Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2001 01:22:48 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter 29

Chapter 29

               FIRST ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL

On one of my regular Monday phone-ins he gave a date three weeks hence when
I was to report to him.  "That'll be the anniversary of my first visit" I
said.  There was a pause, then "Yes", he said.

I cringed with shame.  Amazing how he could make me feel a complete, crass,
dummy with just a pause and a "Yes".  Of COURSE he knew!  This manipulative
bastard did nothing by chance and that date had been carefully chosen.
That meant he had something special in mind.  I felt a frisson of fear -
and of excitement.

                         *****

On the drive to Derbyshire I reflected on the long way I had come in the
last year as his slave.  I thought back with wry amusement to the blindfold
journey of a year ago and the nervous, inexperienced, but eager trainee I
had been then and of the carefully planned programme I had been put through
in the past 12 months.  Oh I was still nervous of course, who wouldn't be,
knowing I was going to be brutalised and degraded.  But I also had the
complete confidence that whatever he had planned for me tonight, it would
be within the bounds of the acceptable (just!)

On arriving at Manor Farm I was surprised to find him waiting for me in the
scullery.  Surprised too that after I had stripped and he'd fixed my slave
collar about my neck, he did not indulge in the usual ritual of handling my
flesh in that greedy, possessive way that I always found so exciting.  It
was as if he didn't have time for that this evening and I was fairly
hustled across the stone-flagged passageway and through the door opposite
into the big cellar.

He had not used this on my last few visits and my last experience here had
not been pleasant!  But now it was different.  Bang in the centre stood the
table-high "workbench" with its sturdy, splayed legs, sinister straps
dangling and its numerous fixing points.  Only now it was brilliantly
spotlit with four tiny, dichroic spots mounted on the brick-vaulted roof in
a square and focussed on the workbench, like an operating table.  I felt my
stomach clench in a spasm of fear.  Oh God, what was he going to do to me?

He motioned me to lie on the narrow table. A strap was quickly buckled
around my waist, trapping my hands at my sides, then another was thrown
high across my chest and shoulders and buckled tight.  Then he did
something very odd. He fetched a little, folding card table and set it
alongside me by my head.  Then he spread a clean white cloth over it and,
satisfied that all was as he wanted it, he left!  So I was left there,
spotlit in that gloomy cellar, strapped to the workbench like a specimen,
and waited.

I heard the knocker on the front door overhead rap sharply and the Brig
answer it.  I could hear voices.  Oh God, who was this being brought in?
Footsteps approaching on the stone-floored passage - the ring of metal boot
studs on the stone!

The figure who entered with my master was bizarre.  Exceptionally tall and
thin, he was dressed in motorcycle leathers.  But the really terrifying
thing was his face.  Shaven headed (or just bald?) one side of his face was
completely covered in the tattoos of a Maori warrior.  The other half had
no tattoos at all, instead it was disfigured by the most extreme collection
of piercings I had ever seen. Lips, nose, eyebrow, ear, all bore multiple
rings, with further studs through his cheek and below his lower lip.  It
looked as though his face had been attacked by a mad decorator.

This nightmare apparition strode over to me and regarded me in silence for
a while. Then he asked "Why is he tied down?"

"I wanted him to feel helpless" was the reply.

"Has he agreed to this?"

"No need.  He'll do as I want."

The tall man took off his backpack and set it on the card table before
turning to the Brig and announcing that he would not work on anyone without
their consent.  I was impressed that anyone should challenge the Brig's
authority in this way.  I saw the "blue blaze" flash in his eye, but the
tall thin man stood his ground.  The Brig shrugged, turned away and said
"OK, ask him"

"Alone" he insisted.  I thought the Brig would explode, but after a moment
he turned without a word and left the cellar! The tall man looked down on
me and placed a consoling hand on one shoulder.  "You don't have to go
through with this you know" he said gently, "not if you don't want to"

I told him I didn't even know what he was going to do.

"Christ almighty!" he swore, "the bastard hasn't even told you?"

I shook my head, terrified that "the bastard" might hear and I'd be made to
suffer.

"He wants me to pierce your tit" he said.  He reached in his bag and pulled
out a silver nipple ring and held it up.  "This is normal size, but he
wants me to fit you up with one like this" and he pulled out another, much
thicker, much heavier.  "Left side - slave side." he explained.  "And, ah,
he wants it permanent.  Not removable.  You understand?  You'll be marked
for life as a, you know, as a sub - a man-toy"

I gulped.  The thought of wearing such a thing at work under my
shirt.playing squash with my mates and stripping off for a shower
afterwards, of going swimming, pierced with this brutal mark of shame.  The
thought was horrifying - and VERY exciting.  To be permanently marked as
his slave - YES!

