Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2001 03:54:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: questorius@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter Eleven

			THE PRISON PIT

BANG! went the first bolt. BANG! went the second bolt. CRASH! went the
door, flung back against the wall.  I woke, startled into terror in the
black.  I felt the push of air pressure as a big form thrust in through the
low door.  I cowered into my straw nest, gibbering with fear, trying to
work out where I was and why I couldn't move my hands to protect myself.
Strong hands grabbed my ankles and dragged me out into the cell, raking my
whipped chest along the floor grit.  (You don't lie on your back with a rod
behind your elbows and your wrists manacled!)  And then I was being kicked.
Short jabbing kicks designed to hurt rather than injure, but expertly
placed for maximum pain.  On the ankle, hip bone, shoulder blade, shin,
ribs.  Wherever bone came near the surface, unpadded by muscle.  I tried to
roll into a ball on my side to protect myself - hard with your hands bound
and a rod through your elbows.  "No no, please, no" I was screaming, but
the rain of kicks continued.  I could hear him breathing hard with the
violent exertion.  I was terrified he would kick my head which I could not
protect with my hands, but he made no attempt to do so.  But the elbow,
(God!) and the kneecap, (oh dear God!) and even my handcuff-bruised wrist
bone got it.  Then, with equal suddeness, it stopped.  The door slammed
shut, the bolts crashed home and I could hear his boots receding over the
cellar floor.

I lay there in absolute misery, gasping and sobbing with self pity.  I had
never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned, in my life.  Huge tears flooded
into my goggles and I couldn't wipe my eyes.  Why? I asked myself.  What
had I done to deserve such unprovoked savagery?  And in an odd
hallucinatory way I seemed to be floating high up, looking down on the
naked, shivering, snivelling wreck on the floor.  'Why?' I said to him,
'because you deserve it.  You are a dirty sex pervert and you came here
wanting to be physically and sexually abused.  Well, you have been, so
what's the problem?'

'Because this is too much' he snivelled 'I'm cold and exhausted and
hungry and I hurt all over.'

'So, you want to be a sex-slave in comfort is that it?'

He stopped snivelling and shook his head.  'No, but this is too much.'

'So what you want is a gentle, considerate master who will check at
frequent intervals "Is this OK?" and "Are you able to take another lash or
two?"  Is that what you want?'

He shook his head sullenly.  'I don't know, I don't know' he wailed.

'Well, you'd better make up your mind' I snapped, 'Think of those two yobbo
louts you fancied on the train.  Which did you prefer, the good looking
well- built one or the surly slob with the mean look and aggressive
manner?'

'I liked 'em both'

'Stop farting around' I told him, 'you wanted the bit of rough because you
thought he'd be mean and selfish and demanding and cruel.  Right?'

He nodded. 'Right' he conceded.

'And this man,' I pressed, 'would you describe him as mean and demanding
and cruel?'

'God, yes!'

'Well then, you've got what you want, so stop whingeing.'

'But why should he suddenly decide to come and kick the shit out of me in
what feels like the early hours of the morning?'

I shrugged. 'Two answers to that, I guess.  First ,because you are there,
so why not?  Second, to test if you were telling the truth.'

'About what?'

'You said "anything".  Did you mean it, or did you mean "anything, except
having a broomstick through my elbows 'cos that hurts, and except being
kicked in the night 'cos that hurts too - even though it might be what my
master most wants to do at that moment"


He was silent for a while, considering this.  Then he nodded slowly.
'Yeah' he murmered dreamily.  'Yeah . . . anything he wants.'

I drifted away and let him sleep.

				    * * * * *

BANG! went the first bolt.  BANG! went the second bolt.  CRASH! went the
door.  In blind, gibbering panic I tried to edge away to the safety of a
corner, babbling "No sir, no, please no" before he'd even touched me.  He
pulled me up onto my knees and jerked the broomstick out.

My arms dropped down limply, my manacled hands between my knees.  I pitched
forward helplessly and found my face thrust in his crotch.  He was naked!
He grabbed my shoulders to stop me lurching helplessly sideways and held me
there.  He was naked and erect.  And he was huge!  The totem of his manhood
was pressed up against his belly by my face.  Instinctively I worked up to
its tip like a blind piglet hunting for a teat.  I braced my chained hands
against his thigh to steady myself and immediately registered how massive
it felt, and so hard. I got my mouth over the helm of his cock.  It filled
my mouth, obscene and gross, unlike anything I'd ever experienced - and I
was not inexperienced!  I began to suck him, but he had other ideas.

