously when a man had my sac in his hand I was always on edge, always afraid that he's inadvertently hurt me. But now I didn't care - I was Mister Rooney's. If he wanted to hurt my balls, that was his right, his privilege. Deep down I knew he cared for me and that he would not deliberately hurt me, but if he did it accidentally, that would be no problem. Or if he did hurt me deliberately, it would be for my own good, just as he had had to order me to be whipped so that I could become a proper obedient servant.
As I looked at him, his hand moved to my dick, and now my bare dick head was lying there in his palm. I'd never felt more totally naked and exposed in my whole life - of course I'd been without clothes in front of him before, but now the last shreds of my modesty, that last tiny shred of covering, had been taken from me at his orders. He was looking at my dick head, completely exposed to him, and he had that right: I was a servant, he owned my contract, and I had no reason to wish to hide any part of myself from him.
"Very nice", he said to Rob. "That whipmaster did a good job. I was a bit worried after I'd told him to 'skin Steve out there in the open, but he's done it well. No scar, and it looks good when it's at rest like this. Now, let's make sure that he's not done it too tight - Steve's really impressive when he's hard, and it would be a tragedy if so much had been cut off that he was no longer capable of getting it right up.
That can happen, you know... So let's see."
He kept my dick in his hand, and then looked up at me.
"Get hard, Steve...."
And then, when nothing happened, he asked "Steve, what's the problem? You've never had difficulty in getting an erection before when I've wanted to inspect you."
I was about to tell him that I was now incapable of getting hard, of all the failures since I'd been whipped, and could feel the hot flush of shame starting to sweep up over my shoulders to flush my face. I hated it. Not only was I not a proper man, a man who could not get an erection, but I was displeasing Mister Rooney.
"Sir...", I started, but then, to my joy and delight, I felt my dick stirring. As I looked down, I saw it thickening and elongating in Mister Rooney's palm, just as it had used to. And then there it was, in all its glory, long and thick, lying there.
"See, Rob - an excellent job!", Mister Rooney said. "See the pale skin for the first couple of centimetres where it used to be the inner part of his 'skin. But it looks good, doesn't it - nicely smooth. And you'll see that I let him keep his little pleasure spot...."
As he said this, Mister Rooney ran this thumb over the little triangle of skin on the underside of my dick head, and I almost gasped with the thrill that ran through me. My dick went even harder, and a small bead of pre-cum popped out of my piss slit.
"I'd better be careful", Mister Rooney joked , "Steve here's ready for action! Are you going to fuck him first, Rob, or shall we see him perform with one of the other servants?"
"No, I'm ready for a fuck, Mike. I haven't had it for some time, as Karen's pregnant and she's read all the books that say that it's bad for the baby. Fucking stupid, if you ask me - I can't believe primitive cave men and such like stopped fucking just because there was a kid on the way, but there you are. Let's fuck him first, and then we'll watch him at work afterwards.". Rob looked at me, and said "OK, Steve, on the horse - nothing subtle this time, just on your belly, and spread our legs...."
I went over to the horse and lay on it, and Mister Rooney and Master Rob came over. "Strap him down, Mike, you're better at it than I am", Rob asked.
"No need, Rob. Steve's ready for you already. He's an obedient servant now, aren't you, Steve? He's happy to take a master's dick, aren't you, Steve?"
"Sir, yes, sir", I said. And, of course, inside I knew I meant it. If Mister Rooney wanted me to lie there and be fucked, then that was what I wanted, too.
End Of Part 16