Date: Sun, 22 May 2005 12:15:28 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part 16

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 16

When the door next opened all three of the overseers
were standing there, prods at the ready.  They
motioned for me to come out into the corridor, and I
was tossed a pair of standard work shorts that I
gratefully pulled on - whatever awaited me, I didn't
want to face it naked!  Then Sean commanded me to put
my wrists together in front of me, and as I watched,
he put thick, padded leather cuffs  around my wrists
and pulled the straps holding them tight before doing
up the buckles.  Only a short link of chain joined the
cuffs, and Sean seemed to be particularly careful to
ensure that they were tight enough so that there was
no way that my big hands could slide out of them, but
not so tight that there was any pinching of the skin.
He seemed to be almost pitying me as he said "There
you go, Steve.  At least you won't get burn on the
skin from the leather - you'll have enough to be
bothering about, without that."

They led me along the corridor and through the
barracks and out into the courtyard at the back,
between the house and the barracks.  All the other
servants were lined up in two ranks, in the heads
down, "supplicant" position I'd learned.  I was
marched over to the tall flag staff in the centre of
the area, and then, with the proper ceremony, the flag
was lowered and neatly folded.  The hook holding the
flag carrier to the cable was latched onto the chain
on my cuffs, and Sean started to turn the handle that
pulled it back up the pole.  This caused me to move
towards the pole and then, as the cable moved ever
higher, to stand immediately next to it with my cuffed
hands stretched out above my head.  It's funny, isn't
it, how you remember some things, and I suppose that
having my face so close to the flag staff meant that I
got a close-up view - but in my mind's eye I can still
see all the little imperfections in the white paint
that covered the metal staff as I stood there.

It's not easy standing with your arms stretched above
your head, and I was glad when there was a slight
murmur from my comrades, and I turned my head to see
Rooney come out of the house, accompanied by the
whipmaster - but gone was his neat uniform, as he was
now wearing  small, tight leather shorts that were cut
high on his thigh, emphasising the power in his legs,
and a kind of short, open leather "bolero" jacket that
fully exposed his arms and his belly.  I could see now
the heavy muscles in his arms and all over his chest,
which seemed to be emphasised by this bizarre costume.

Rooney and the whipmaster came over to me, and I heard
Rooney say "Don't spare him - he's always been on the
wild side, and as he's 'voluntary', I  don't think he
truly accepts his position.  It will be a kindness,
really, to teach him a lesson now that he'll never
forget - after all, if I sell his contract on, some
new contract owner might treat a servant who was in
the slightest bit 'uppity' really harshly.  If you
flog it all out of him now, once and for all, it will
be better for him in the long term."

"Yes, sir!", the whipmaster replied curtly, in a
mature tone that reminded me for a moment of the way
that my father used to speak to me when he was
complaining that I wouldn't go to college or get a
"proper" job.  "These men are always changed by a
proper flogging, and I'm sure you're right - not that
he'll thank you for it, at least not in the short
term!  Now, let's make sure he's properly
prepared...."

He went and turned the handle a little, so my arms
were even more tightly stretched up into the air, then
came and said, as if it was the most usual thing in
the world, "Are you OK, son?    It's best for you to
be stretched now as all your tendons and fibres will
loosen once the whip lands, and if you can move around
too much you might injure yourself on the flagstaff.
Now, your feet are nice and square on the ground...?"
He bent as he said this, and I felt his hands run over
my calves and probed gently at my bare feet.  "Yes,
that's fine...", he went on, kind of speaking to
himself.  "Now, let's put the kidney belt on you - it
wouldn't do to cause them to be permanently
damaged...."

I almost gasped as a thick belt of cold leather was
wrapped around just above my waist, and he stood
behind me, pushing his arms around me, to do up
buckles at my front.  I could feel his hot breath on
my shoulders, and got a whiff of his male scent as he
was pressed so close to me. The presence of this
strong, masculine man was somehow arousing, and as he
worked away, fiddling at the buckles and cinching the
belt tight around me, I got occasional sensations of
his hairy chest brushing against the skin of my back.
"OK, son, that's you all secure.  Now, we'll just take
those shorts off you..."

