Fom: hugh masters questorius@yahoo.co.uk
THE PREDATOR
Chapter 4. NAKED AND AVAILABLE
And so began the most bizarre period of my life. Every morning I'd run up to The Marbles and sit in a position where I could see down to the road, then as soon as I caught a glimpse of the white shark sliding silent up the hill I'd run to the secret space with my heart pounding and strip off. I wanted him to find me naked and available, ready for use. Then I'd hear the soft clunk of the car door and I'd drop to my knees on the rabbit-nibbled turf, waiting for the heart-stopping moment when he'd appear awesome and huge atop the fuck stone. (I used to think of it as the threshold stone, but not now!) I'm sure he'd pause for effect up there, aware of how impressive he looked, before stepping down into the fuck-pit and filling the confined space with his huge presence.
Godammit, that was over twenty years ago yet still the memory churns me up and I never even knew his name!
I could never predict when he would come. Sometimes two, even three days in succession. Then nothing for one day, two days, three days and once, (oh the agony of it!) four days without him. Every morning, sitting up there, waiting for him, watching for him, longing for him.
Nor could I predict what would happen when he did come. Sometimes he'd fuck me at one end, sometimes at the other, often at both. Only about every one time in three would he take me to one of those body-shattering orgasms. Other times he'd just finish and walk away, leaving me to toss myself off with the taste of him fresh in my mouth. But I was so besotted that I'd just be pathetically grateful when he did it, even though he always made me eat my own spunk, despite knowing how much I hated that - or because he knew, more like, and it was another way of showing his power to control me. And all this in a strange, surreal, silence. There was never any chat and usually not a single word was spoken. Nor did he ever strip off - he always fucked in full uniform, which made my nakedness all the more shaming. He'd just arrive, do whatever it was he wanted to do, and walk away. That silence, coupled with the bizarre location, made the whole experience dream like. Not at the time, for having that bloody great man-spike shoved up your arse was desperately real, but later on, back down in the "real" world. I felt like a modern day Prometheus whom the gods chained naked to a rock and every day a great black eagle would swoop out of the sun, perch upon his chest and rip out his entrails with its cruel beak. Like him I was feasted on by a huge black predator while splayed across a rock, sometimes even in chains. But unlike Prometheus I went back every day willingly and felt dismay if my nemesis did NOT come to stir up my bowels with his spike!
And he kept me guessing all the time, never sure what he'd do to me next. For example it was on his third visit that when he'd finished and was leaving, he paused atop the fuck stone, turned, and pulling out his cock, calmly pissed over me as I knelt below him. He slashed the hard jet of his piss across my body like a sabre. He targetted my pubic area then swept up over my belly and chest to my face and I knelt there passively, bathing in his warm urine. And not just passively either, for I gaped my mouth wide, inciting him to use me as his urinal. I glugged down as much as I could but could not keep up with the flow so it flooded my mouth and overflowed, pouring down my chin and over my body as I choked and spluttered.
When he had finished, he shook the drops off, put himself away and zipped up. But as he did so, he looked down on me with such disdain, such disgust, that I felt myself shrivel in the snarl of his contempt. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.
I had no means to dry myself so I slowly tossed off while waiting for his piss to dry on my skin. Then I ran back, clad in my fresh sweat and his dried urine. In the bathroom I peeled off my tee shirt and breathed the smell of him which excited me so much that I tossed off a second time, savouring in my mind's eye that look of contempt on his bearded face. I stepped into the shower and easily cleansed my skin but nothing could wash away the memory of that look of disgust on his face - nor did I want it to. I revelled in knowing that I was an object of loathing to him and I hugged his revulsion to me as something precious!
This pissing over me when he had finished fucking me was not a regular thing. Sometimes he'd so it, sometimes not, but on one occasion when I saw him preparing to piss and I knelt below him eager to receive his libation, he deliberately aimed all the jet at the pile of my shorts and tee lying beside me. No glance of contempt on that occasion, instead he gave an amused grunt of satisfaction as he strode off. No question of letting my things dry out, they were completely drenched, so I had no option but to drag them on and run home clothed in his bodily waste. And all I felt was GRATITUDE! Can you imagine such depravity? I was actually PROUD to be running on public roads soaked in his piss, HOPING to pass people and sad when I did not meet a soul.
After a couple of weeks when he had already used me perhaps eight or ten times, there came a run of three mornings in succession when he satisfied himself on me. There had been a couple of times of two successive days but three in a row was unprecedented. On the fourth morning I looked out to see that the long, hot, dry spell had broken and it was raining heavily. I would normally run in the rain - rather liked it in fact - but this was a heavy, drenching downpour. I could not believe that my buggering policeman would venture out in this, nor that I could hope for four mornings in a row anyway, so I went back to bed.
