Date: Thu, 25 Feb 2016 13:19:24 +0000 (UTC)
From: Walter King <edmundb45@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: A Broken Man Chapter 2

A BROKEN MAN - CHAPTER TWO


I was being called in for another shoot. Apparently thosefilms where I had
been brutalized had done well. There was obviously market forfilms where
older guys are abused by young ones. They wanted to make a series.This
time, I was to dress in a suit and look every inch the distinguished
gent.I'm 6ft 3in with slightly greying hair and (though I say it myself) a
prettygood physique. My abs are tight. At my age, and with my height, abs
are thekey. I work on them every time I go to the gym. Anyway, I'm to be an
old gentwho's mugged in a warehouse by these two young guys. I don't know
what a guylike my character is doing in a warehouse in the first place, but
the storyline is not my worry.

I was teamed with one of the young guys at the last shoot ofthis sort. He
was a tough young bloke who obviously enjoyed knocking me aboutthen. I
expected similar treatment this time. His new partner was a younger guywho
looked Latin American – small, trim body and more gentle
looking. Still,you can't tell. Young guys who volunteer for this sort of
film must enjoybeating people up.


I had dressed in my suit, polished my shoes and took abriefcase. I think I
looked the part as I arrived at the warehouse. I don'tknow how they find
these places, but they seemed confident that we wouldn't bedisturbed. They
took a long shot of me walking across the warehouse floor. Thetwo guys then
emerged, one of them with a knife. My briefcase was taken and Iwas forced
to my knees. Acting scared is no problem. I am scared. You neverquite know
what these guys are going to do to you. We only have a basic scriptand it
wouldn't take much for the whole thing to go haywire. They tipped outthe
papers from my briefcase, pocketed my wallet and then the older guy
orderedme to kneel and started slapping me round the face. He was obviously
enjoyinghimself. Every time I recovered myself, he gave me a few more slaps
and thentold me to open my mouth. He gathered together a whole lump of
saliva and letit drop. I swallowed it fast and opened my mouth again for
the other guy to dothe same.

`Thank you, Sirs,' I said

`You like gob, loser? You want more? How about some snot?'

That was his cue to spew some snot out of his nose into myopen mouth. He
obviously found that hugely funny, and got his mate to give mesome too.

`Thank you, Sirs,' I said again.

`You know what you are, loser.' He shouted into my face.`You're a perverted
old fucker. You come down to places like this hoping thatsome young lad
will let you suck his cock for a few pounds. You don't mind whatyou do as
long as you can drool over young flesh. You disgust me. Get thoseclothes
off.'

I knew this would be coming sooner or later, and I hurriedto strip. When I
was naked, I knelt down again on the concrete floor.  I wasn't quite sure
what would happen next,but I was pretty sure that the older guy had a plan
for me. All it said in thescript was that I got mugged.

`You're a disgusting sight. You know that, old man? Yourskin sags. You're
wrinkled. You're clapped out. You don't deserve to be aliveany more. Why
don't you die?'

That young guy was good at making up a script as he wentalong. Not for him
a silent film, with the occasional word of abuse. It waseasier for me. I
simply reacted to him, and for me this was real. If theyweren't likely to
strangle me, they might come close and I didn't think thatthe director was
likely to intervene until the last moment.

`I'm sorry, Sir. I'm disgusting. I'm a worthless piece ofshit.'

`Put your forehead on the ground and stick your disgustingbutt in the air.'

I did so. From the corner of my eye, I could see him takingthe belt off my
trousers, and then began a whole load of blows to my butt. Iwas expected
twelve – maybe twenty – but I lost count. He stared on my butt,went
on to my shoulders and then back to my butt.

`Stay there, shithole. I'm tired. You take over', he said tohis partner.

And it began again, with renewed force. I toppled over. Icouldn't take any
more. But this only got the older guy kicking me.

`Get back up, you filthy faggot. Kneel.  Show that pathetic butt.'

`Please, Sir. No more. I can't take any more.'

`You'll take as much as we want to give you, worm. Kneel,stick your butt in
the air so my mate can get at it, and lick my boots clean.'


So I started licking. The guy made it harder for me bymoving backwards all
the time, so I had to crawl after him, all the whilegetting my tortured
butt beaten by his mate.