Look, as I've said, I've never been ashamed of my body
particularly, and by now  I was used to being seen
totally naked by all the other guys, by the overseers,
and by Rooney.  But it's quite different when you're
standing there, totally helpless, and another guy
pulls your shorts down over your butt and then tugs at
your ankles to get you to lift your feet to free them
- all the difference in the world between stripping in
front of a lot of other guys who are doing the same
thing, and being stripped by someone else, when you
will be the only nude one.  The whipmaster tossed the
shorts casually aside, and  I could see them lying
there in the sand of the yard.

He ran his hands once more over my shoulders, then
down my ribs and over my butt, stopping after he's
passed over my thighs.  "OK, son, you're ready.... A
nice tension in your body.  Now, prepare yourself -
get your tongue well out of the way in your mouth, and
keep your teeth clamped shut, at least initially:  we
don't want any accidents with you, as if you bite your
tongue in shock, it can be bad.  So, are you ready,
son?"

If felt so stupid, having to say "Yes, sir" as I stood
there naked against the flagstaff, feeling the cold of
the metal against my dick and chest, and with the
leather of the belt around my waist (which somehow
seemed to emphasise the helplessness of my bare butt
and dick), as  everyone watched.  But I knew I had to,
and managed to do it properly.

I was aware that he had moved away from me, and then
the world exploded for me.  I just was totally
unprepared for the effect of the heavy bullwhip,
wielded by this big strong man.  Look, when you're
caned, it stings like hell, and then there's the dull
glowing ache that spreads through you afterwards.
When you're tawsed, the sensation is immediate, and
afterwards your skin feels hot and sore.  But the
first thing that happens when the heavy whip hits you
is that all the air is forced out of you, and you're
knocked sideways by the sheer weight and power of the
whip - or, rather, you would be knocked sideways if
you were not strung up by your wrists!  As it was, my
arms were wrenched painfully as my body was forced
aside, and my dick scraped painfully against the
flagstaff as my body attempted to move.

I had heard the crack of the whip, but nothing
prepares you for it.  And even as I thought about the
way the sheer energy of it was trying to knock me off
my feet, the pain rolled into me, a terrible,
agonising pain, a pain that I'd never known before,
something all-consuming, totally overwhelming.  I
couldn't scream, though, as I had no air in my lungs.
This wasn't like the cane or the tawse, which hurt but
was bearable:  this was utterly, totally devastating,
and I stopped thinking rationally at all.  I was some
sort of wounded animal, and  I could see now how a
trapped fox could bite its own leg off to escape the
pain of a gin trap - nothing before had ever been as
bad as this, and I would have done anything - anything
 - to escape it.

And then there was the sickening whistle and snap, and
I reeled again.

Mercifully, I lost consciousness on the fourth blow.
But when you're punishing a man with the bullwhip,
that isn't allowed - he has to be conscious to fully
remember the experience.  So added to the terrible
agonies I was feeling, there was now a new level of
pain, a sharp, icy, stabbing from all over my back as
a bucket of icy cold salt water was thrown over me.

The  whipmaster was standing next to me, his face
pressed almost into contact with mine.  I knew that
snot was pouring out of my nose and tears were
streaming down my cheeks.  "OK, son?", he asked rather
unnecessarily. "The salt always revives a man.  Try to
think of it as being a fifth of the way through."  He
reached out and felt the pulse that was throbbing on
my neck.  "Yes, we can go on - your heart's racing,
but you'll survive."

The fifth blow was across my butt, the sixth across my
thighs, and after that I hardly knew where they
landed, as my whole nervous system was simply on fire
and I was hurting all over, everywhere.  If I tried to
think about it, I could localise specific shouts of
pain coming from specific parts of my butt, thighs and
back, but I wasn't certain that it wasn't my brain
playing tricks on me.  I lost consciousness again, and
when the salt water once more shocked me back to this
world, above the cacophony of agony that was all over
me were horrible trickling sensations down my ribs,
and my legs.

My head was slumped sideways, and I saw blood running
down my ribs.  I couldn't see, but I thought it must
be the same down my legs.  The whipmaster's face was
now close to mine again, and I managed to stutter out
"Blood...."

"You'll be OK, son", he told me. "That blood on your
ribs is just from where the tip of the whip caught
some of your underarm hair and tore it out... Nothing
you won't recover from in a few days.  Mister Rooney
didn't want you to bleed from the whip lashes
themselves as he doesn't want permanent scarring."

