Date: Sun, 1 Jun 2003 17:42:49 +0100 (BST)
From: hugh masters <questorius@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Predator.  Chapter5

THE PREDATOR

CHAPTER 4.  IMPRINTING

I was driving my delivery truck through the town one rainy afternoon when I
got caught by the lights outside the Police station.  I sat there thinking
of that time when I went up those steps to make a formal complaint against
the officer who had abused me - and of my humiliating retreat.  I cringed
with embarrassment at the memory.  And then he was there! Running down the
steps with the lightness of the big-built he crossed the road immediately
in front of me, head down against the rain.  I was only feet from him up in
my cab but he didn't look up. My bowels churned with instant lust and my
heart thumped at this sudden sighting. It was the first time I had seen him
out of uniform.  He was wearing jeans and a windcheater and carrying a
folder of some sort over his head against the rain. God, but he looked
magnificent and there was a stange, clandestine thrill about seeing him so
close(SO close!) without being seen by him.  A sort of Peeping Tom thrill,
somehow.

Opposite the Police Station was a row of artisan cottages, early 19th
Century, and amazingly small and pokey.  I am sure that I would have been
able to stand on the pavement and reach up and touch the bedroom
windowsill, it was so low.  To my astonishment he stopped outside number 2
and pulling a latch key from his pocket, let himself in - just as the car
behind me honked impatiently as the lights turned green.

It is hard to describe the impact of that brief sighting but it lived with
me and churned me up in a most powerful way. Up until that moment he had
been, without me realising it, like a force of nature - a huge, powerful,
lustful, hunk of male authority and command. He came out of the dawn, did
whatever he wanted among those wierd rocks and then, satiated, went on his
way.  But now, suddenly, he was more than that.  More than just "a
policeman". He was a man, with a life to live, a home to go to. I know it
sounds stupid but that bombshell revelation turned me on hugely.  But more
than the awarenes of his real-world existence was the idea of him in that
tiny cottage.  The thought of that huge 6foot 5inch bulk packed into that
pokey space was madly erotic for me. All that maleness, all that power,
cooped up and confined became even more potent.  To think of him cooking a
meal there; sprawled in front of the fire watching TV; stripped to the
waist while he shaved; lying huge and naked in his bed...  Suddenly I
wanted - NEEDED - to be part of that.  I imagined lying beside him in his
bed, coiled round him like a rope, of waking up and finding him beside
me. I wanted to be his bed-boy! I hugged my secret knowledge to me and said
nothing to him.  Well, it was hard to do so because we never talked, up
there among The Marbles.  It was a place for fucking, not chatting.

Then, one morning he astonished me by just standing, regarding my nakedness
without any move to grope and maul me as usual.

"When do you go back to university?" he asked.

I was dumbfounded. How did he know I was a student?  What else did he know?
My name?  Where I lived?  Quite possibly, he was a policemen after all and
they are skilled at finding information.  I told him I had decided not to
go back.

"Why not?  This is your final year isn't it?"

I nodded miserably, shivering in the chill wind and longing for him to wrap
his arms round me. "How could I leave you?" I bleated pathetically.  Then
he did the most astonishing thing, he took off his greatcoat and wrapped it
about me.  It was warm.  Warm with his body warmth.

"Listen to me, boy" he said "this is over.  I shall not come up here again
and nor will you.  You will go back to university and take your degree.
That's it.  No argument.  Now I'll take my coat and go"

I begged him to fuck me one more time but he said it was too damned cold.
"Then let me come to your house" I blurted. "Let me spend one last night
with you, in your bed, in your little cottage"

He asked how I knew where he lived and I explained.  He looked at me
levelly for some seconds, considering.  "Friday night" he said "Ten
o'clock" then turned and was gone.  He hadn't even touched me, but I didn't
care, I was on cloud nine.  I pulled on my track suit and soon got warm as
I ran back down the hill, my heart singing.

