Date: Thu, 18 Oct 2001 11:49:05 -0700 (PDT)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter 34

Chapter thirty four

                      COUNTRY MATTERS

When he got up and went to the bathroom I rose from my mattress and laid
myself across his bed as far as my nipple thether would allow, to be ready
for him to give me my morning beating.  But when he returned, instead of
taking down the strap which hung over the bedhead as usual, he sat down
beside me and began to stroke and fondle my arse.

"You've a nice bum, boy" he said, adding after a pause, "This morning I've
a mind to take you up to the shippon after breakfast for your beating"

I didn't know what a shippon was, then.  As a Southerner and a city boy,
how was I to know that a cowshed was called a shippon in these parts?  But
I knew better than to ask.

After serving him his breakfast and clearing away, I was doing the washing
up in the kitchen when he entered and told me to leave that and to put on
the clothes he threw at me.  There was a pair of white, cotton, elastic
waisted gym shorts and a khaki shirt.  I dried my hands and struggled into
the shorts which were very tight - and very short.  If the legs had not
gripped round my thighs so tightly I would have feared that my dick would
have hung out the bottom!  The shirt was a bit on the small side too and I
wondered if it might not be one of the Corporal's left-offs for it had
epaulettes and breast pockets, military style.

As we went out through the scullery, he told me to put on my trainers and
led me out across the rear courtyard.  The Corp was just emerging from his
quarters as we passed and he stopped and gave me an odd, intense sort of
look.  Strangely, I felt very embarrassed to be seen in my obscenely tight
shorts and was furious to find myself blushing under his gaze.  This made
no sense as the Corp knew well enough that I was his master's bum boy, but
this early in the morning I just felt ashamed to be seen so blatantly
attired.

We went through a gate into a field and walked uphill in silence alongside
drystone walls, me a pace or two behind him.  We came to a clump of nettles
and he stopped to pick a spray of the fresh young top shoots, indifferent
to their stings on his tough hands.

"Unbutton your shirt."  I did.

"Open it."  I did that too, proud to flaunt the "FUCK SLAVE" message
tattooed across my chest to him.  It was a dull, humid day and the uphill
walk had worked me into a sweat so I assumed he was going to indulge in one
of his unpleasant sweat-feeding sessions, but no, he brushed the young
nettles to and fro, lightly over my nipple.  It stung of course but was not
too painful.  Then he picked a second spray and treated my other nipple
likewise before tossing the leaves aside.  Next he broke off several long
stalks of nettle and thrashed them across my chest, forehand, backhand,
several times till they hung broken and limp.  That didn't really hurt that
much either.  There's not enough weight in nettle stalks to give real
impact, and the leaves as they swish through the air slow each lash and
cushion its fall.  So what was the point then?  I'll tell you.  Being
thrashed with nettles across your bare chest SOUNDS cruel, and standing
there passively, ALLOWING it to be done to you, is a very powerful
demonstration of submission, just as requiring someone stand and submit to
being thrashed with nettles is a wonderfully potent demonstration of power.

At the top of the field stood a derelict stone building, doorless but with
most of its roof still on.  The old shippon indeed.  He led the way into
its gloomy interior. There was a bale of straw on the earth floor and laid
across it was a slender switch of young ash, trimmed of its leaves.  So
much for this being a sudden whim!  As always, everything was carefully
planned and prepared.

I guess I should say a bit about the nature of ash. Left to itself it will
grow into a big tree but when grown in a hedgerow where it is trimmed back
every year or two, it will throw up straight, whippy stems, three or four
feet long in a single year.  The leaves grow in pairs either side of the
stem and in September, when this event took place, the buds of next year's
leaves are already forming so that when you strip off the leaves these buds
are left exposed.  They are hard and black and pointed and they grow with
alternate pairs at right angles to each other, spaced out along the length
of the stem.  This means that when used as a cane, if one pair of leaf buds
lands flat, the next pair will present one of its pair of sharp, hard buds
face forward to dig into the target area and it is this feature which makes
an ash switch such a cruel implement.  And do not imagine that the pair of
buds which land flat have no effect.  You have only to look at the weals on
the skin of an ash-thrashed man to read the tell-tale sign of those vicious
bud pairs printed into the beaten flesh as hard, bright nodules of pain
either side of the main welt.

