Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2001 02:30:38 -0800 (PST)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator 3

Chapter Three

THE JOCK STRAP
Part 1. The Thrashed Policeman


Intrigued by this cryptic remark, I turned the page with eager excitement
and read on:

"You are not the first slave to wear this jock strap.  Three other men have
sweated in it and suffered in it.  They have seeped and oozed and dribbled
in it.  They have each stained it with their semen.  Need I say, it has not
been washed between each usage.  So, when you put it on you are sharing in
the shame and pain of three other perverts and to help you identify with
them, I will tell you something about each.

"The first was Mike, and it was his own jock.  Mike is a young policeman,
mad about rugger.  He is built like a brick shit-house, 6'1", 16 stone,
fair, good looking, and not very bright.  He is only 24 but I do not think
he'll ever make Chief Inspector!  He is not at all queer even though he did
admit he enjoyed beating up drunks in the cells after making them strip.
For such a big, strapping fellow he has a surprisingly little cock, like a
schoolboy's.  Maybe that is why he is so keen to demonstrate how macho and
butch he is, hence the aggressive rugger playing, the brutality towards
helpless prisoners, his unnattractive boastfulnes and swagger - and the
need that brings him to me.

"That need is to be beaten.  Really severely beaten. He has actually begged
me to thrash him "until the blood runs down my legs"! (I have never gone
qiute that far.)  He says that I am the only man who will beat him as
savagely as he needs, which is why he comes back to me every six months or
so even though he knows I will fuck him afterwards.  Each time he begs and
pleads with me not to do so, (he genuinely appears to hate it) but as he
likes to be tied down very securely to be thrashed, there's not a lot he
can do about it.  He actually sobs while I hump him, which excites me
. . . which tells you something about me too, that I am not a nice person,
but I guess you had sussed that already!

"On every visit, Mike would beg me to come and watch him play rugby.  No
doubt he longed to show off how tough and manly he was, but I always dodged
the issue for the idea of standing around watching 22 muddied oafs chase a
ball about didn't seem too exciting.  But on one occasion I said I would,
provided he came straight back here with me without stopping to change.

"So it was that one wet and windy March day I went to watch the Police side
play the local amateurs.  The pitch started off waterlogged and before long
was just a mud bath.  Mike played like a demon, urged on by his supporters
- at least a dozen of them standing on the touch line but it was rather
pathetically obvious that he was playing to impress me. After each heroic
tackle, pass, or try, which always involved a spectacular belly-slide
through the mud, he would glance over towards me to assure himself I was
watching.  My feet were cold, I was bored by these macho heroics, had no
idea who was winning and cared less.  But there came a moment of drama when
the enthusiasm of the Police team supporters communicated itself to me.  A
try was to be converted and success would give them the match. And who was
to take it?  Our hero, of course.

"With great to-do the ball was carefully placed . . . Mike paced back
. . . ran up and kicked.  Breaths were held as the ball spun through the
windy sky . . . and missed!  A groan from the police, jubilation from their
opponents, and Mike sank on all fours in the mud, a picture of abject
defeat and shame.  No quick glance in my direction this time!

"Within minutes the final whistle went and the teams straggled back towards
the Club House, Mike's team-mates crowding around him to try and console
him.  For a moment it looked as if he would be swept along with them, but
he hung back and, to glances of surprise from his fellows, he turned and
walked dejectedly over to where I stood.  Without a word I led him to where
the car was parked.  I had taken the precaution of spreading a sheet of
plastic over the passenger seat.  Wearily, the mud-sodden loser sank into
the seat and not a word was spoken as we drove home - though the tension
was palpable.

"I took him in through the back door into the scullery and ordered him to
strip.  The sodden shirt, shorts and socks fell in a heap on the tiles,
leaving his mud-wet and battle-bruised body naked, save for the jock strap.
This too he was about to peel off but I stopped him.  I liked the way it
set off his nakedness and the muscular power of his body.  I liked
especially the way the elastic straps from the base of the pouch outlined
his buttocks as they curved round up to the waist band . . . defining the
target area!