`You thirsty, dickhead?' shouted his mate.

`Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' I knew what was coming – orthought I did.

`Kneel up and open your mouth. If you lose a drop, you'llget the buckle end
of your belt. I've made it special for you. I had asparagusfor lunch.'

He pointed his cock at my mouth. Before, I had just beenpissed on. I hadn't
been expected to drink it. This time was different. The guy was obviously
proud of his bladdercontrol. He emptied himself into my mouth and then
stopped while he ordered meto gulp it down. Then he started again. He did
this three or four times andeach time I had to gulp down a whole mouthful
of his stinking piss. I knew whatordinary piss tasted like, but I had no
idea how disgusting piss tasted after aguy has eaten asparagus. I was
retching but, what was more weird, I was gettinghard. I was scared. I was
hurting. My stomach was in spasm. I wanted it all tostop and yet my cock
was getting hard and I couldn't do anything about it.

`Look at the dirty fucker. He's got a boner, yelled theolder guy. `Stand
up, shithole.'

I stood up, my cock jutting out in front. The older guythumped me in the
stomach, so I fell back. The other guy got me by the arms andheld me
up. The other guy kept on thumping in the stomach, all the whileshouting
abuse into my face. This might be a film, might be just a scene, butit was
real too. Both these guys were getting their rocks off and I wasterrified –
and more terrified by my response. My cock jus stayed stiff as aboard
through it all.

`That was great, lads. Best you've ever done.' The directorwas speaking to
the two lads. I didn't count. I was on the floor again, my legshad given
out.

`Take his clothes. Make him run after you. We'll shoot that,and then call
it a day.'

I couldn't run. They went off with my clothes and Istaggered after them,
but then collapsed. They all seemed to find it funny. They were chatting
together in the farcorner, kicking my clothes around, but otherwise
ignoring me. Finally, theywent off. They left my clothes, thank God. I put
them on my aching body asquick as I could. I looked a wreck. My jacket and
trousers were torn andcovered in dirt, my shirt was ripped, my tie had
gone.

Walking back to the tube, I wondered how much longer I couldstand this. I
was aching all over. I was completely exhausted. And yet I knewthere was
more to come and, if the punters were to be kept interested, it wouldget
worse. How far would they go? No doubt they were being asked
forsuggestions. `What shall we do to the old shit next time?'


The next time wasn't a film. It was a private party. I usedto enjoy
these. Older guys like me were usually hired to act as butlers. Weserved at
table and stayed in the background afterwards while a couple ofyounger guys
would fuck each other while the port went round. It was easypickings. I
didn't know what would be expected of me this time, but was fairlyrelaxed
as I arrived at this flat in Clarges Street. A manservant let me in andleft
me in a small room on the first floor. He didn't give me any
instructions,so I waited to see what would happen. I could hear people
arriving and comingup the stairs to a room just next door, where they were
having dinner. I couldhear them talking, but not well enough to hear what
they were saying. It musthave been a good hour before the manservant
returned. Without speaking, hegestured me to strip. He then took out some
handcuffs. I put out my hands andhe clipped them onto my wrists. He then
led me out of the small room and intothe room next door.


I tried to keep my eyes down but I needed to get some ideaof who was
there. There must have been about 15 men in dinner jackets – of allages
– seated around the table. They were still talking and took little
noticeof me. It was a large room, with a dais in a window recess at one
end. Themanservant led me there. A rope with a clip on its end was hanging
from theceiling, and my cuffs were attached to this. Using a pulley at the
side, themanservant pulled on the rope until my arms were fully extended –
so much sothat I was nearly pulled off the ground and was desperately
trying to reach theground with at least one foot. He then put a couple of
large books under myfeet. I was grateful for that mercy. I obviously now
realized what was instore. I had been beaten before, but in a haphazard
way, as part of anotherscenario. It had never been the main course. Now I
could see that I was in fora tough time, and I hoped that I would manage
it. I started to focus on mybreathing. There didn't seem much else I could
do by way of preparation.

