Date: Thu, 24 Apr 2008 15:10:51 +0200
From: dralion <dralion@orange.fr>
Subject: Skin Fuck 1

He could feel the sweat running down the middle of his back, down into the
crack of his arse and at the same time the roughness of the wall on his
forehead. He was hot even though it was a cold and wet Autumn night in
London. There was a distinct smell of hot, sweaty rubber whenever he moved
his shoulders to ease the pain developing in them.

Despite the pain he did not move his legs or his arms crossed at the small
of his back. He didn't move them, even though there were no restraints
holding them in place. No handcuffs. No ropes. He had been told to stand
there facing the park wall in this position. In full view of any passer by
on this busy Saturday night. He could hear some shouting and giggling
behind him as some fluffy queens left the gay pub to his right. He could
hear them sniggering and talking about him. Probably pointing as well. He
didn't care. He had been told to do this.

Just as he had been told to wear the rubber T-shirt and rubber chaps, under
his Fred Perry and combats. To wear his 30 hole rangers and to wet shave
his head using his own piss instead of water. To turn up at 9pm in a
vanilla bar in Greenwich. To wait there standing out a mile in his skinhead
gear amongst the fluffy queens in their cropped tops and glitter.

His dick tries to grow in his combats as he re-lives the embarrassment and
the humiliation of it all. But this just causes him pain as it pulls on the
cock and ball device fitted around his balls and dick, making the pins dig
deeper into his stretched balls.

It had been a test for him he was sure, when his new Master had handed the
device to him inside the pub in full view of everybody and told him to go
to the toilet to put it on. He had turned red at this point and just bowed
his head, taking the device from his Master's hand and moving clumsily to
the toilets. His dick was hard by the time he fished it out of his combats
to put on the device.

After what seemed like ten minutes and a lot of struggling he pressed the
final stud home. He had chosen the smallest setting for each of the ball
stretcher, ball separator and cockring. He wanted to show his Master that
he was worthy, that he wanted to serve. The skin on his sack was stretched
painfully over his balls, the veins showing clearly. There was also a dull
growing pain between the bottom of his sack and his arse. But it was worth
it.

He was brought back to the present by the agony of his anal sphincter
clenching involuntarily against the large butt plug in his arse. He had
never taken such a large one before, especially without using a lot of lube
and teasing his arse open with his fingers. His Master had not given him
these luxuries. He had simply been handed the plug in the pub and given
five minutes to go to the toilet again and be back with the plug firmly
embedded in his arse. If he failed then his Master would simply walk away.

No lube. Nothing. Just his own spit. He had licked at the butt plug as if
it was his Master's dick, smothering it in spit. Fucking his mouth with
it. Its taste was a mixture of muskiness and rubber. He thought of the
other slaves who had probably had this plug up their arses but quickly
dismissed the idea. There was not much time. He tried to relax and
concentrate on opening his arse. He was doing OK until the bang at the
cubicle door and a shout of "Get a fucking move on in there" from the other
side. He had no choice but to push hard. His sphincter muscles screamed, he
saw just colours before his eyes and tears ran down his face. Finally the
thickest bit of the plug was past his sphincter and it shot home. He was
breathing heavily as he pulled up his combats and went back to the bar.

His Master just smiled and said that he would be wearing the butt plug all
weekend, except when his Master wanted to use his arse for other purposes.

More sweat was running down his back now and also down his leg inside the
chaps to his boots. What next? He did not know nor care. He was obeying his
Master and waiting for him. That was enough.

Next was a kick to his arse, which hurt like fuck. He lost his balance and
fell forward onto his knees on the pavement, scraping his forehead on the
wall. "Follow me, cunt." His Master strode off down the street.

He picked himself up and followed him, as fast as he could with the huge
butt plug up his arse. He could see his Master's six foot-one-frame about
15 yards in front. His Master's shaven head glistening in the street light
on top of his bull neck and the wide shoulders under his green bomber
jacket. He could also hear his Master's 30 hole Ox blood doc marten's
thumping the pavement as he walked up the hill towards the heath.

When he got to the top of the hill his Master was waiting for him. He was
pushed against the wall. Without warning his Master slapped him across his
face. Then again and again. The same side each time. His mind was spinning;
he could not think straight as the blows just kept on coming. Again and
again, always the same side, always the same ferocity. Relentless.

Then they stopped. It took him a while to notice. He had been feeding on
the pain enjoying it. It was making him drunk.

His Master grabbed him by his throat, pushing his head backwards. He was
forced to stare at his Master's ice cold eyes. They looked black under the
street light. He lowered his eyes in submission. He tried lowering his head
but couldn't. His Master tightened his grip on his throat making it harder
for him to breathe. He had to struggle now for every breath. Then the
slapping started again. Relentless. Again on the same side. That side of
his face was burning, on fire. Things started to blur. He could just see
bright colours in front of his eyes. Nothing else. No heath, no wall.
Nothing. He was sinking into the pain. Absorbing it. Lapping it up like the
hungry dog that he was.

Suddenly his Master let go of his throat and stopped the slapping. He
coughed and sputtered, spitting the phlegm that had gathered in his mouth
onto the pavement. He was breathing heavily now, trying to get as much air
into his lungs as possible. "Still want to be my pig whore, cunt?"

"Yes Sir, please Sir. Please let me Sir!" He pleaded between panting, his
voice hoarse.

Then there was silence. Nothing. Just his breathing. He could hear cars on
the road about 50 yards away but nothing else. The longer the silence
continued, the more worried he became. He so wanted to serve this man--to
be degraded by him. To be his, to be used as he wanted. To have no choice.
To be an object. He started to panic. His Master might not want him.

"Please sir."