"But my legs..."

"Now, son, don't go fretting about things like that.
I've done this a lot of times before, and most guys do
that.... It's nothing to be ashamed of.  Your body
just hasn't been able to control your sphincter as
you're being lashed, and that's just the remains of
your crap trickling down you.  You've pissed as well,
but I don't suppose you know that."

Even in my misery I felt somehow even more humiliated,
knowing that I'd shit myself with all the other guys
watching., and if you can believe it, I felt even more
miserable as now I was disgusted with myself as well.

Look, these memories are just too terrible for me, and
I don't want to write about them any more.  I'll just
say that the terrible lashing seemed to go on and on
for ever - my whole world closed down, so that the
universe didn't exist for me except for the pain, the
dreadful whistling of the whip, and the crescendo of
fresh agony it caused.  I certainly lost consciousness
several times more, and each time was revived.  And
then, it all seemed to be over.

The whipmaster's face was next to mine again, and
through a halo of light, I heard those blessed words
"That's it, son!  Now just hold still whilst we get
you down - we don't want you falling in the dirt."  I
felt his body, warm against mine, as he put his arms
under my pits and held me as the flag carrier was
lowered, and he was right - I couldn't stand by
myself, and slumped into him, only to have new waves
of hot, angry pulsing sensation flash through me as my
torn pits and battered skin reacted to the pressure of
my weight.

I heard Rooney calling something, and then my arms
were around two necks - I suppose I managed to think
about it, as I was somehow aware that Craig was now
supporting me on one side and Ted on the other.  I
just hung there between them, my head lolling, unable
to move myself and totally out of control.  Rooney
spoke again, and then there was another indignity -
one of the guys was kneeling in front of me, jerking
me off!  I suppose I'd got an erection as all this
punishment was going on, and now Rooney was having me
forcibly masturbated in front of my fellows.  I really
know nothing about it - that sweet sensation as you
shoot, even in the most humiliating circumstances, was
completely overwhelmed with everything else that was
happening to my body.  I didn't even know who it was
that was doing it, as the effort of focussing my eyes
and looking down was just too great.

Rooney was speaking again, and I dimly heard the
whipmaster reply "Yes, I can do that of course, it's
one of the punishments some owners use."

I was dimly aware of Craig and Ted tensing as we all
three stood there, but I didn't know - or care - why.
Someone was again kneeling in front of me, and through
the blur of distorted sensations I was getting I saw
the cropped grey hair of the whipmaster.  It didn't
seem possible, but above everything else, an icy,
sharp, scintillating pain shot through me, and I
moaned feebly.  I guess I must have been screaming all
the time the punishment had been going on as my throat
was raw and I was kind of aware that my cries were
hoarse and feeble.

And then I was being helped, dragged, carried - I
don't really know which - away from the terror and
towards the barracks.  Once inside the building Craig
and Ted seemed unsure about what to do, but I heard an
overseer - it  was Ryan, I think - say "Leave him in
the showers.  There's so much blood and stuff that
he'll ruin the bed", and then I was gently lowered
down.

The floor tiles were blissfully cool against the
burning hotness of my skin, and I just lay there,
totally unable to move, indeed not wanting to move, as
I tried to shut off the sensations flooding trough me.
 In one of those strange things that happen when
you're in the state I was in, I was aware of odd
things - the dripping of a shower head, the sensation
of the joins in the tiles against my skin.  But most
of all I had to focus on not moving, on keeping
perfectly still - if I did this the pain diminished
somewhat, or, rather, I got used to the constant
background agony.  But the slightest movement, even
the twitch of a finger, and it seemed to peak again.

My fellow servants clustered around and tried to help,
but I managed to tell them to leave me alone -
anything else was just too terrible to contemplate.
When Mex bent down and tried to raise my head to give
me a drink of water, I actually cried out again as my
neck moved and it restarted the terrible sensations
all trough me.  Ultimately the overseers came in and
ordered them all to bed, ready for work the following
day, and I was left alone.