The next morning was grey but dry - and considerably cooler - so I ran up to the ridge, hoping, hoping, hoping he'd come. When I entered the fuck pit I was aghast to see scrawled in huge letters across one of the stones the words FUCK BOY. WHERE ARE YOU? He had been there after all despite the rain, while I was warm in my bed! I was aghast, feeling I had betrayed him, knowing I should have been there naked in the rain for him. Godammit, he'd probably got a hard on thinking of me up here with the rain streaming down my bare body and I had failed him! I hurried to my look-out post and sat waiting for the glimpse of the white shark. I sat and sat, getting chilled to the bone in the wind, but he didn't come. Miserable, cold and feeling an absolute failure, I ran home, resolving always to be there - and to wear my track suit in future.
Next morning I put on my track suit even though it was suddenly much warmer again so that I really worked up a sweat. Typical, unpredictable English weather! I got so hot that I peeled off my top as I ran, wondering would he be there? Praying he would be there to see me as I arrived, with the rivulets of sweat trickling down between my pecs. I knew I looked good and wanted him to see me like this. And when I got to the top, there was the car between the rocks! Was I late? Panicky, I checked my watch but no, he was early. It was as if there was a telepathic bond between us, for he had never been there before me previously.
I raced across to the fuck pit and paused atop the fuck stone at the entrance. He was there, leaning back against one of the giant boulders, smoking a cigarette. And as he looked up at me I knew that he lusted for me and my chest swelled with pride. It was so madly erotic to see a powerful man like him greedily eyeing me with blatant lust. I stepped down into the pit, stripped bare and dropped to my knees before him.
"Why the fuck weren't you here the other day, boy?"
"I'm sorry Sir, I thought with the rain..."
"You don't try to second guess me, boy. Your job is to be here, naked and available any time I want you. EVERY time I want you. Got it?"
"Yes sir, sorry sir, it won't happen again sir."
"Too right it won't. Im going to teach you a lesson you won't forget. Give me your wrists." and he unhooked the handcuffs from his belt.
Nervously I proffered my hands in front of me and the cuffs were deftly snapped around them. He lifted my hands and parked them behind my head where the metal bracelets dug uncomfortably into my head behind my ears. My body felt exposed and defenceless. To my horror he unbuckled his police belt and slid it out of the waist loops.
"You are not going to beat me sir?" I whined in alarm.
"I'm going to punish you, boy." he snarled, wrapping the belt once round his fist menacingly and raising it to strike.
"Please sir, don't...YEOWWW!" The leather cracked across my chest with a report like a gunshot. I was shocked by the pain of it. It was much worse than I had expected and I fought to deal with it. But already the belt was raised again for a vicious backhand swipe across my ribs. There was too much pain too quickly and I didn't know how to handle it. I wanted to bring my manacled wrists down from behind my head to guard my body, but did not dare. And another forehand and another backhand CRACK, CRACK, exploding noisily against my nakedness and I yowled in pain like a beaten dog.
Then a voice from behind, "What's going on here?" I looked round in alarm to see two young hikers, all boots and backpacks and sturdy brown legs, up on the fuck stone. (Those were the days of very short shorts which bared the thighs... ) The policeman paused, his arm raised to strike. I thought he'd be as shamed and flustered as I was but he glared at the young men aggressively and snarled "He's being punished. Why? Want to help?" and he held out the belt, offering it to them. Shocked, and realising they had blundered into something they were not sure about, they backed away apologetically. Two more strikes of the leather cracked across my chest completing the "Six of the best" as they retreated. The hikers must have heard the beating continue and I often wondered what they made of it. Was it the basis for furtive fantasies of missed opportunities for years to come, or did they go away shocked ... or sniggering? Cetainly I fantasised about what might have been - two lusty young hikers taking it in turns to punish me and then mount me under the supervision of my master, or, if he would not permit that, then me spreadeagled on my back across the fuck rock while they stood either side of my head and tossed themselves off into my face at point blank range. Hmm, I liked that idea a lot! And what were they doing up there so early anyway? Had they spent the night camped among those wierd rocks? If so, it cannot have come as any surprise to them to discover a wierd ritual being enacted in such a place! Perhaps those towering, unnatural forms had prompted monstrous and unnatural acts between them as they lay side by side in a tiny pup tent in the night. Who can say?
Anyway, I was put on my back on the fuck rock when the thrashing was done, only not spreadeagled. He hooked my legs over his shoulders and jacknifed me double. It was the first time he had entered me that way and I learned the hard way that this permitted maximum penetration. The fucking he gave me was no act of love. It was punishment "continued by other means" and my spine and shoulder blades were bruised on the hard rock too. But when he was finished and got off me, he let my legs drop and pinned me to the rock with one hand planted firmly on my chest while the other was used to deliver one of those exquisitely agonising masturbations. Time and again he brought me to the brink and had me begging and pleading with him to let me cum and when at last he did, he directed my ejaculation up onto my whipped chest and smeared it round with the flat of his hand. Then he brought his hand to my face so that I could lick his palm clean. And I did so with eagerness, despite the sticky semen, pathetically grateful to him for the orgasm he had granted me. Grateful! Can you believe how dumb I was? It was years before it dawned on me that he wasn't giving me anything - he was TRAINING me like one of Pavlov's dogs. Training me to associate orgasmic pleasure with pain so that he could do what he liked with me. The manipulative bastard! I adored him no matter how badly he treated me - and boy! did he treat me bad!