"I said 'You realise that fiasco on the pitch will have to be punished?' -
he nodded glumly - 'severely punished' I stressed and he nodded again.
'Speak up!' I ordered.  He came smartly to attention and answered 'Yes
Sir'.  His eyes were glittering with excitement and I realised just how
eager he was for it.  It even crossed my mind to wonder if he had missed
that conversion deliberately.  Not that it made the slightest difference of
course.  He was going to be savagely beaten either way, that is what he had
come for, but he might have enjoyed giving me an excuse.

"I told him to go straight up to the punishment room and wait.  I had laid
out on the flogging bench the three implements I had decided to use on him,
neatly laid out in order of use, and I left him up there for ten minutes to
sweat it out studying them and contemplating what was to come.  When I went
up he was standing to attention facing the bench.  I hooded him and then
locked the door - quite un-neccessary of course, but I wanted him to feel
trapped like a prisoner in a cell.  I put him face down over the bench,
laying him atop the three implements, and made a deliberate ritual out of
strapping his wrists and ankles very firmly.  He was so tense his legs were
shaking quite visibly.  I slid the tawse out from under his body, slowly so
he would feel it against his skin.  It was the heavier of my two tawses,
one I had not used on him before.  Made of high density rubber, it is
heavier than the leather one.  I call it "the meat tenderiser".  I brought
it down hard onto the end of the bench near his hooded head.  It hit with a
terriffic thump.  He nearly leapt out of his skin!  He now had no illusions
about its brute power, he must have felt the impact judder right through
the sturdy frame of the punishment bench!  I made him wait, knowing that
the next impact would not be on wood but on his flesh.

"Then I began to beat him .... slowly .... deliberately .... brutally ....
You had to admire him, for although I laid into him full force he didn't
yell out - just grunted with each impact and writhed his body in its straps
as he fought to come to terms with the pain.  I beat him until his buns
were bright red.  I stroked my hand over them. The skin felt coarsened,
lumpy and hot.  Fiercely hot!  Satisfied, I laid the "tenderizer" aside and
slid out from under him the heaviest of my canes - the Big Bruiser.  This
too I cracked down on the bench with a report like a cannon.  He flinched
at the sound and whimpered.  Actually whimpered!  He who had borne the
tawse without a cry, whimpered at the threat of the Big Bruiser.  But then
of course he had felt the bite of that once before . . .

"Slowly, as with the tawse, I delivered blow after blow, making his flesh
jump and shudder under each impact.  In fairness, he didn't whimper under
the actual thud of the heavy cane. Not at first anyway.  But as the
relentless beating continued, he started making little gasps.  These grew
until he was yelping with distress at each blow.  Satisfied, I laid the Big
Bruiser aside in its turn.  It had marked him well, but it would be over a
week before that deep bruising would rise to the surface in a gaudy bloom
of brown and purple and yellow - and a month before the bruising faded
enough for him to risk sharing a communal bath with his team-mates after a
game of rugger!

"But now it was time for the last and cruellest phase of the punishment to
begin.  With deliberate, even exaggerated slowness, I drew the final
instrument from under his sweating body like drawing a sword from its
scabbard.  I wanted him to feel the length of it, my longest, slimmest
cane, a vicious, whippy switch named The Slasher.  As before, I swished it,
singing, through the air to hit the bench with a sharp report.  To thrash
an untouched arse with this would be cruel.  To thrash already bruised and
beaten flesh was . . punitive!  And that is what I set about doing.
Inflicting pain.  Lots of it!  Not striking down into his buns as with The
Bruiser but slashing across them to tiger-stripe them with vivid, raw weals
on top of the previous welts.

"After a while I noticed that he was starting to make strange gurgling
noises and his body was making convulsive jerks.  I grew concerned, was he
having some sort of seizure?  A fit? A heart attack, even?  The animal
grunting and body spasms continued, grew stronger, then suddenly stopped.
I realised he'd had an orgasm.  Without anyone touching his cock he'd shot
his load into his jock strap, under the stimulus of the beating alone!  I'd
beaten many men but never seen such a thing before.  I was not best pleased
as I do not like my slaves to get their rocks off before me.