The manservant now stripped off his jacket and shirt. Hewasn't tall, but he
was certainly burly with a deep hairy chest. He lookedMiddle Eastern and
maybe his silence was due to his not speaking English. Hethen took a whip
from behind the curtain. I had been hoping for a paddle but atleast, I
thought, it wasn't a cane. On reflection, anything would have beeneasier to
endure than that whip.


Strangely, the guys at the table were still engrossed intheir
conversation. They didn't seem interested. However, the manservant wasready
to begin. The first stroke caught me on the shoulders. It was no
lightbrushing. It was hard and cut into my flesh. I didn't know whether the
skin wasbroken, but the shock made my cry out. But, in mid-cry, a second
stroke hit mealmost in the same place and then another and another. This
rain of blows threwme into a pit of pain. My mind was befuddled. I didn't
cry. I didn't have theenergy. I could only struggle away from the source of
the blows and somehowfind the strength to survive. When I began to drift
into unconsciousness – ablessed means of self-defence that every victim
of torture knows – the focus ofthe attack changed and the blows began to
come on my butt cheeks. I heard avoice call out,

`Take a book away.'


One of the books on which I was standing was kicked away andI was on tiptoe
once again. As I swung away from my tormentor, I was knockedoff the
remaining book. I desperately tried to regain my footing before theother
blow landed. I suppose it must have looked as though I was doing a sortof
dance and I could hear laughing.

`Keep him going. He's loving it. Kick the other book away.'

Clearly the guys at the table were now fully engaged withwhat was going
on. I was now swinging freely, unable even to try to dodge theblows that
came relentlessly. This guy was clearly an expert whip-master. Firstmy
shoulders, then my butt. He seemed to be alternating, and there were
nostrokes that didn't land where he intended. The waves of pain were
crashing allround me. I had never been in this place before. It was like
entering anotherworld, where nothing was recognizable. Just pain – just
relentless, hard,searing pain. And through it all, I felt my cock growing
hard. It was beyond myunderstanding. It was completely beyond my control.

`Harder. Cut him. Get the blood flowing.'


The voices were louder. The guys from the table seemed nowto be standing
closer. I was beyond seeing anything. I was in this other world,which
somehow seemed strangely warm and comforting. My cock was harder
thanever. It was as if I was a baby in my mother's arms, pressed against
her. Thepain had become part of my comfort. I wanted it to go on. I feared
to lose itbecause I would thereby lose the world in which I now nestled, a
world in whichI had no responsibility in which I was only loved and held.

But it did come to an end. The blows ceased and I feltmyself being slowly
lowered. As my feet met the ground, I tried to stand, but Icouldn't. I was
dizzy with pain. My legs had lost all power. I could only waituntil I was
lying on the ground. But the pain continued. It increased. I washurting as
I hurt when my ordeal began. The warmth was gone, the shooting,stabbing,
unbearable pain was back. I heard myself gabbling incoherently. I wastrying
to say, `No more, Sir. Please no more, Sir.' But it didn't come out
likethat.


I can't remember what happened next. In fact, I remembernothing before I
was lying face down on some sort of sheet in the small room.Someone was
pouring stuff on my back and the waves of pain were crashing overme
again. I began to wimper. Somehow it helped me now to weep, and I
couldspeak too.

`I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Thank you. Thank you.'

Why was I apologizing? Who was I apologizing to? Who was I thanking?My
words came from deep within me, they were just anguish and sorrow for
theperson I was, the person I had always been. It was as if that beating
had beenpunishment for all the sins I had ever committed. But it was also
as if thefruit of my wretchedness had been beaten out of me. I felt an
extraordinaryfreedom – I was no longer the person I had been. I was
freed from my constant,unrelenting brokenness that had tortured me all my
conscious life. I had neverfelt so free before.

It didn't last. I couldn't go home. My wife would be thereand she could not
but see the state I was in. And anyway I still couldn't walk.A car took me
to the offices of Rendell & Poole. I was helped into thefamiliar vestibule
and through some kind of back door. I hadn't been herebefore. There were
cubicles, like in a sauna. I was taken into one and helpedto lie down face
down on a bed. Then the door closed and there was silence.Maybe I had been
given something, but somehow or other I drifted into a deep,healing sleep.

All comments & suggestions very welcome – edmundb45@yahoo.co.uk