Date: Tue, 29 May 2001 15:06:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

		THE TWISTING OF THE KNIFE

The Corporal guided me back down the stairs to the basement scullery where
I had first entered this house of horrors.  He shoved my clothes against my
chest and said "dress".  I asked him if I could have the mask off.  "No" he
snapped, so I struggled blindly into my clothes before he dragged me out to
the car and guided me in.  I told him I needed a piss.  "When you get to
the station" he said.

At last we arrived and parked.  He told me to put the dark glasses on to
hide the goggles and, as when I arrived, guided me like a blind man.  "Sit"
he said in the station concourse and backed me onto a wooden bench.  "Count
to 100 and then you can remove your glasses and go" he said, thrusting an
envelope into my hand.

When I removed the goggles I looked around for him.  I had no doubt he was
watching, but although the concourse was not exactly crowded he could have
been any one of 20 men.  I checked the time of the London train.  30
minutes to wait.  I looked at the envelope, "To be opened on the train, not
before" it said.  Hmm, the manipulative bastard was up to his tricks again.
Dismissed I might be but he was still twitching my marionette strings.  I
went for a much needed piss and considered going into a loo to toss off but
decided against it.  Who knows what instructions the envelope might
contain?

Finally, on the train, I ripped open the letter.  You would think that
after all I had been put through in the last two days I would have
approached the letter with weariness, perhaps even impatience.  The shaming
reality was that even now I was excited to get further orders.

There were two instructions.  The first said that I was, on arrival at
Euston, to go to the gents and there strip to the waist and wash my arms up
to the armpits.  My first reaction was that I could not possibly do that
because people would see my soiled and marked body and what would they
think?  It would be too humiliating.  Then I realised that was the point.
The bastard!  I felt sick to my stomach.

The second order read "I have a friend and fellow master in Scotland and we
always keep each other informed of how we treat our slaves.  To accompany
the photos I took, you will write a detailed account of you recent
experiences, starting with the words 'Sir, my Master instructs me to tell
you about my usage at his hands' This will be posted to the same Box No. as
before within 48 hours."

Still the Box No. so even now I was not to be allowed to know the name of
the man who had abused me over the last two days, nor even the address of
where I had been! There was just this dreadful black limbo where I had been
beaten and sexually assaulted by a total stranger I had never seen.  And
now, as a further twist of the knife, I was required to tell yet another
un-named, unknown man all about it.  "In detail"!  Not for nothing did my
master call himself "The Humiliator"!

Would I have to report even on the final act of shame at Euston?  Well yes,
of course, that would be expected of me too.  But would I really be able to
go through with it?  Then a terrible thought struck me, suppose the
Corporal was on the train - was ordered to spy on me to be sure I carried
out my orders in full?  Unlikely, but I could not be certain.  Anything was
possible with a manipulative sod like this man.  I decided to go into the
toilet on the train and strip off to inspect myself and see just what would
be on display at Euston.

I peeled off my jacket first.  Oh God!  It was worse than I feared.  My
body (and my face) were filthy, all smudged and soiled with the black coal
dust of the prison-pit floor and grazed where I'd been dragged over it.
Red weals criss-crossed my chest from the "Obedience Test" flogging and my
arms were bruised from bondage and my ribs from being kicked.  I turned and
craned my neck to try and see my back in the mirror.  Worse!  Oh dear god,
much worse.  Well, that settled it, orders or no, there was no way I could
expose that in a public lavatory.  Even the most casual glance would reveal
that I had been flogged.

I wondered what my thighs would look like, (thank heavens I did not have to
expose THEM in public!)  Gingerly I eased my jeans down and had to stifle a
sob of self pity at the horror I revealed.  Both thighs were swollen and
lumpy and discoloured. Some individual welts could be made out in the
general mess but for the most part it was just a pudding of beaten meat.
Hell, but that had been one severe punishment!  But the message was clear -
I did not permit - or invite - other men to touch my body.  It was not a
lesson I was likely to forget!

Back in my seat I agonised about what to do when I got to London.  Euston
Station always heaved with people at any hour so there was no hope that the
lavatories would be empty.  Now I had seen for myself how badly my back was
marked, there was no way I could show that in public, bent over a wash
basin for anyone to inspect.  And no hope that the marks might be
misinterpreted as scratches caused in a car accident or something.  They
were whip welts, clear and unequivocal.  But then, although I had not seen
my back before, my master had.  He knew exactly what he was asking me to
display.  As a man who liked to boast of my obedience, God help me I had no
choice.

At the station I made my way to the gents.  There are two, one at either
end of the concourse, one much bigger and busier than the other.  I went to
that one.  I prevaricated by going for a piss first while trying to decide
what to do and looking out to see if I could spot anyone following me.

There were fewer guys around than I expected.  Perhaps 8 or 9 but there was
a constant churn of coming and going. My heart was banging and my guts were
tied in knots.  Oh hell, here or there made no difference, all basins were
equally public so there was only one thing to do, just go for it.  I strode
over to a basin and unzipped my jacket and peeled it off expecting six men
to point and jeer immediately.  Of course no such thing happened.  The men
at the stalls carried on pissing, the chap nearby finished washing his
hands, another carried on drying his hands under a blower.  None even
glanced in my direction!

I filled a bowl with warm water and immersed my forearms and splashed water
up to my shoulders.  I soaped my arms and washed right up to my armpits.  I
did it - oh God help me - slowly.  As in s - l - o - w - l - y.  And still
no one paid a blind bit of notice.  Men came, men went.  Not one appeared
to cast a glance at my man-used and whipped body.  Chastened, I rinsed my
arms and went to dry them under a blower.  Then the door of the caretaker's
cubicle opened and he stood in the doorway watching me, a small, elderly
black man.  Why had he opened his door when he could watch me perfectly
well through the one-way mirror of his booth?  Because he didn't trust what
I was up to and he wanted me to know he had his eye on me!  Oh, he knew all
right.  I put on my jacket and scuttled out flustered and ashamed.

I had expected this public humiliation to be awful.  The reality was worse.
Not because of the suspicious glare in the attendant's eye, not because no
one else had given a damn, but because I now realised that I had WANTED to
look in the mirror and catch the sneer of contempt on another man's face or
the smirk of recognition from another pervert.  Miserably I made my way
home, depressed by my own depravity.

And when, that night, I came to write the account of my week-end for the
benefit of the unknown Scottish sadist, would I include the bit about the
Euston lavatory?  Yes, I knew I would.  And would I even describe my
disappointment that no one had looked at me with leering contempt?  Yes
that too, for my Master would read it first, before sending it on, and he
had a right to know everything.

That night, lying in bed after having tossed myself off, I reflected on the
events of the last few days and realised with certainty that I had been
trampled down to the very bottom of the pit of depravity.  I really
believed that.  After all, how was I to know that there were far greater
depths yawning beneath me?  Depths of humiliation which I could not even
imagine - yet!