"You don't have to, you know.  Say no and I'm out of here"

"It's OK" I assured him. "My master knows best.  Do whatever he wants".  I
saw The Brig standing in the doorway and felt proud that he must have heard
me say that.

"You are quite sure?"

I fixed my eyes on Hugh's.  "Quite sure" I said.  Hugh smiled approvingly
as he re-entered the cellar and my heart could have burst with pride.

The Decorator took the tools of his trade from his bag and laid them out
with professional precision on the little table.  Next he prepared himself
by unzipping and removing his leather jacket.  At first I thought he was
wearing a sort of paisley design T-shirt, but then I realised his body was
completely covered in tattoos, each one jostling the next.  Bizarre!  His
long thin bony body was a mess of eagles and snakes and geisha girls and
coiling dragons and skulls pierced with daggers dripping blood.  Celtic
motifs entwined his arms and Che Guevara 's portrait glowered from his
belly while his back was filled with a gaudy likeness of a Hindu god
glowing with radiating light rays and multiple arms.

Having stripped for action he began by swabbing my tit with a strong
antiseptic, then he picked up an aerosol.  "What's that?" the Brig enquired
and was told it was an anaesthetic spray to deaden the pain.  "No."  he
said "I want he should feel everything" The Decorator protested that
although normal piercing could be done with no pain killer, the oversized
ring to be used on this occasion required a bigger incision and that it
would be very painful.  My owner shrugged an insisted that no painkiller
should be used.

Again the tall operative glanced down at me, "That OK with you, son?"  This
was too much for the Brig.  "He'll do as I say - and so will you, or get
out now!"

The piercer hesitated a moment.  He'd stood up to this big man before and
won, but faced with this full blast of authority and raw power, he
capitulated, lowering his eyes - and the canister of painkiller.  His eyes
sought mine and I lowered my eyelids in assent.  He picked up the piercing
tool and forceps . . .

I lay there, strapped to the operating table helpless and terrified.  But I
was not going to scream.  That was definite.  There was no way that the
torturing bastard who controlled what happened to me would have that
satisfaction. No matter what it took, he'd not hear me scream.  I glared
defiance at him as he stood over me, his arms folded across his chest,
impassive as a rock.  The Decorator held my nipple extended in the gentle
grip of a pair of forceps as he deployed the piercing instrument.

I screamed.  Loud and long.  The thick metal ring was inserted through my
flesh and I whimpered like a kicked puppy.  The ends were closed and sealed
and I screamed again. While the blood was being swabbed away I lay there
limp and sobbing piteously.  It had not taken long but it had seemed to
scour the guts from out my body and I was full of hate for the brutal
fucker who had stage-managed this bizarre nightmare of pain and
humiliation.  And he had just stood there the whole while, arms folded
across his chest, watching impassively while I suffered.  I tried to put my
hatred of him in my eyes but he either did not notice or did not care.

The Decorator packed up his equipment and pulled his leather jacket on.
"You are a hard man" he said to the Brig.  My master made no reply, just
handed over a wad of notes saying "That's what we agreed.  And here's
another £50 to keep your mouth shut.  I don't like my business to be
discussed.  Understood?"

He nodded, took the money and as he left he placed his hand briefly on my
shoulder as if to say "Best of luck, mate."  The Brig escorted him to the
front door and I could hear his boots echoing from the Prison Pit as he
went down the front steps which formed its roof.  Then the sound of a
motorbike starting up and fading away as the Brig returned.

Silently he released the two straps and swept my feet to the floor.  Then
gripping my upper arms he raised me to my feet and did something totally
unprecedented and unexpected.  He kissed me on the mouth for the very first
time!  I felt the power of those huge arms about me as he opened my lips
with his teeth and entered me with his tongue.  I melted against him, not
minding the pressure of his chest against my torn nipple, relishing the
warmth of his body through his shirt against my nakedness.  I felt that I
was being rewarded for submitting to the brutality of what had been done to
me.  Hatred?  What hatred?  As his strong tongue swept around inside my
mouth, I simply adored him.  Finally he pulled away and as he did so I
breathed "Oh MASTER!" in an ecstasy of submission.  "Anything" I murmured,
"Anything at all, Sir." He ignored this and in an entirely matter of fact
tone said "Come" and turned to stride from the cellar with me padding along
behind like a faithful hound.

