Date: Fri, 15 Nov 2002 16:41:00 +0000 (GMT)
From: hugh masters <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Stripped, Chapter 2

STRIPPED.
by questorius@yahoo.com.uk

CHAPTER 2.  The Second File

The next morning Ian opened up and had to force himself not to go straight
to the locked drawer of his desk to inspect the other two files with the
same intensity with which he had devoured the first the night before. But
that wouldn't do.  His workers would be arriving shortly and coming to his
office for instructions and he needed to be able to study those strange,
disturbing pictures at leisure and with the certainty of not being
interrupted. But the thought of them was never far from his mind, nagging,
nagging.

He wondered what he would say if young Will asked about them, but
mercifully that didn't happen.  He was brisk and businesslike in the only
brief exchange he had with Will but realised afterwards that he had avoided
eye contact.

He always took lunch in his office sitting at his desk - and was invariably
undisturbed.  Now would be safe for a look, surely?  As his hand dropped to
unlock the drawer he glanced down the length of the workshop to check that
all the men had gone to the pub as usual and was startled to see Will still
at his bench.  But not working, just sitting there - and watching! Was he
watching or was it guilt that made it seem so?  Ian felt a hot flush of
shame wash over him and he ostentatiously carried on going through the
Accounts Books. It was three weeks since his book keeper had moved on and
it would be another week before the new one, Mrs Duncan, would start so he
had to struggle on as best he could.

The interminable afternoon dragged at last to a close and the men packed up
and left.  All of them? He hadn't actually seen either Martin or Will
leave. He called their names.  No answer. He walked down the length of the
workshop, even checking the lavatory. No one.  He locked both front and
back doors and returned to his office, even scanning the wood racks
overhead as he went.

Satisfied at last that he was alone and would not be disturbed he unlocked
the drawer and withdrew the three files. Number 1 he put aside carefully
and as he picked up No 2 he noticed his hands were shaking.  This was dated
June 10, two weeks after the previous encounter so the man knew what he was
in for - but came anyway!  Ian opened the file and directed his gaze to the
first picture, top left, deliberately trying to avoid looking at the other
11 photos. He wanted to experience them in sequence, squeezing dry each in
turn for all the information it contained before allowing himself the
luxury of moving on to the next.

Pic No.1 was at first glance identical to the first in File 1, showing the
same man wearing the same dark business suit and standing to attention, as
before.  Even the location seemed identical - a blank wall of dirty plaster
behind and grubby, bare floorboards. Could be anywhere. A basement or
store-room perhaps?  The only change was that instead of the half hood
which masked his features in the first file, his head was now completely
covered in a loose black bag which reached down to his shoulders.

Ian found this even more disturbing for it utterly obliterated his
individuality.  This was not a person, this was a faceless object, a victim
waiting to be used. Ian tried to imagine what it would be like to stand
there, blinded and obliterated and vulnerable, knowing that unspeakable
obscenities were to be visited upon him.  He found the idea frightening -
and eerily thrilling!

In pic No.2 the man was still at attention and smartly dressed - except for
one detail, his flies had been unzipped and he had permitted his controller
to rummage around inside there and scoop out his cock and balls. The effect
was surreal - smart businessman with no face and his balls on display!

Apart from the jacket being unbuttoned, No.3 seemed identical at first
glance but then Ian noted that the shirt was unbuttoned too, from below the
collar to the waist, leaving a narrow slit of hairy chest on show. Only a
narrow slit, yet Ian felt certain that greedy hands had invaded that slit
and groped the man-body under the shirt, perhaps seeking out the nipples to
pinch and twist.  It was noticeable too that the cock no longer dangled but
stood erect.  Here was a man who LIKED having his body man-handled!

The fourth Polaroid showed the jacket and tie still in situ but the pants
had been dropped and lay puddled around his ankles.  He looked more
obscenely naked like this than he would have done entirely nude.  Naked and
horribly vulnerable.

No.5 was a close-up of the genitals.  One of those long, leather bootlaces
had been carefully bound round and round the base, stretching the bundle of
equipment down from the body, each square section of lacing lying neatly
alongside its neighbour to make a solid binding. The two ends had been
brought up tight between the testes, stretching them wide apart so that the
skin was stretched over them taut and shiny.  Ian tried to imagine what it
would be like to have that done to you and winced at the thought.  But
worse was to come.

The next shot showed a netting bag hung from the laced binding round the
balls - and at the bottom of the bag lay the silver shining sphere of a
"petanc" ball.  Ian had played boule on holiday in Provence.  He had thrown
such metal balls into the white dust of a town square and knew the weight
of them.The thought of such a solid metal weight hung from your balls did
not bear thinking about!

Picture 7 showed the same close up, the only difference was that the
netting bag now held two silver balls.  Ian felt sick and outraged that a
man could do this to another man - but reminded himself that the victim was
not bound and helpless, he was there of his own free will!  Ian wondered if
the metal sphere had been gently lowered into the net or allowed to drop
suddenly, striking the first with that distinctive "petanc" clash.  He had
only to ask the question to feel certain he knew the answer. . .

