Date: Sun, 6 May 2001 07:38:21 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter14

The Humiliator.  Chapter Fourteen

			PUNISHMENT


I lay there, my helpless body tingling in anticipation of the first blow of
the tawse.  But instead of the brute impact of leather, I felt a hand
placed lightly on my knee.  "This is what you were wanting last night,
boy?" the Corporal sneered as he slid his hand slowly and sensuously along
the inside of my thigh, almost to my crotch.  Then the hand was withdrawn
as the tawse hit the same place THWUCK!

The shock of the impact, the shock of the pain ripped me apart.  To my
horror and shame, my body reacted by evacuating bowels and bladder.  That's
right, I shit myself and pissed myself.

Despite my bonds, my body had leapt sideways so violently that the pad over
my balls was dislodged and the piss sprayed everywhere.  I could feel it
over my belly and my thighs.  Some must have sprayed over him too for he
exclaimed "Ugh! You dirty bugger" and hit me again immediately - only this
time on a wet thigh.  I gagged with the pain, but when it eased I found
myself apologising to him, saying how ashamed I was and how such a thing
had never happened before.  The stench was awful.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" I
wailed, "I'm sorry, I'm s -" and he hit me a third time.  I shut up after
that.  I was too busy wrestling with the pain of repeated blows and the
sickening horror of it.  Too much pain, yet even so, part of my brain still
registered the precision and skill with which each strike moved along my
thigh, only half overlapping the previous one until the sixth was nearly
down to my knee.  The entire length of my inside thigh had been
systematically beaten .  When he had done, he moved round the bed to start
on my left leg.  This presented a problem because there was simply no way
that a repetition of such pain could be accepted.  I informed him of this.
No whining or pleading or begging.  None of that.  I simply told him it was
not acceptable to continue.  That it was necessary to stop right there.
Would he please inform the Brigadier that I was sorry but we had to bring
this to a close.  I was balanced, reasonable and contained.

His reply was the first THWUCK! on that thigh.  I was shocked, not only by
the sickening pain but also by the realisation of my helplessness.  There
was nothing I could say or do which would have any effect on what was going
to happen.  All I could do was suffer.  And I did.  Again and again the
leather fingers of the tawse clawed round the contour of my thigh to dig
their tips deep into tender flesh. Six lashes to each leg, bollocks!  Each
strike of the four fingered strap was four separate blows landed
simultaneously for maximum damage.  Four sixes are twenty four.  On each
thigh.  Fortyeight strap-cuts in all - and the worst I'd ever taken at one
time before was twelve stripes of the cane across the backside!  Jesus!
And this was only stage one of my three-part punishment . . .

All things end eventually.  I could hear his breathing now, from the
exertion of the beating.  Could hear too the foot-falls on the stair.  But
I wasn't frightened of the master's approach this time.  I felt sure that
when he saw the damage done to my thighs, he would cancel the rest of the
sentence.  Stupid?  Yes, of course it was stupid, but you reach for any
straw of hope in that situation.  It just did not seem possible that more
pain could be visited on such already tenderised flesh.

He arrived, "Christ! What a stink" he exclaimed. The corporal explained
that I had shit myself with the first blow.  "Ha!" he said "just like that
Swedish hitch-hiker we picked up when we were stationed in Osnabruck,
remember?  That's the only other time it has happened.  Hmm, interesting.
I guess you could say he was shit scared, eh corporal?"

The minion dutifully laughed at this 'joke' but agreed that the young Swede
had indeed been shaking with terror just at the sight of the cane.  They
agreed it was a good thing that the mattress had been removed from under me
so that there was not too much harm done.  The footsteps paced round the
bed while he studied his victim.  There was the flash and buzz of the
camera again.  "You seem to have done a sound job here, corporal." he said.
"Thankyou, Sir" replied the corporal, obviously pleased to be praised.
Photographing continued from every angle.  I felt that my splayed and
beaten nakedness was being recorded for later study and enjoyment.  Perhaps
shown to friends, to be pored over and commented on with lewd sniggers.

Then his hands explored the beaten flesh with obvious pleasure.  "Yes," he
murmered, "the skin hot and hardened, - lumpy, - rocky, - swollen.  Yes, a
good start, corporal.  Well tenderised meat, ready for the cane"

My heart sank. The cane!  The sadistic bastard was going to go through with
it.  All of it, with no quarter shown, God help me.  "No, not that one,
corporal," he said "we'll go for Upper School, not Lower School.  I want to
lay down some really deep bruising.  The tawse bruising will peak in a
couple of days and then fade in a week.  By then the deeper bruising from
the heavy cane will be starting to blossom on the surface to give
continuity.  And it should still be visible for two or three weeks after
that, so the bugger will have a continuous reminder that my slaves are for
my exclusive use.  OK corporal, six of the best on each leg, as hard as you
like."

This time he stayed to watch.  And to photograph.  Even as I threshed and
howled and struggled under the remorseless blows, I was still aware of the
rapid flashes and sound the of quick-sequence filming - the cane raised -
the blur of the downward strike - the moment of impact into the flesh - the
twist of the stricken body in its bonds - the striped weals on the beaten
flesh.  Every moment of pain lovingly recorded in detail.  Sick!

When the corporal was done, his master thanked him and dismissed him.
"I'll carry on from here" he said.  I lay there, panting, exhausted and
drenched in sweat as the corporal descended, leaving us alone.  What
nastiness did he have in mind that he did not want his servant to see, for
God's sake?

