Date: Sat, 24 Mar 2001 04:57:17 -0800 (PST)
From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Humiliator  6. Continuation

The Humiliator. Chapter Six

Sweating It Out


The next four days were pure hell.  I seemed to be in a state of almost
continuous sexual arousal, which I was forbidden to satisfy.  I couldn't
concentrate, my work suffered and my boss demanded to know what the hell
was going on.  The damned jock strap was a torment.  I couldn't have a
shower because I was not allowed to take it off, so I just had to wash down
the rest of my body as best I could.  I was terrified lest other people
could smell the stink of it, so instead of my usual boxer shorts I dug out
an old pair of Y fronts, hoping they would contain the smell.  Maybe they
did, but they also made my crotch more sweaty and itchy.  I even bought
some aftershave and slapped that on, but when blokes at work pulled my leg
about smelling like a whore's boudoir, I couldn't be sure if it was the
aftershave they could smell or my crotch.  I tried not to get near people,
which made them start to look at me oddly.  I slept naked, save for the
jock of course, and my bed stank even after I changed the sheets.

Each night was a misery of sexual fantasies and anticipation, so that I
dreaded having a wet dream, remembering that the Arab lad had been punished
for that and he was not even a slave.  Wondering what punishment I would
incur for such a failure of obedience aroused me still more.  I would
eventually drop into a fitful and exhausted sleep, only to awake drenched
in sweat and with a massive erection pushing at that imprisoning jock strap
and longing so much for release I could have wept from anger and
frustration.  My balls felt as if they would burst with the pressure of the
spunk seething inside them.

Again and again and again the argument rolled round in my head:: Why
shouldn't I toss myself off?  He need never know.  But he would, 'cos I'd
have to confess to him.  Well, don't tell him!  But he has taken ownership
of my body so he has the right to know what happens with his property.  So,
tell him and suffer the punishment - whatever that might be.  But that
would not alter the fact that I had disobeyed his direct order.  And I
wanted to be an obedient slave.  I wanted to be the best slave he'd ever
had.  How could I hope to be that, if I flouted his first real test?  And
this was a test of course.  I had no doubt that he had planned it very
deliberately.  He knew what I was suffering, no doubt about it. The
bastard.  I hated his guts - and was determined not to give in.  I would be
obedient despite all his devious manipulations.  But if only I could have
just one wank . . .