"Shall we get him a blanket or something?", I heard
Ryan ask, and Sean just laughed.  "You're new to this,
aren't you?  If you get him a blanket, it will just
hurt him:  he can't bear to have anything touch the
skin.  He'll get cold in here tonight, but that will
help  the body take more pain if it's cooler.  Just
leave him - if he needs to piss, or crap, he can just
do it as he lies there and we can get the place
cleaned up tomorrow."

And then they left, and I just lay there.  There was
something wrong, I knew, as when I pissed it was like
fire surging along my dick, but there was nothing I
could do about it as I wasn't about to move to find
out what was going on.  At least it was in working
order, as I was dimly aware of the pool of cooling
piss in which I was lying, so it couldn't be all that
bad.

Did I sleep?  I don't know.  There's only so much the
human brain can take before it drifts into
unconsciousness.  But is it sleep?    Certainly I
remember the other guys coming in and using the
sshitters and the shower as they got ready for work,
and all of them kept saying things like "Hang in
there, Steve?", and "Can I get you anything...", to
which I managed a feeble 'No."

It must have been some time around midday when I was
aware of Joey kneeling by me.  "Steve, Steve....", he
was whispering, but fortunately had the good sense not
to shake me awake!  "Steve, let me get you a drink..."

I tried to mutter "No" again, but he was almost lying
on the floor now, so that he was at the same level as
my head.  He pushed a straw towards me, and I was able
to take a long, drink of cool water without having to
move my head.

"Here, Steve.....", he said hesitantly, and he pushed
something towards my lips.  I was amazed - it was a
strawberry!  I'd not had any fruit at all since I came
to Rooney's, and now here was Joey with a strawberry!

"How...?", I muttered.

"Eat it, Steve.  But please don't tell anyone... I
stole it from Mister Rooney's breakfast - he didn't
eat it, and I sneaked it of the tray as it was going
back to the kitchen.  But please don't tell anyone,
Steve - he'll whip me, as he'll say it's theft, and a
servant who steals from his indenture owner gets
whipped...."

"Joey, it's OK... Calm down.... You did this for me?
You risked a whipping...?"

"Steve, yes.  I like you, Steve, you're always kind to
me.... Even when Mister Rooney made you fuck me, you
were as gentle as you could be, not like some of the
others....  I really like you, Steve, and I want to be
like you when I'm a man..."

I felt tears stinging my eyes.  "You are a man, Joey!
More than the others.  You risked a whipping to be
nice to me.... Thank you...."

That's all I could say, and I drifted into sleep
again, the taste of the luscious fruit zinging through
me.  And when I  woke up, I don't know when, he was
still there, and pushed the straw to me again so I
could drink.

By the time the other guys got back from work I was
able to move - feebly - and they helped me stagger to
my feet.  I'd been lying in a pool of my piss, and, to
my shame, I realised  a slime of diarrhoea had
trickled out of me, too, and was staining the tiles.
I knew I had to endure the showers, and  I was
dreading it - rightly so, as even though there was
only a trickle of water, it might as well have been
hot lead pouring down onto my damaged skin.  And then,
as I moved around, trying to ease my back and butt, it
was as if a red hot iron had been pressed against me -
I almost screamed with pain, and looked down to see
all blood all over my dick.

It was Craig who said "Just hang in there and get the
dried blood off it!"

"What the fuck...?"

"Hey, Steve, you're like the rest of us now - Mister
Rooney had the whipmaster 'skin you at the end of the
whipping.  Don't you remember?  He had a knife, and
just did it there in front of all of us - it was
terrible, as Mister Rooney required us all to stand
easy as usual, and we all wanted to grip our own dicks
as we saw him slicing your 'skin off."

Fuck me!  That was so typical of Craig.  I was in
real, terrible pain from having my 'skin cut off, and
all he could think of was that stereotype male thing
of worrying about your own dick when you see another
guy suffering with his.

"He can't do that..."

"He can, Steve, and he did.  You're a ten-year guy,
right?  And an owner can require 'reasonable
modifications' to your body, for health and
safety.... That's why they can cut our hair, shave our
pubes... Losing your 'skin, he'd argue, if it ever got
to court, that it was unhygienic or unsafe for you to
keep your 'skin, as you're doing so much fucking..."

I slumped, no longer caring, or even knowing, I
suppose.  Taking my 'skin broke through the last
bastion of my resistance, and I sobbed like a baby as
the guys tried to wash me, and then led me into the
barracks and helped me lie there on my bed.

