Date: Sun, 15 Jul 2001 08:27:06 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter 24

			    Chapter Twenty Four

			   PATTERNS OF SERVITUDE

For the next six years I was owned by Brigadier Hugh Markman-Ryder of Manor
Farm, Sterndale, Derbyshire and was very happy to be so.

One of the remarkable things about him was his ability to surprise me, to
keep me constantly on my toes by his seemingly inexhaustable sexual
imagination so that a visit to him never became a predictable routine.
Nevertheless there were certain patterns on which variations were played
and those patterns were laid down right from these first two visits.

For example, frequency.  The six week gap between the first and second
visits was quite typical.  Four weeks was the shortest, thirteen weeks the
longest.  Over those six years, five visits a year was the average, some 30
in all.  In between were the regular Monday phone call reports - and I had
learned on my second visit that I missed one of those at my peril!  Regular
they were, but predictable they were not.  I never knew whether I'd get
just a grunt of acknowledgement, a string of abuse, detailed instructions
or orders to masturbate then and there. (Even in a public phone box!)

The pattern of visits was usually to arrive Friday night and be dismissed
Saturday afternoon after a bit of slave labour on the farm, but I never
knew.  Sometimes he chucked me out at midnight on the Friday when he had
finished with me, sometimes I was kept until the Sunday.  Once he demanded
that I arrive on a Wednesday night, but that was for a special reason (see
"The Whip Hand")

Some things were absolutely regular, however.  For example I always had my
slave-collar buckled about my neck on arrival or very soon after, and wore
it continuously for as long as I was there.  Similarly, I always stripped
naked the moment I entered the house and was kept naked, even in the depths
of winter, though even here there were variations, as when he'd be waiting
for me in the scullery and would personally strip me, often taking a whole
sequence of photos as he peeled off each item.  (God, but I loved having
him strip me.  He would make it last five minutes, always in complete
silence.  There was something terribly intense and sensual about it, right
up to the moment when he had me stark naked and would produce the collar
and I'd kneel, proffering my neck in absolute submission.)

Morning beatings were another fixture (but see "Casual Cruelty" and
"Deliberate Cruelty" for variations on that) and of course, so were the
fuckings - after all, that is what I was for.  But there was certainly
nothing repetitive about that!  I was fucked in the scullery, the cellar,
the living room, kitchen, bedroom and on the stairs as well as in the
punishment room of course.  But I was also fucked in the garden and out in
the country - laid across a fallen tree, in a barn, in a garage (see "The
Wrecker"), in a deserted farmstead and in a limestone cave.  Some fuckings
were long, langorous affairs, others short and vigorous, others briskly
efficient or brutally violent.  Some, I swear were designed to give me
almost unbearable pleasure, some were simply punishment by other means.

Unless I was incarcerated in The Pit or left in miserable bondage in the
cellar, I normally slept on the mattress on the floor, tethered to his bed.
I would like to report that being hauled into his bed for use during the
night, as on that first occasion, was a common experience, but in fact it
was quite infrequent as he was usually sated with sex by the time he got to
bed.  (Nice for him, hard luck for me!)  That did not alter the humiliation
of knowing that I was tethered there for his convenience should he wake in
the night with the fuck-lust on him.  More often though, he would give me a
morning fuck prior to going for a piss, returning for the morning beating.
Typically I'd get three or four fucks a visit (quite enough thankyou!) so
he had his cock up me at least 100 times during my years as his fuck-slave.

Another ritual which was never omitted was that he never sent me away
without making me toss off - though only once per visit.  This impressed me
for two reasons.  First because it showed his professionalism.  How often
other masters, having satisfied themselves, dismiss you as being of no
further interest to them, with no regard for your being left frustrated.
The Brigadier knew that to keep a slave coming back, time after time, year
after year, he had to get his share of sexual satisfaction too.  But some
men make it obvious that they are doing this as a favour or as a duty.

Not with The Humiliator.  He always managed to make me feel that he had
violated me by forcing me to ejaculate against my will, that he had
cold-bloodedly stripped the spunk out of my loins and left me drained and
useless.  Oh there were many times when, with a week's build up of semen
boiling in my balls, he would manipulate me into such a frenzy that I'd beg
him to let me or make me cum - which of course, he never did. He always
managed to contrive to make me cum when HE wanted to, never when I was
screaming for it!

Another ritual, fixed right from that first visit, was that I had to write
a detailed report after each visit, alledgedly for the delectation of a
sadist friend with whom he exchanged experiences.  Did such a friend exist?
Or was this just a neat way of checking my reactions to ensure he was not
pushing me too far, too fast?  Or, worse still, that he was not pushing me
hard enough?  All of those, maybe?

Anyway, what follows are accounts of some of the various means he employed
over the years to humiliate, train and use me, in no particular order.
Just a random catalogue of perversions and cruelties suffered over those
six years of servitude to a dominant, brutal and magnificent male - the
most completely fulfilling years of my sexual life . . .