That was the Wednesday.  Thursday had to be lived through - somehow! - and
most of Friday. At 9.00 I told my mother I was meeting some mates at the
pub and not to wait up...  I did go to the pub too but was careful not to
drink too much.  I left at 5 to 10 but was still too early, forgetting pub
clocks are always set fast.  The minutes dragged by agonisingly slowly.
There was a light in his window but I did not dare present myself before
10.00. At last the church clock struck the hour and I tapped the knocker.
Almost immediately the door opened and I seemed to be sucked in.  There was
no hall, one went straight into a small, cosy living room with a fire
flickering in the old fashioned, black-leaded grate.  His massive frame
seemed dauntingly overpowering in the tiny space.  He was wearing jeans and
a white shirt open nearly to the waist, revealing a surprisingly hairy
body.  I remember finding that much body hair rather repellent - and
disturbingly exciting!  He sat in a deep armchair, resting one ankle on a
knee, and picked up his half-empty pint of beer while regarding me coolly.
I didn't know what to do.  I felt gauche and awkward.  He raised one finger
and lowered it.  The message was simple and clear: "drop 'em".  Quickly I
stripped off and stood naked before him, concious of the warmth of the fire
on my leg - and of the heat of lust in his greedy gaze as his eyes lingered
over my body. He placed both feet on the floor and gave an almost
imperceptible nod. Again no words were needed and I dropped to my knees
between his legs and buried my face in his crotch, breathing him, nuzzling
him hungrily, feeling him harden under the denim against my face.

He pulled my head up and said "The cane, in the corner there, fetch it."  I
looked at him aghast.  True he'd used his belt on me several times and that
hurt like hell, but a cane! Harder and narrower with all the impact force
concentrated in a much smaller area, that would surely hurt a damn sight
more.  "NOW!" he snapped.  I got it and knelt and offered it to him laid
across my open palms.

"Please Sir," I whined "six of the best with the belt is one thing but I'm
not sure I can take the cane."

"Who said anything about six?" he sneered, picking up the cane and flexing
it lasciviously between his hands "You'll take twelve"

"Twelve!" I echoed. "Why Sir?  What have I done?"

"Why? Because I want to!  That's reason enough"

"I - I don't think I can Sir.  I don't think I could take that much pain"

"But you don't have any choice, do you?  Except to leave. Now. Is that what
you want boy?"

Miserably I shook my head. There was no way I could just walk out of there
and he knew it, the bastard.

He stood up and tapped the arm of his chair - he was never a man to waste
words.  Submissively, I bent over the arm and buried my face in the cushion
which was warm from his body. I was acutely concious of my bare arse stuck
up in the air and unable to believe he was really going to thrash me.
Perhaps it would be done lightly?  One believes what one has to believe.
He rested the cane lightly across my buttocks, measuring his stroke, raised
it . . . an agonising pause . . . then there was a brief hiss and then pain
exploded across my backside.  Appalling, totally unacceptable pain.  I
leapt up from the chair and danced up and down clutching my buttocks and
saying No! No! No! NO!

He stood quiet and still until I quieted down and stood shamefaced and
hurting before him. He touched the tip of the cane against my chest and in
a terrifyingly soft voice said "You don't understand. When I put you down
for a thrashing, you stay there until I've finished. Got that?"

I nodded dumbly.

"You can still leave if you want - but this is your last chance.  You won't
be given another.  Understood? You either leave now or take the twelve cuts
- starting again from the beginning.  Well, which is it to be?"

"I'll take the beating Sir" I murmered through dry lips.

"What's that?  Speak up boy!"

"I'LL TAKE THE BEATING SIR" I announced.

He tapped the cane lightly on my chest a few times and nodded in approval.
He approved of me!  I had earned his approval!  My chest swelled with
pride.  Oh but I so needed this man to approve of me!  He said nothing,
just glanced down at the arm of the chair.  That was all it needed, just a
glance and I bent to his will, offering myself to pain again.  I dug my
fingers in the edge of the seat cushion, gritted my teeth and splayed my
legs wide, got a firm footing on the carpet and prepared to let him enjoy
his self-indulgent cruelty. And he did. Enjoy himself. And I clung on
grimly, fighting with the pain and the slow, regular, implacable horror of
it. I just had time to take each jagged, dazzle of pain and somehow wrap it
up inside myself and contain it before the next one blazed upon me. Seven
cuts I took but the eighth flashed across the backs of my thighs, catching
me all unprepared.  I let out a yowl of anguish, my braced knees gave way
and I slipped down off the arm of the chair onto my knees as I fought back
the tears.