They say that whipping changes a man.  It certainly
changed me.  Before that I'd been "Steve", the guy who
was proud of his body, so proud of it that he wanted
to use it, and use it hard.  So proud that he'd agreed
to be caned and tawsed to get the most out of him.
And all the time I'd been an indentured servant I'd
clung to that core of myself, that I was a man, that I
had choice, that I was doing it because I wanted to.
But now I knew differently.  I now knew that I'd do
anything, anything at all, to avoid the whip.  I was
no longer  Steve, doing it because , deep down I
wanted to.  I was a miserable nothing, a nonentity who
could be ordered to do anything, anything at all, and
I'd rush and grovel to obey in case Mister Rooney
ordered the whip again.  I had no more free will, I
had no more rebellious streak, I had no more desire
than to do anything to please Mister Rooney.  I had to
obey him, no, I needed to obey him, as that was the
only way that I could prevent myself from having to
endure this torture again.  And having had him order
the removal of my 'skin simply reinforced the fact
that he was my owner, he was in charge, he was in
control:  he'd  taken part of me, an important part,
and thrown it away.  He hadn't asked me, he didn't
care - I was his, and he'd done as he wanted to me.
The whipping, and the 'skinning, turned me from a man
into an abject, cringing, totally obedient servant,
totally devoid of free will.

I was only allowed to stay in bed for a day, then was
told I had to do light work around the place -
sweeping the leaves, washing the trucks, that kind of
stuff.  Showers and shards of pain went through me
almost continually as I forced my muscles to work,
wanting, no, needing, only to obey Mister Rooney's
orders as transmitted through the overseers.  He
mercifully allowed me to work totally naked, so that I
didn't have to have the horror of the polo and shorts
against my tortured skin, and  I was pathetically
grateful to him for his mercy in allowing the scars on
my dick to dry in the open air and not to have them
stick to the fabric of shorts.

After four days, though, I was back at work
"properly", but on the site the Overseer made
allowances for me.  I was grateful for not having the
hardest work, but it made me seem even less of a man
than the other guys, who were caned and tawsed as
usual for the slightest failure to work at their
fullest.  In a way, it was almost a relief when Sean
first tawsed me again.

Sexually, even when the scabs on my dick healed and
dropped off, I still was not right, though.  Losing my
'skin, having this part of my manhood removed, played
to my feelings of now being a total servant, and I
just couldn't get it up.  Once it was clear that I was
working again and being punished like the others, the
guys started to hint that they'd like me to fuck them.
 But I couldn't - my dick just hung there, flaccid.  I
lay in bed at night trying to jerk off, but it was no
use -  even when I thought I was going to get wanking
sores from the friction, no amount of teasing at it
with my hands would make it go hard.  I suffered the
ultimate humiliation about a week later when I woke up
in the morning to feel cum all over my thighs and in
my pubic hair - I'd had a "wet dream", just like a kid
who hasn't discovered that real men jerk themselves
off.  I'd sort of got used to having the other guys
whispering to each other that I was no longer a proper
man, that I couldn't fuck, but when they saw me, and
my sheets, they all started laughing at me.

When the call came for me to go to Mister Rooney's
room in the evening shortly afterwards, I no longer
cared.  I had got used to dreading those evenings,
when Rob would be there to fuck me, but now I didn't
care.  If Mister Rooney wanted to fuck me, or to have
Rob fuck me, that was fine.  I belonged to him, he
could command me to do whatever he wanted, and I would
obey, obey totally and completely, to avoid the whip.


I stood in the showers, cleaning myself almost
mechanically, and followed Ryan obediently down the
corridor to stand in front of the fireplace waiting
for them, as usual.  But now as I bowed my head in
supplication, it was genuine - I was no longer
pretending, no longer knowing that I did it only
because it was what a servant was "meant" to do.  Now
I had my head bowed as that was what Mister Rooney
wanted me to do, and whatever he wanted, I would do.