"You sweat like a pig" he said.  It was true - and a long time source of
embarrassment to me.  In summer I always wore a tee shirt under my shirt to
soak up the sweat, otherwise my shirt hung like a wet rag, dark with sweat,
which people found distasteful.  "Sorry, sir" I apologised.  "No, no" he
said, "don't worry, I like it.  I like the look of young bodies shining
with sweat.  I like the feel of wet flesh." and he slipped his hands over
me.  "I even like the smell of it - and the salt taste!" With that he
lowered his head and began to lick my chest while his hands continued to
maul.  I was shocked.  Oh, I had often licked the bodies of dominant males
of course.  But that was expected of a slave, after all.  It is one of
those things slaves do.  But for a master to lick his slave's body was
something new to me - new and shocking.  Worse still was the way he did it.
He sucked and slurped and slobbered, greedily hoovering up my sweat.  When
a slave licks a master his first aim is to give pleasure, but as before,
this man was only concerned to take pleasure.  The dirty bastard was
feeding off me!  No wonder he didn't want the corporal to see.  He even
unbuckled the broad strap across my chest and licked the sweat off the
inside of that.

"Sweat pig" he said, "that's a better name for you than Fuck Face.  That's
what you'll be called in future.  But that's no reason why a Sweat Pig
can't have his face fucked too!"  And with that he moved round to the end
of the bed where my head hung and fitted his cock into my mouth while
continuing to strip the sweat off me with his tongue.  This whole
disgusting sweat business clearly turned him on.  He worked his cock slowly
round and round in my mouth while rotating his belly on my wet chest and
licking my thighs.  He was an animal!

Suddenly he pulled away from me.  "Yes, well, there's unfinished work to do
here." he said,exploring my thighs with his hands.  "Please, Sir" I
whispered, "I can't take any more."  "Oh?" he said " and what do you plan
to do about it?"  There was no answer to that because there was nothing I
could do about it.  Even with the chest strap removed, I was still
completely helpless and he could do whatever he damned well liked with me.
The feeling of utter helplessness overpowered me.  I remembered the brutal
lesson I had learned last night in the bathroom - what do you do when the
pain is unbearable but cannot be escaped?  You bear the unbearable, that's
what.

In a voice of quiet reason, he patiently explained that after the brutality
of the tawse and the heavy cane, a different approach was called for with
the final six cuts.  "Something clean and stinging and sharp and pure" he
called it.  This turned out to be a length of simple, two-core lighting
flex doubled into a loop.  Compared to what I'd been through, this didn't
sound too drastic.

Christ!  How wrong I was.  The vicious hornet sting of it ripped me apart.
Such a searing, sharp, scalding pain!  I screamed threats and obscenities
at him and he lashed me.  I sobbed and howled and begged for mercy and he
lashed me.  I promised obedience and total servitude and he lashed me.  And
he kept on lashing at my poor, bruised thighs with pitiless regularity
until all twelve cuts were delivered and the punishment was finally
complete.

"Now that," he said "should be a lesson you'll not forget in a hurry, that
you don't offer your thighs to other men - nor any other part of your body.
You are mine, Sweat Pig, all of you.  Understood?"  I assured him that yes,
I had got that message!  With that he set about untying me, finally pulling
me to my feet.  I heard the mattress dumped back onto the bed frame and the
squeak of the springs as he sat on it.  " Get my boots off" he ordered.  I
knelt and groped for his leg, pulling his foot up onto my chest and
struggling to pull the boot off.

"Not like that, you fool" he snapped, "get the boot between your legs, with
your back to me."  I did as bidden and gripped the foot and heel, trying to
push it off rather than pull it.  He planted his other boot on my arse and
helped by thrusting against me.  Suddenly it came free and I pitched
forward onto my knees.  "Now the other one." and the exercise was repeated
only this time with his bare foot pushing on my bare arse.  Again the bed
springs sang as he got up, "Get my britches off."  Kneeling at his feet, I
unbuckled his belt, un-zipped his fly and eased his britches down, noticing
with slight surprise as I did so that he was wearing under shorts. Should I
remove these too?  Tentatively I raised my hands to the waist band.  "Not
with your hands" he ordered.  This man missed no opportunity to twist the
knife of humiliation!  I pushed my face into his warm belly and got my
teeth into the waist band.

Any one who has never done it might imagine it is fairly easy to strip a
pair of briefs off a man with your teeth only.  Actually, it is
surprisingly difficult, requiring dedicated application and diligent work.
I remember my own surprise at that discovery the first time I had to do it,
on the orders of a Belgian miner in a hotel room in London.  Now as then,
my master stood patiently while I laboured between his legs - and why
should he not be patient, for it is no hardship to stand there while a
naked slave works to undress you with his teeth!

Once I had got the elasticated waist band down over his hips, which is the
difficult bit, I let go with my teeth, preferring to complete the exercise
by pushing my face into the crotch pouch and lowering my face to the ground
between his feet, savouring the warm, fragrant man-smell of him, and
holding the garment there while he stepped out of it.  The bed springs
spoke again of him sitting, then lying on the mattress and I could imagine
him sprawled there naked.  How I wished I could see him!  "Now," he
announced, "it is time for you to do a bit of tongue-bathing.  Start at my
forehead and work all the way down to one foot, then cross to the other and
work your way up to my crotch, finishing with my cock.  Slowly, mind.  Slow
and thorough."

"Yes Sir" I said and knelt at the side of the bed to do his bidding.