No.8 showed the man now on his knees, his hands behind his back.  Bound or
just clasped there?  Impossible to tell. But now the jacket and shirt had
been yanked open and pushed down over the shoulders, baring the torso. The
bag-obliterated head was thrown back and you could see by the way the black
material was sucked into the gape of the mouth that he was gasping with
pain. He knelt upright, sturdy thighs taut and splayed wide.  The boules in
the net bag hung within an inch of the floor.  "Stupid bastard" mumered
Ian,"why doesn't he sit down on his heels?"  That way the bag would have
rested on the ground, easing the drag on his tesicles.  Or had he perhaps
done so, only to be ordered to kneel up to ensure he suffered the full
rigour of the weight?  Or had he deliberately and knowingly opted to suffer
the pain - to offer it up to his Master, as it were? That idea disturbed
and thrilled Ian. He was concious of the leakage from his cock soaking his
jeans.

Notable too, in this shot, were the red, inflamed areas around the nipples.
Something nasty had been done there, that was sure.  Then he noted the
object lying on the floor between the man's knees - a lavatory brush!  He
had had his tits scrubbed with those stiff bristles!  Oh God, Oh God, the
horror of it, thought Ian.  The sheer, sadistic cruelty of it!  He imagined
the lavatory brush scraping over the tender nubs or being rammed hard
against them and s-l-o-w-l-y rotated under full pressure.  No wonder the
surrounding skin looked red-raw.  Ian unzipped, pulled out his cock and
used his handkerchief to mop up the sticky fluid oozing from it.

The next picture was a back view.  The man standing again, stripped stark
naked now and with his wrists emphatically bound behind his back with a
leather belt wrapped tightly around them several times. Very tightly - you
could see the edges cutting into the flesh.  Whether or not the wrists had
been bound in the previous shot, they certainly were now!  The bagged head
hung forwards away from the camera and the shoulers were slumped.  He
looked exhausted and defeated - very different from the proud, erect stance
of the figure in the smart business suit before he had been worked over.
But his trials were clearly not over yet, for behind him on the floor stood
a little wooden three-legged stool, like an old fashioned milking stool.
Only this one had been "modified" for nailed onto its seat was a black
rubber but plug, its spear point jutting threateningly upwards.

The tenth Polaroid kept the same back view only now the victim had been
carefully lowered onto the spike with the first couple of inches
penetrating the anus. To protect himself from further intrusion the poor
bastard was desperately trying to support himself in that untenable
squatting position.  You could see the tension in the bunched muscles along
the thighs and in the ridged sinews of his calves and lower legs and his
back shone with sweat from the effort of trying to hold that position.

Ian reflected that there was no way he could have lowered himself into that
situation.  His torturer must have held his upper arms and supported him
while guiding him down slowly onto the spike.  And all he had to do was
press sharply down on the shoulers and the man would have had no option but
to go fully down on the spike.  But that hadn't happened.  The master had
left his victim in that unsustainable position and stood there, watching
him sweat as he tried to protect himself from further pain.  How long for?
Impossible to say but that amount of sweat suggested perhaps as much as a
minute. But it could not last.  He would have to let go and allow his own
body weight to impale him. What sort of sick sadistic bastard would dream
up such a nasty refinement as that?

Picture 11 was a front view taken not long after that moment of
self-impalement for the torso was arched back in a taut rictus of pain with
positive rivulets of sweat running down his chest and abdomen.  Yet despite
all this the penis was still hugely rampant!  Amazing! Moreover it had been
sheathed in a black condom.

Why black? Ian wondered, only to decide that it was somehow more obscene
and therefore absolutely right.  Clearly the man was going to be milked of
his semen - but why not just let it spurt?  Why collect it?

The twelfth and final picture was perhaps the most sickening of all.  It
showed the man on all fours crawling away from the camera like a cowed and
beaten beast.  The three-legged stool and its monstrous plug had been
ripped out and lay discarded on its side.  Perhaps to free up access for a
fucking?  Who could tell?  The ball weights dragged behind him along the
floor, tugging still at his testicles.But most sad of all, the blind,
hooded head was turned over the shoulder as if to "look" at the
camera. There was something so pathetic and contemptible about that blind,
pleading angle of the head.  The bag had been rolled up over the tip of the
nose to give access to the mouth and from that dangled a black condom, flat
and flaccid, apparently sucked dry. No, look closer - that was not one
condom hanging from his mouth, there were two.  The poor, sad, humiliated
and defeated creature had even been made to consume its own semen and to
suck out his master's.

Ian felt sickened by that image of utter degradation - sickened and
something else too.  Envy!  That is what it was. Oh God, envy!  He closed
the folder slowly and noticed his hand was shaking again. Could he take any
more of this sick horror?  Perhaps he should leave the last file for study
tomorrow night?  But, as if compusively driven, and thinking himself alone
and unobserved, he pulled the third file towards him . . .

To be continued.