What do you suppose he did?  Yell at me to get back into position 'cos he
hadn't finished yet?  Physically hoik me back over the arm so he could
continue?  Threaten that now he'd have to start all over again from the
beginning?  No, none of those things.  It was much worse. He did nothing at
all - just stood there quietly waiting. He knew there were four more
stripes to be delivered.  I knew it too, and he knew that I knew! So he
waited. Miserably I heaved myself back into position and surrendered myself
to him in an act of total submission.  And as I did so I realised that this
was what it was all about - his power to control me and my need to submit.
The pain was incidental in a way.  It was not the PURPOSE, simply the MEANS
of demonstrating his power over me. So couldn't he have just laid on
lightly, given me a symbolic beating?  Oh no, the pain may have been
incidental, but it had to be real, had to severe.

As I laid myself back over the arm of the chair for him I begged him not to
strike across the backs of my legs again.  He made no reply but brought the
cane thrashing down across the backs of my thighs with savage force.  I
clawed at the seat cushion and bit the fabric, bubbling snot and saliva and
tears on his chair, but I hung on.  The tenth strike scarred my thighs too.
And the eleventh.  Bastard!  It was not until the final one that he
returned to target my buttocks, having made the point yet again that he
would do as he damn well liked.

The beating completed, he rubbed his thumbs over the welts, enjoying his
handiwork, then he lowered himself upon me, entered me and pleasured
himself inside my beaten body.

He took me up to his tiny bedroom and for the first time I saw him
magnificently naked as he sprawled on the bed and put me to work licking
him all over. And so began a long, long night of sexual excess,
extravagance and perversion. I do not know how many times he fucked me at
one end or the other, I only recall collapsing into exhuasted sleep a
couple of times, only to be vaguely aware some time later of being used
again as he humped and grunted and sweated on top of me.  Then again I was
awakened to find him thrusting my head down into the foetid depths of the
bedding to labour between his legs. Once he took me to one of those amazing
orgasms, but for the most part it was his show as he indulged himself on
his submissive bed-boy in an orgy of triumphant maleness.

In the morning he surprised me by making a cooked breakfast of bacon and
eggs which he served to me at the dining table.  I was so haggard and
exhausted that the last thing I wanted was to sit, still naked, at his
table and have him wait on me and to eat fried food, but I forced myself to
eat it all for fear of giving offence. Coffee or tea?  Coffee please.
Sugar?  One, please.  He went back to the kitchen to prepare this, leaving
me alone to struggle with the breakfast, feeling very awkward and ill at
ease.  He returned and set the mug down beside me.  "Give me a call when
you've finished that" he said "and I'll come and give you your morning
beating"

"Oh not the cane again Sir?  I couldn't take any more" I whined.

"Don't worry" he said cheerily, "I'll only use my belt"

So that made it all right, did it?  "But why, Sir?  Haven't I been beaten
enough?"

"Oh, bugger-boys should be beaten every morning.  It starts the day off
right, you know" he said breezily as he disappeared back to the kitchen.

I really did not feel up to any further sexual activity of any sort and
just longed to go home for a shower and a long sleep. But I clearly had no
choice and decided to make the best of it, so when I had finished the
coffee I got down on all fours and carried the mug in my mouth back to the
kitchen like a dog.  "Good boy" he said, patting me on the head and taking
the mug.  "The belt is upstairs.  Fetch!"  I carried it down the stairs,
dropped onto all fours again, put it in my mouth and carried it to the
kitchen. He was at the sink washing the breakfast things.  He glanced down,
said "Good boy" again and carried on with his chores while I waited
patiently for him to beat me.  At last he was through, dried his hands and
took the belt from my mouth.  I cowered on elbows and knees at his feet. He
lashed my back and shoulders.  Only four blows (only!) but laid on full
force, the leather exploding with a loud report as it impacted muscle.