From early on he had brought up a dog's collar and buckled it about my neck. Not a new one. It was old and scuffed and smelled of dog. Perhaps he had owned a big Alsatian for many years and it had died so now he had a new "pet" to collar and train. The next time he came I knelt and held the collar out to him for him to put on again. "Why did you take it off?" he demanded. I explained that I lived with my parents and could not be seen wearing it at home. "Yes you can" he said, buckling it round my neck. "There. That STAYS on!" And so of course it did. "Why do you wear that dirty thing round your neck all the time?" my mother wanted to know. I told her it was the fashion and lots of kids wore them. She shook her head in dispair and said no more.
I wore it to work too. I'd got a temporary job driving a delivery truck for a local printer and stationer. Sometimes that could be pretty physical when there were thousands of leaflets to be delivered or heaps of stationery cartons to be carried up to a third floor office. In that hot Summer I liked to strip to the waist when I could and go about my work half naked save for the slave collar about my neck. I liked to wear it at the pub at night too. One or two of the lads teased me about it but I didn't care. I was proud to flaunt the symbol of my enslavement. I even wore it during sessions at the gym where I went twice a week to work up a sweat, and one of the staff there started showing interest in me. He'd make vaguely suggestive comments about it, like "Is there a lead to attach to that collar?" or "Do you wear it by choice or are you made to wear it?" I'm sure it would not have taken much to have developed a scene with him - he was an attractive, typical gym-jock, all pecs and biceps - but I was totally besotted by the big, black-uniformed brute who swooped out of the dawn to victimise me on the fuck rock.
Then there was the business with the bulldog clips. I mean, I was a man who until I fell into the hands of this policeman, had been virtually unaware I HAD nipples. Well, I knew they were there of course but it had never crossed my mind that they had a role in sex. Women had tits but that was different. They had breasts. And I used to enjoy "tittivating" Susan's titties and making her murmer with pleasure, but that was a one way traffic. She never reciprocated and I never expected her to, after all, men weren't built that way, were they? You must remember I was very young and with very limited experience. So when my masterful lover started manhandling me for his pleasure, including working my tits with his fingers and with his mouth, I found it a bit suprising - sometimes quite pleasant, sometimes a bit painful. But then one day he turned up with these monstrous bulldog clips in his pocket. The big, three inch long ones you use on a clip board and in one leap I was thrust from inexperience to the far shores of tit torture in one leap. Oh God, I'll never forget the pain of that. I just couldn't believe he'd do that to me and wailed "Why Sir? Why?" His answer was chilling. "I like to watch you suffer" he said. The torturing, pig-ignorant bastard! Police brutality? Tell me about it!
In mid September came an early frost - a brilliant, blue morning, white with hoar frost. Clearly some development in the pattern of my servitude would be needed for I could not be expected to wait for him naked in such conditions. But on that first frost morning, when I saw his car approaching, I did strip as usual, not daring to initiate a new regime without his approval. By the time he mounted the fuck stone my teeth were chattering and my feet were frozen even though I stood on my track suit to try and protect myself from the frosted earth a bit. He was wearing a greatcoat - and leather gloves - and went into his usual opening routine of standing close behind me, pulling me back against him and groping me as if it was a morning like any other. I remember looking down and watching these black-gloved hands manhandling my shivering nakedness, crawling over me like bats and hanging from my sore nipples. It was strangely repulsive and dreamlike. And erotic!
There were three days of frost but he only came that first day so I didn't have to strip again - though it was bloody cold even so, just sittng there in my track suit waiting and waiting until I was sure he would not be coming. Then the weather turned mild again but wet. This was the first heavy rain we had had since the time when I didn't go - and got taught the error of that decision! By the time I saw his car coming up the hill I was drenched to the skin, but went into the fuck pit and peeled off my sodden clothes. I knelt there until he mounted the rock when I spread my arms and arched my back, letting the cold rain pour onto my face and stream down my body, offering my wet nakedness to him. He just stood there. I bowed my head in abject humility - and still he did not enter the pit. Eventually I looked up again and found him gone! I couldn't believe it and peered out over the fuck rock. No-one! Then I heard the car leaving. He had got what he wanted and left. He'd got his kicks from the mere knowledge that I had learned my lesson from last time and that no matter how hard it rained I would be there, naked and available. I felt cheap and soiled and humiliated.
But things were changing. Sunrise was later each day and the cold of the approaching winter could be felt in the Autumn winds. The start of the Christmas term at university approached too. Things could not stay the same but what was I to do?
Then something completely unlooked for happened.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In exploring this relationship I have concentrated on the psychology of dependance and dominance, trying to avoid the endless repetition of cock suckings and fuckings which are the staple of most stories in this Authoritarian section. But what do YOU think? Does this make it more real, more sexually arousing for you? Do you want more detail of the fuckings or do you agree that "less is more"?
Drop me a line and tell me. Questorius@yahoo.co.uk Oh and don't bother trying to guess what's going to happen in Chapter 5 . . . Hugh Masters