Date: Wed, 4 Apr 2001 01:52:47 -0700 (PDT) From: hugh questorius <questorius@yahoo.co.uk> Subject: The Humiliator, continuation The Humiliator. Chapter Nine IN THE BASEMENT BATHROOM A change of flooring from stone to lino or vinyl as he yanked me round into an adjacent room. Then the upward jerk from my lead brought me to my feet. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the jock strap and stripped it down to my knees. Then he put his boot on it and pushed it down to the ground and held it there while I stepped out of it. Oh the bliss of getting that filthy thing off me for the first time in four days and feeling fresh, cool air around my balls. A downward twitch on the dog lead and I dropped to my knees again. I was learning quickly to respond to these signals. I felt him lean down past me and scoop up the jock from where it lay between my knees. There was a hideous inevitability about what happened next. With a deft, quick movement he hooked the base of the pouch under my chin, pulled the rest up over my face and tied it off tightly behind my head so that the befouled stockingette was stretched taut over my face. I quickly stopped breathing to avoid the smell. He did nothing. I did nothing. I knelt there at his feet till I felt I would burst and could hold out no longer. With a gasp I gulped air deep into my lungs, fighting for it through the soggy cloth. And with that breath came the man-stink. And with each breath thereafter, with no escape. No wonder he had gone to such lengths to tell me of the men whose cock and balls had inhabited this putrid pocket :- the bully-boy copper literally having the spunk beaten out of him; the guilty Jesuit tortured into dribbling streams of pre-cum; the randy little Arab having the semen repeatedly stripped from his loins till he begged to be left alone; and myself of course, adding my sweat of sexual torment for days on end. All of these I sucked in with every breath. Another twitch at my collar brought me to my feet. With a wordless, strong grip he guided me to the bath and made me step into it and move to one end. He helped me to sit and then lie right back, my head over the plug and under the taps. My feet he lifted over the other end of the bath to rest on a tiled infill, then he took my wrists and bound them to the taps over my head. Most surprisingly the bath was warm and a little wet as though it had just been emptied of warm water. Why? It could hardly be for my comfort! One could guess what was to come next. The unzip sound and then it came, the stream of warm piss thumping down onto my chest. If you think that "thump" is a strange word, then you have not experienced the sheer physical impact of a purposeful jet of piss hitting your body from a height. He hosed me down over my chest, my belly, down to drench my crotch and then started upwards again, over my belly, my ribs, my chest, my throat . . . Oh no. Please no. I shook my head furiously from side to side, but it had no effect. The seemingly endless stream drenched the jock-mask. I could not get air! Oh God, I was drowning in piss! In panic I sucked hard and managed to pull air through the sodden mask into my mouth - air AND piss. I choked on the piss, spluttered and gulped for air again, but he was pissing directly over my mouth again and I could not get air till the sabre-stream slashed down to my chest again. Then I was able to gulp air and piss once more through the wet weave. And choke again and gasp again and thresh in helpless panic and tug at my wrist cords and go for another breath but too late for here was the piss stream again over my face and no air. How much longer could he keep this going for God's sake? Now up over my eyes and forehead to soak my hair in his piss but giving me a chance to suck air again and suck piss again and choke again and suck again quick before the jet returns but too late and I can't get air again and I'm drowning and need air must have air oh God help me . . . Then at last the stream weakens, dies to a dribble on my chest. And I lie there in a bath of piss, my chest heaving as I fight for each breath, working hard for each breath, sucking it through the wet filter, gulping at the man-stink, choking and retching. He fires off one last burst of piss with unerring accuracy over my mouth. And he chuckles, pleased with himself. And I hate him for that. For the meanness of it and for the contempt it shows. I hear him zip up his fly and expect to be untied now that nastiness is over. But no. I sense him doing something - preparing something. Something nasty and I cringe down into the warm piss under my back. Ah! That's why the bath was warmed, to keep the piss warm. Cold piss is just wetness but warm, it is body waste. I had to admire his attention to WHAH! Suddenly I am swamped with a great gush of warm wet all over head and body and again I am fighting for air and feeling that I am fighting for life. More piss? Can't be. Stinks absolutely putrid. And when I finally succeed in sucking it into my mouth with the air, it tastes bitter and foul. I fear I might vomit which would be disastrous with this gag across my face. I manage to fight down my rising gorge, but I must breathe again. But I can't suck more of that filth into my body. But I must breathe. And so, the sadistic bastard forces me to defile myself, for after that breath there has to be another - and another - and each one has to be fought for. I hear the scrape of a chair - the rattle of a bucket - the creak of the chair as he stands on it. Dear heaven, what further horror is he planning? I'm not sure I can take much more of this. But then, what option do I have with my wrists bound? SCHPLOP! A heavy dollop of - what, for God's sake? - lands with a warm wet thump on my shoulder. And another on my belly . . . on my chest. I can feel it slide slowly down my side and slop into the piss. Then a particularly big mass lands with a noisy SCHPLOTT! onto