"OK, that'll do.  Get dressed and go" I knelt up, seized the big meaty fist
that held the belt and kissed his knuckles and thanked him.  Thanked him
for beating me!  Oh God!

"That's enough. Go" he repeated.  And so I did, that being the last time I
ever saw him, though I could not believe that at the the time.  Two days
later I was back at university but I carried him in my mind and could think
of little else. I could not even write to him as, incredibly, I still did
not even know his name!  At the Chrismas vacation I went to his cottage but
a gormless lout with excessive tattoos and studs and rings all over his
face answered and knew nothing of any previous occupant. I crossed the road
to the Police Station and asked the duty sergeant about a bearded policeman
who was based there.  "Big feller, mid forties?" he asked. "Oh he got
posted three months back" I asked where, but the fat sergeant looked at me
suspiciously. "You the kid from up the Devils Marbles?" he asked.  I felt
the blood rush to my face.  It had never occurred to me that he'd discussed
me with his mates. I stammered some inanities and the poisonous desk
sergeant leaned over the counter and asked, leeringly, if I'd like him to
"show me his truncheon".  Horrified, I backed away and for the second time
in my life I stumbled down the steps into the daylight, confused and
humiliated.

But although I was never to see my masterful policeman again he left me
permanently marked by the experience. I was so deeply imprinted by him as
my ideal sexual partner that I found myself fixated by older men, bearded
men, powerful, dominant men and men in uniform.  I started seeking out
leather bars and SM clubs.  Soon I got a reputation as a young man (I was
still only 22) who would go with older men and found that as such I was in
much demand.  There are plenty of old men who lust after athletic, fit
youngsters, but precious few young men prepared to surrender themselves to
the depraved lust of men old enough to be their father - or even
grandfather!

It was inevitable that in time I should fall into the hands of Vladek who
organised a group called "The Senior SIRcuit" (spelled thus because they
were all dominant sadists and all over 60.) I kept hearing about Vladek and
what I heard was not nice. No one was sure whether he was Hungarian,
Polish, Ukranian or even Lithuanian but he seemed to be generally disliked
and yet an indispensible supplier of what the SIRcuit men variously called
"bugger-boys" or "young chicken".

When Vladek caught up with me it was obvious that he was not my type at
all. He was small, scrawny, tough and mean, with bulging eyes and bald.
But he had power - sexual power.  He was alleged to be very over-sexed and
boasted of being a "two fuck a day man - EVERY day!" and loved it when
people referred to him as "Vlad the Impaler".  It wasn't just submissives
like me who felt his power, everyone did.

He sent me off on a couple of sessions with his SIRcuit members and
apparently got satisfactory feed-back because he wanted me to move in with
him "so he could keep me under control"!  That didn't suit me at all and I
refused at first - but somehow you always ended up doing what Vladek
wanted, like it or not.

I would get passed from one SIRcuit member to another and sent all over the
country.  There was "The Doctor" in Coventry with his white coat, white
tiled cellar and unspeakable "medical procedures" who liked to boast that
his cellar was so soundproof that no-one could hear "his patients" scream
while strapped to his operating table.  He got Vladek to send me down to
Gosport to Old Joe the retired seaman with a big fat Labrador called
Sailor. Joe was impotent and got his kicks vicariously through the nasty
habits of his fat old dog. Ugh!  And his flat stank.  It was when I refused
one of his demands as being just too disgusting that he complained to
Vladek and demanded his money back.  God, but I was so naive, I had not
twigged that I was being hired out for cash - that I was Vladek's cash cow!
He was very angry that I "had disgraced him" and disciplined me very
severely, insisting that in future I did WHATEVER his clients demanded.
When I told him what it was Old Joe had wanted he just shrugged. "WHATEVER
they want." he insisted - and then set about doing what HE wanted with me.