I did not know any of this then - but oh boy, was I about to learn!

He, picked up the slim cane and tapped the straw bale with it.  Obediently
I knelt and lowered my stinging chest onto the rough straw, lying along its
length with my legs stretched out straight, toes on the earth.  But I was
still wearing the shorts.  Surely he was not going to give me my morning
beating while still dressed? It was puzzling too that he was standing
directly behind me, between my splayed legs rather than to one side in the
thrashing position.  What was he up to?  I lay there tense and uneasy for
several moments - and then I felt the warm wetness on my backside.  He was
pissing over me!  He drenched the tight thin shorts and I felt his piss
running down the backs of my legs.

Only when he had finished did he move to the thrashing position to one
side.  I sensed that this would not be the normal type of casual, even
token, couple of lashes which normally made up a regular morning beating.
This was going to be something much nastier.  I heard the hiss of the ash
switch through the air a couple of times as he got the feel of it, and the
it came down across my soaked shorts stretched taut across my buttocks.  I
yelped at the vicious stinging pain of it and imagined the fine mist spray
of piss that must have exploded from under the impact. I gripped the straw
bale and hung on for dear life, desperate to hold my position as he beat
the shit out of me, knowing it would be the worse for me if I flung myself
off the bale in my pain.

Eventually he stopped but my relief was short lived because he only went
round to the opposite side and began again, this time caning the backs of
my wet thighs as well as my arse. I imagined that the thin switch must
surely have sliced through the thin wet cotton and ripped it to shreds,
though that was not so.

At last he did stop and I could hear him breathing heavily from his
exertions as he stood over me. "A very nice bum" he repeated, adding "and
all the nicer when it's well striped.  Those shorts get transparent when
wet and I can see the bright red weals shining right through them" he
gloated. Then he gripped the waistband and fought to strip them off me,
dragging the tight waistband across my wet buns and down my thighs,
scraping the elastic agonisingly over the raw welts. He lowered himself
onto my nakedness and pleasured himself on me with greedy abandon.

I felt as if I had been fucked by a freight train but eventually he got off
and ordered me to my feet and to dress. I retrieved the wet shorts from
where he had tossed them and eased them up over my bum as gently as I could
feeling shocked and shaken by his violence and brutality. But I was not
allowed time to recover. "Come" he said and strode off into the open air,
leaving me to scramble along behind him as usual.

We went on up a narrow wooded valley till we came to a tumbled heap of
stones that had once been a cottage surrounded by old trees.  In the green
shade under the tress was a long, narrow river of waist high nettles such
as you often find near sites of human habitation.

"Drop your shorts" he said and walked away from me as I did so, down to the
other end of the bank of nettles.  "Look at me" he said, and from a
distance of perhaps twenty paces he locked his eyes onto mine and held
them.

"Come to me" he said.  And I did, wading waist deep through the river of
nettles, my eyes fixed on his.  It was if he were reeling me in like a fish
on a line.  The nettles swished through my naked legs, caressing my thighs
and my genitals as I walked toward him in beaten submission.  Whether it
was the ecstasy of submission or the myriad stings of the nettles or both I
don't know, but I developed a massive erection and the helm of my uncut
penis protruded from my foreskin.  The nettles were now stinging my most
tender part which aroused me even more.  I strode on down the length of the
green river, offering myself, my nakedness, my obedience, my evident
arousal to his eyes as my body burned with the fire of countless stings.
And there was a rapport between us, an unmistakable communion as I drowned
in his blue gaze.  I was his, his, totally his, to do with as he liked.

Finally I emerged from the nettles and stood before him, my nakedness
ablaze with stinging and longing.  I knew that he would reach out his hands
to me and pull me towards him.  Knew that he would enfold me in those
powerful arms.  And indeed he did reach out - to take me by the shoulders
and spin me around, to scoop my hands behind my back and bind them swiftly
and deftly.