As usual Mister Rooney and Master Rob came in and sat
on the couch, laughing and joking, then Mister Rooney
called me over and told me to strip.  I pulled the
polo over my head  and dropped my shorts, then clasped
my hands behind my neck so that my chest thrust
forward emphasising my pecs, and I eased my hips
forward so that my belly was taut and my dick was
towards him.  Mister Rooney held out his hand, palm
up, and I knew that he wanted to feel my balls.  I
stepped forward, and eased my sac down onto his palm,
and thrilled as the gentle warmth of my owner's hand
stroked my balls.  My head was bowed submissively, and
I heard him say, quietly and gently, "Look at me,
Steve."

My eyes met his as he continued to stroke my balls,
and I was not afraid - previously when a man had my
sac in his hand I was always on edge, always afraid
that he's inadvertently hurt me.  But now I didn't
care -  I was Mister Rooney's.  If he wanted to hurt
my balls, that was his right, his privilege.  Deep
down I knew he cared for me and that he would not
deliberately hurt me, but if he did it accidentally,
that would be no problem.  Or if he did hurt me
deliberately, it would be for my own good, just as he
had had to order me to be whipped so that I could
become a proper obedient servant.

As I looked at him, his hand moved to my dick, and now
my bare dick head was lying there in his palm.  I'd
never felt more totally naked and exposed in my whole
life - of course I'd been without clothes in front of
him before, but now the last shreds of my modesty,
that last tiny shred of covering, had been taken from
me at his orders.  He was looking at my dick head,
completely exposed to him, and he had that right:  I
was a servant, he owned my contract, and I had no
reason to wish to hide any part of myself from him.

"Very nice", he said to Rob.  "That whipmaster did a
good job.  I was a bit worried after I'd told him to
'skin Steve out there in the open, but he's done it
well.  No scar, and it looks good when it's at rest
like this.  Now, let's make sure that he's not done it
too tight - Steve's really impressive when he's hard,
and it would be a tragedy if so much had been cut off
that he was no longer capable  of getting it right up.
 That can happen, you know... So let's see."

He kept my dick in his hand, and then looked up at me.
 "Get hard, Steve...."

And then, when nothing happened, he asked "Steve,
what's the problem?  You've never had difficulty in
getting an erection before when I've  wanted to
inspect you."

 I was about to tell him that I was now incapable of
getting hard, of all the failures since I'd been
whipped, and could feel the hot flush of shame
starting to sweep up over my shoulders to flush my
face.  I hated it.  Not only was I not a proper man, a
man who could not get an erection, but I was
displeasing Mister Rooney.

"Sir...", I started, but then, to my joy and delight,
I felt my dick stirring.  As I looked down,  I saw it
thickening and elongating in Mister Rooney's palm,
just as it had used to.  And then there it was, in all
its glory, long and thick, lying there.

"See, Rob - an excellent job!", Mister Rooney said.
"See the pale skin for the first couple of centimetres
where it used to be the inner part of his 'skin.  But
it looks good, doesn't it - nicely smooth.  And you'll
see that I let him keep his little pleasure spot...."

As he said this, Mister Rooney ran this thumb over the
little triangle of skin on the underside of my dick
head, and I almost gasped with the thrill that ran
through me.  My dick went even harder, and a small
bead of pre-cum popped out of my piss slit.

"I'd better be careful", Mister Rooney joked , "Steve
here's ready for action!  Are you going to fuck him
first, Rob, or shall we see him perform with one of
the other servants?"

"No, I'm ready for a fuck, Mike.  I haven't had it for
some time, as Karen's pregnant and she's read all the
books that say that it's bad for the baby.  Fucking
stupid, if you ask me - I can't believe primitive cave
men and such like stopped fucking just because there
was a kid on the way, but there you are.  Let's fuck
him first, and then we'll watch him at work
afterwards.".  Rob looked at me, and said "OK, Steve,
on the horse - nothing subtle this time, just on your
belly, and spread our legs...."

I went over to the horse and lay on it, and Mister
Rooney and Master Rob came over.  "Strap him down,
Mike, you're better at it than I am", Rob asked.

"No need, Rob.  Steve's ready for you already.  He's
an obedient servant now, aren't you, Steve?  He's
happy to take a master's dick, aren't you, Steve?"

"Sir, yes, sir", I said.  And, of course, inside I
knew I meant it.  If Mister Rooney wanted me to lie
there and be fucked, then that was what I wanted, too.

End Of Part 16