my crotch and seeps down between my legs. Shit? No, too wet, too sloppy. Dung? Cow dung? More likely. Smells like it too. Warm wet cow shit. Straight from the cow? Unlikely, more like he has had this bucket standing atop a radiator. And the chair? To increase the splat factor of course. The planning of all this! Another schlopp on one thigh . . . on my ribs . . . on my throat. If he drops a load of this over mygagged mouth I'm done for. There's no way I could breathe through that.There's a pause and I see another flash and hear the whirr of a camera. It is not enough to defile me but my shame must be recorded too, from on high. He gets down off the chair. The bucket scrapes on the floor right beside the bath. He reaches in and rips the jock down off my face. I suck air in freely. Oh the joy of being able to breathe easily again! Gulps of pure sweet fresh air. So OK, I'm lying there in a bath of urine, spattered with cow-shit, but compared to what I have been breathing, this is mountain fresh! I sense that he is kneeling beside the bath, leaning over me. He clenches my jaw in one hand, holding my head rigid against the enamel so I cannot move it. His grip on my jaw is so tight it hurts. And I know what he is going to do and there is nothing I can do to stop it. It seems that my blinded eyes see his other hand dip into the bucket of filth, scoop up a handful and, with great deliberation, slop it straight into my face - and then smear it round, hard. He wipes his soiled hand on my wet hair and releases my jaw. "You are filth" he rasps. I spit the muck out of my mouth and murmer "Yes sir" His hands move down onto my body and smear the stinking slop over my chest and belly, massaging it in. Then he plunges both hands between my legs and squelches my balls in his fist and probes fingers up my arsehole, all with deliberate crudity and violence. I whimper and yelp in his grip, but unfortunately my cock shoots up erect, betraying my depravity to him. He goes to the basin and washes his hands. He returns and kneels beside me again. I can sense him over me, close and big and threatening like a thundercloud of malevolent power. I can hear his breathing. I cringe in fear. And then it comes, like a lightning strike. A fierce pain in my left nipple. God! What has he used? No peg. A metal clip of some sort. Christ! It must have teeth! I let out a howl of anguish. And then another as my right tit is gripped in identical jaws. I thresh about in my agony, arching my back and making embarrassingly obscene farting noises as air bubbles and slurps through the piss under my body. And as I scream, pleading with him to release me, there's another photo flash, and my pain-twisted body, glistening with filth and jewelled with metal tit-clamps, is frozen in its agony for other masters - other slaves? - to leer at and snigger over. I implore him to release the clips. And he does . . . only to turn them through 90 degrees and re-apply them. I scream curses and obscenities and threats at him. So he takes them off and allows me to sob my gratitude to him before re-applying them with surgical precision to the very tips of my nipples. The pain is not to be borne. The pain is too great to bear. The pain is quite simply unbearable. And I make a discovery - what do you do when the pain is unbearable? Why, if your hands are bound and you are helpless, you bear it! That is what you do. You don't even scream any more. All your energy is concentrated on one thing only - bearing what is unbearable. Fortunately he was a skilled and experienced torturer and could see he had taken me to my limit - and a bit beyond - and he removed them. I just lay there, exhausted by pain and did not even thank him this time for releasing me. He pulled the plug out from under my head and the slurry of piss and dung started to gurgle down the plughole. Presumably there was a hand-held shower attachment over the taps and he started to hose me down - but with cold water this time, the bastard. I yelled and splashed and spluttered under the icy onslaught but eventually it was done. He untied my hands and helped me to stand and hosed down my back. When he had finished I expected him to help me out of the bath, but no. He tied my hands behind my back and slipped a noose over my balls. This he yanked tight and I was surprised how painful it was. Later I was to discover that this was a wondrously simple device of his own design which he called his "Follow me" It was simply a quarter inch wide strip of soft leather with a steel ring at one end so it could be used like a dog's choke lead. At one end were small pinprick spikes - on the inside! You had only to slip it over a slave's balls, jerk it tight so the pin spikes bit, and walk away with the other end. He would definitely be inclined to follow! But on this occasion he didn't walk away, he tied it up onto the hook for the shower, above my head, pulling me up onto my toes to ease the bite of those vicious little spikes. Then, having hung me up to dry, he walked out, leaving me dangling like a bit of washing. But what really hurt was that I clearly heard him snap off the light before closing the door and walking away. As I was in permanent darkness behind my goggles anyway, you may wonder why I should worry whether the light was left on or not. I couldn't see a thing anyway. But think about it - when you leave a room, you automatically leave the light on if there's someone there and only switch off if the room is empty. As far as he was concerned, he had left an empty room! There are more ways to humiliate someone than to rub shit in his face! The "nothing" left standing in a bath in a dark room, gingerly lowered his heels to the ground when it became insupportable to remain on tip toe any longer, even though it meant knotting the Follow Me round his balls even tighter. He waited patiently to dry out and for someone to come and collect him. When they were ready.