I was shocked by what I saw as an act of crude betrayal.  Had I imagined
that moment of communion between us?  Was he deliberately erasing it by
this brutal manhandling?  I was shoved through a nearby gate into a steep
cow pasture and the cows stopped their lazy feeding to watch us.  I was
prodded onwards up the slope, then suddenly halted and shoved to my
knees. He pushed me between the shoulder blades and with my hands bound I
could not save myself from sprawling on my face onto the greensward that
rose steeply before me.  Except that where my face was to land it was not
green.  A large fresh cow pat lay there.  Not so much a cow pat as a cow
pie, deep with a small puddle of brown liquor in the top and a buzz of
flies on it.

At the last moment I instinctively twisted my head sideways to avoid going
face first into the revolting mess and landed on my ear.  But my bastard
master's intentions were not to be so easily thwarted.  He clamped one boot
on the back of my head and rolled my face to and fro through the stinking
squelch of khaki-green cow shit, grinding my face into it again and again.

Finally he yanked me up into a kneeling position and laughed as a gob of
dung-slime slid down my face and plopped onto my chest and slowly slithered
over my belly into my crotch while his infernal camera clicked and whirred.

"Had enough, Sweatpig?" he sneered.

"Yes Sir" I mumbled.

"Wrong!" he gloated, "there's worse to come!"

"Why am I being punished Sir?" I whined.

"You are not being punished."

"Then why are you doing this to me Sir?"

"Because I enjoy it" was the smug reply.  There's no answer to that!  He
leaned down to bring his face close to mine and added "And because YOU
enjoy it" There's no answer to that either and I hung my head in shame.

He yanked me to my feet and prodded me on up the field, swishing the ash
switch menacingly as he walked.  At the top it levelled off at the edge of
a wood and there was a huge dung heap where tractor loads of cowshed
mucking out had been dumped over many months.  It was about thirty or forty
yards long, five or six wide and as high as my head.  The earth around it
was churned into mud by tractor tyres and the hooves of livestock and in
the deep ruts and hoof prints a foul liquor had gathered where it had
leached from the steaming pile. It was black, evil smelling on had an oily
film floating on top. My heart sank.

As I feared, he ordered me to strip and crawl on my belly through the
polluted ooze until I lay sprawled on the slope of the dung heap.  Then the
switch was brought into play a second time only this time across my back
and shoulders.  I squirmed under the stinging pain, as if trying to protect
myself by burying my nakedness in the dung heap.  Then, suddenly, a voice
"What the hell's going on here?"

I peered round to see a hiker in shorts and with backpack. He must have
come out of the wood and taken Hugh unawares.  He stood over my sprawled
nakedness, cane in hand, and the hiker must have seen at least a couple of
strokes administered.  But Hugh was completely at ease. "He's being
trained." he answered, casually, as though it were the most natural thing
in the world and offering the cane to the hiker, adds "Care to have a go?"

The hiker, outfaced by this insouciance backs away uncertainly and heads
off down the hill, pausing only once for a backward glance.  But at least
the thrashing is not resumed and I am ordered to the bottom of the adjacent
ravine to "wash as much of that muck off as you can" in the icy stream at
the bottom. I clamber back up, still shivering despite the muggy heat of
the day and am told to dress.  We then head back home, but not down the
hill the way we had come but through the wood.  Pity, we might have seen
that hiker again.  He had strong brown legs ...

The wood is mostly of slender young trees but Hugh pauses by a stouter one
and asks if I know what sort of tree it is.  "A sycamore?" I hazard.  "No,"
he replies, "that is my flogging tree" I look at him in alarm but he adds
quickly "But don't worry, you've had enough for today, we'll save that for
another day." and to my huge relief he throws the cane down.

I am left wondering what I would have done if he had wanted to tie me to
that tree for yet another beating.  Would I have refused?  Would I have
dared defy him?  For the truth was I had had all I could take that day.
Perhaps he sensed that he had pushed me to my limit.  But it left me
uneasy, then and later.  It was a new element in my servitude, this
realisation that there could be and end to total obedience.