Aaron, the little hunchbacked Jew was impotent too.  He liked to chain me
to a wall and would not release me until I had masturbated three times
(three times!) onto slices of bread and butter which he would fold over and
eat. He had to have the crusts cut off as he had no teeth.  He said
boy-spunk kept him young. Young, ha!  He was 75 if a day and repellent to
look at as well, but skilled in torturing my tits to force me to ejaculate
for him.

They were not all as repellent as those.  I used to look forward to going
to Richard in Hounslow because he was a big handsome man, a powerful fucker
and bearded too(!) though he made too free with the riding crop.  The
architect in Brighton (what the hell was his name?) was a bondage freak who
never beat me, just got his kicks from submitting me to endless
permutations of ropes and straps and harnesses until he could wank off.
But when I went to him a couple of days after one of Richard's beatings he
got very excited by the weals and bruises on my body and he took to
flogging me when he had me thoroughly tied down.  Quite a lot of them were
like that, endlessly curious about the marks other men had left on my body
and demanding a detailed description of what had been done - and anxious to
leave their own mark on me in their turn.

This, the worst, most sordid period of my life as a plaything for old men,
lasted several years and in that time I was used for every perversion you
could imagine - and quite a few you couln't - but you don't want details of
those.  (No, you don't, believe me!)  The trouble of course was that as
they were all old men many were either impotent or had difficulty in
reaching orgasm and this drove them to ever more bizarre and extreme
rituals and perversions.  By the time I was 30 my body had started to
thicken and mature so I became less attractive to these youth-fixated old
bastards and I was less and less in demand - and less and less useful to
Vladek.  Even my reputation as a submissive who would let any dominant male
use me for any practice, no matter how obscene, became less compelling to
the members of The Senior SIRcuit after they had exhausted themselves on me
and younger talent became available.  There followed a number of years
after Vladek threw me out when I was virtually celibate. I started going to
the gym again, built up muscle and grew a beard(!)  I suppose I was
deliberately modelling myself on the imprinted image of my first owner.

This makeover from bugger-boy to strong, dominant male must have been very
successful for 19 year old Jamie threw himself at me and begged me to let
him be my fuck-boy slave, saying he had always longed to serve a "burly,
bearded, brute" like me.  I was 34 and took to my new dominant role as if
it were the most natural thing in the world.  And I guess it is not
conceited to claim that I made a very good Master - after all I had been
trained by experts and had been dragged through the sewers of servitude, so
I knew what slaves, like Jamie and all those who followed him, needed from
the relationship. I understood their hunger for humiliation and was able to
satisfy that need.  And when they whimpered and grovelled and begged for
mercy, I knew how far to go because I had been there myself.  Indeed, I
would recommend anyone wanting to be trained in slavery to try and find a
Master who has himself been a slave - though most will not like to admit
it.

And as one who has been on the receiving AND the giving end, which do I
prefer?  That is impossible to answer.  At 22 I needed to be dominated and
could not have functioned as a Master.  I did not have the experience, I
did not have the AUTHORITY.  But at 42 there is no way I would permit men
to do the things to me that they did when I was "chicken" for the use of
the Senior SIRcuit.

I remember that defining moment when I slid down to my knees in the middle
of that police beating, and of how he quietly waited for me to struggle
back up, knowing I would voluntarily offer myself to the cane again.  That
crystallised the very essence of obedience and submission for me.  And I
have experienced the same situation from the other end and patiently waited
for a trainee to claw himself back up and to offer himself to the lash for
the completion of his sentence - and I have savoured the delicious sense of
raw power that gives.  Oh, the pleasure of knowing another man has offered
you his abject submission as a gift - even though he knows that you are
going to deliberately abuse that gift!  That is wonderful.  Wonderful!

And what about you?  Yes, YOU.  If you feel you genuinely have the need to
be dominated and humiliated and if you are man enough to take the rigours
of obedience training at the hands of an experienced master, then why not
try to persuade me that you are worth taking on as either a live slave or a
cyber slave.  I'm serious - are you?

My address: questorius@yahoo.co.uk