"His body was drenched in sweat, which is something that always turns me
on, so I covered him and mounted him.  But he was totally inert, exhausted
by pain and passion, so it was like fucking a piece of meat on a butchers
slab.  He didn't even beg me not to fuck him, as he had always done before.
So I didn't even have the pleasure of feeling I was raping him which had
made fucking him a particular pleasure in the past.

After I'd had a shower, I returned, removed the hood and unstrapped his
feet.  I pulled the dirty jock strap off him, deliberately dragging its
wide elastic waist-band over his beaten flesh to make him whimper.  When
I'd released his arms too, he heaved himself up off the flogging bench
painfully (he'd been splayed out on that for quite some time, after all)
and knelt at my feet expecting me to remove his slave collar.  But I threw
his sports bag at him and told him to dress in the jeans and tee shirt he'd
brought with him.  He asked if he could have a shower first but I told him
no.  I was in no mood to extend him any favours.  With glum obedience he
dressed and made to throw the jock in his bag, but I told him to leave it
as I could already foresee uses for that.

"He looked unhappily at his still mud caked arms, but knew better than to
ask again if he could wash.  He touched his face trying to judge how muddy
that still might be and tried to rub the caked dirt off.  So I scooped up
the wet jock and tenderly wiped his face with that, amused by the piteous
expression in his eyes. He knelt again and offered me his neck, expecting
the dog's collar to be removed as usual.  Thinking I had forgotten he went
so far as to say "The collar Sir?"  I gave him a hard stare and watched him
crumple into shame at his presumption - and at the realisation that he was
going to have to wear the collar on the bus home, in clear view above his
tee shirt for all to see.

"He walked stiffly down the two flights of stairs from the punishment room
and in the scullery he bent over to pick up the shorts and rugger shirt he
had stripped off there and stuff them in his bag.  As he did so, I noticed
that damp bars were already beginning to soak through his jeans from the
weeping weals across his backside.

"He phoned me that night to thank me for what he called my "corrective
discipline", and told me that the mess on his arse had dried by the time he
got home so that he could not peel his jeans off and had to sit soaking in
a warm bath to soften the dried ooze from his wounds before he could do
so. I told him he was to report to me again in ten days time so I could
inspect his arse.  Significantly, he immediately whined "You won't beat me
again Sir, will you?" I assured him I would not, at least, not until he was
ready for it, but that I just wanted to monitor how the bruising was
developing and to photograph it.  But it amused me that he who had
complained that he could not get men to beat him hard enough, seemed to
have had a belly-full this time!

"So, that is how I came by the jock strap and why it is the grubby grey
colour it is.  When you come to put it on, think of the tough, mud-soaked,
young policeman who sweated his guts out in it on the sports field and then
had an orgasm of pain in it.  A man who, quite literally, had the fuck
beaten out of him . . . and whose fuck is still there, soaked into that
stockingette pouch which waits to clasp your cock in its embrace.  But not
yet.  Before you even open the bag, I want you to know about the other two
slaves who have worn it before you."

I lowered the pages and sat there stunned by what I had read. I was
appalled.  Shocked.  Disturbed.  But also sexually aroused.  And most
powerfully so, too!  I longed to rip open the plastic bag and see its
content . . . handle it . . . touch it . . . inspect it . . .  smell it
. . .see if I could still sniff the policeman's crotch-sweat, the
policeman's fuck.  No one would know if I opened it now instead of later,
as ordered.  Yes they would - I would.  And would that matter?  Yes, indeed
it would!  I wanted to give my master my obedience.  Total obedience.  And
not just when he was looking.  I longed to wank my dribbling cock, but that
was forbidden too.  In an agony of frustration, I did the only thing I was
allowed to do, - I picked up the sheaf of papers again and turned to the
next page. . .