Up to the kitchen he led me where he took from the fridge two plates of
chicken salad and a bottle of white wine.  He thrust the plates to me to
carry, scooped up a couple of glasses and headed for the sitting room.
There he settled himself in his favourite chair and switched on the telly
just as the News was starting.

I sat on the floor at his feet and together we ate - and drank - in
silence, listening to the news.  Such casual, relaxed domesticity was a
completely new experience and I felt so proud.  It appeared that I had
graduated through a year-long trial of grinding humiliation, culminating in
that hideous ritual in the cellar tonight and now I was elevated to a new
level of service.

When we had finished eating I returned the plates to the kitchen and
settling myself at his feet once more, I gently stroked his sturdy thigh
and he idly dropped his hand onto my head in a gesture which could even
have been affectionate.  He kneaded my neck and brought me round between
his legs until my face was pressed into his crotch.  This always felt like
coming home, home to where it was the most natural place in the world for
me to be.  I nuzzled his crotch like a dog, breathing the warm man-smell of
his loins and feeling his cock thicken and harden against my face through
his slacks.

He slid down in his chair, splayed his legs wide and unzipped.  Unhurriedly
I scooped out his cock and his balls too, laying my head on his thigh and
gazing in pleasure at the sheer splendour of him, while gently caressing
his shaft with my fingertips.  But his hand on the back of my head told me
it was not fingertips he wanted.  I licked his scrotum, mouthed his
testicles and, twisting round, even managed to slobber-suck the fragrant,
secret place behind his bull-bag while his scrotum flobbed soft and warm
over my face. Then it was time to begin on the rearing totem of his
manhood.  I worked my tongue into the very base of his shaft above his
balls and slowly, slowly, started to lick my way up it like a small boy
climbing a tree.

Halfway up the thick bole I met a dribble of fuck-juice sliding down.
Eagerly I consumed it and followed the sticky trail up to the glistening
purple dome and the slit which disgorged the man-slime.  I licked the tip
clean, wet my lips and slid them down , ever so s - l - o - w - l - y over
his helm and sucked him.  Spasms of pleasure jerked his hips and he moaned
with sensual fulfillment as I goged myself on him.

Although I had gone down on him many, many times, he had never cum in my
mouth.  I had even said what a pleasure it would be to be allowed to taste
his spunk, to chew it and swallow it, but he enjoyed his fucks too much to
waste a good orgasm anywhere but buried deep in a slave's belly.  But
tonight he started saying Yes!  Yes!!  Yes!!!  and I began to dare to hope
that this time perhaps I'd be allowed the prize.  And so it was, and that
magnificent weapon fired slug after slug of cum into my mouth and I
relished the sickly sweet taste of it and chewed it and swallowed it and
savoured it.

I lay my cheek on his thick thigh and murmured "Thankyou, Sir." over and
over.  It was clear to me that a new phase in our relationship had been
reached and that the ring in my nipple was like a wedding ring proclaiming
that I belonged to him irrevocably.  In future a more relaxed and sharing
tone would characterise our union, I felt sure of it.  So when, quietly
sated, he got to his feet and said "Bed", I trotted eagerly behind him
knowing that tonight I would be taken into his bed to sleep beside him.

Imagine my dismay therefore to be motioned to my usual position on the
dirty mattress on the floor beside his bed.  Imagine the even greater
horror when he tethered me to his bed as usual, not by my collar but BY MY
NIPPLE RING! By my new, still painful, still slightly oozing, nipple ring.
He said nothing, just acted as this was the most natural thing in the
world. He undressed (and damn him, it still gave me a thrill to see him
strip off his shirt!) and went to bed.

I lay there in the darkness in a storm of emotions.  Anger and
disappointment and hurt feelings and rage at his crass cruelty.  Anger too
at myself for having allowed myself to believe that this pig-bastard
manipulative sadist could ever have had any feelings of tenderness toward
me.  I was dirt to him, had always been dirt, would always be dirt.  Just
once in a while he would look down and spit on me - and here was the crunch
- I'd be grateful even for that!

Eventually I slept, only to wake with a yelp of pain as someone stabbed a
hot stilletto into my chest, right through the tit.  I had turned in my
sleep and the tether had snapped taut and yanked at my poor nipple.

"What's wrong?" his voice demanded from above me.  I explained.  "You woke
me." he snapped.  "Be more careful"

"Thanks a bunch, Pig" I thought.

But what I said was "Yes Sir." and settled down quietly.