He gripped my head between both hands and pushed it back against the wall
behind me.  Then he began to fuck my mouth, using it as men use a woman's
cunt.  Slow and shallow at first but then pushing deeper in with each
remorseless thrust.  I started to gag and tried to twist my head away, but
his huge hands were like rocks clamped either side of my head holding it
rigid.  I heaved and hawked and coughed and spluttered.  He continued
regardless - or, more like, it added to his pleasure to cause such
distress.  "Fuckface!" he said, repeating it with each ram-thrust, the
dirty name adding to his pleasure in the obscenity of his lust.  I could
not turn my head or move it sideways or back, because of the wall, so in
desperation I did the only thing I could, and with a sudden jerk I
scrunched down lower.  The huge wet thing flew out of my mouth and up my
face.  He was furious.  "Bastard!" he yelled and hit me across the face,
mercifully with his open hand .  Even so the blow knocked me flying and
left me sprawled on my back.  He must have been on the point of shooting,
for he dropped to his knees, gripping my chest between his powerful thighs
and carried on furiously masturbating.  He came, and shot his load into my
face at point-blank range.  I could actually feel the impact as the wads of
cum hit my face, the first one across the bridge of my nose and forehead,
the second across my lips and into my left nostril.  He spread his hand
flat over my face and smeared the mess round and round, rubbing it in.
"Lick it"

he said, holding his palm over my face.  I licked it.  "Between the
fingers" he said.  I licked between his fingers.  He pushed a finger into
my mouth. "Suck it."  I sucked it and then each in turn, his thumb too.  He
shoved two, then three fingers in at once.  Dutifully, I sucked them too
until he seemed satisfied.  He wiped his wet fingers on my hair and told me
to sit up with my knees drawn up to my chin. I did so, resting my chained
wrists on top of my knees, but he thrust them down to my feet, scraping the
chain down my shins.  The broom handle was pushed through over my forearms
and under my knees like a bolt, locking me into a helpless knot.  He stood
over me, I could sense him just standing there.  Why?  I soon learned.  He
wanted a piss.

So he pissed down onto my head.  I could feel it coursing over my
shoulders, my back, my chest, my thighs.  It didn't seem to matter much.
Not after all the other things he had done to me.  Then he was gone.  The
door slammed, the bolts were shot home and I was alone.

Why two bolts?  Come to that , why any?  I wasn't going anywhere, trussed
up like a pretzel.  No, the bolts were there to make me feel imprisoned
when they were shot . . . and to terrify the shit out of me when they were
opened.  And very effective they were too.  He didn't miss a trick!  So, it
is no big deal to sit doubled up with a stick under your knees and over
your arms, is it?  Uncomfortable of course, but no major problem?  Well,
not at first, no.  But it soon becomes the most miserable torture.
Miserable because it is unglamorous.  It is hard to see yourself as noble
and manly and heroic.  That's OK for Prometheus, spreadeagled in chains on
a mountain, waiting for the great bird to swoop out of the sun and rip his
guts out with its hooked beak as punishment from the Gods for his services
to mankind.  It is rather less noble to sit naked in a cold pit, tied into
a knot of misery when all you can think of is how your bum hurts on these
wet bricks as you try to shift your weight from one buttock to the other.
And is that a late drop of piss from your hair trickling down your spine,
or is it a spider crawling on your skin?  And if it is, what on earth can
you do about it? Then, if only you could push your hands just a quarter of
an inch further down, what bliss that would be in easing the pressure where
the broom handle is cutting so painfully across the top of your forearms.
And you do actually manage to do this, well just a bit, but it doesn't seem
to ease the pain at all, it just means that now the chain of the hancuffs
is cutting more deeply across the front of your shins.  Of course, if you
could just get your feet a bit closer to your body, the chain wouldn't hurt
so much.  That's hard to do, but when done it makes the broom dig into the
backs of your knees even harder and that is agony.  Perhaps, if only it
were possible to move back so that you could lean on the wall, that would
ease all sorts of pressure points.  The more you think of this, the more
seductive it seems.  So you start "walking" from one buttock to the other.
It takes forever, but at last you make it, but it doesn't help at all and
the damp bricks are so cold against your back, and there's a particularly
large bit of coal-grit under your left buttock.  You try and move sideways
but it is embedded and comes with you. You consider letting yourself slide
onto your side.  That'll solve the grit in the bum problem, but what others
might it make - and it would be a one-way journey.  Once down, you'd never
be able to get up again.  And what time is it?  Must be three am at least.
Four maybe?  Even five?  How many more hours of this misery?  If only he'd
come back to give you another kicking or something, just to break the
monotony.

Food.  Images of food.  Fantasies of food.  Did you know that hunger hurts?
Really hurts.  In this age of plenty, if you feel a bit peckish, you eat.
Real hunger is something we just don't experience normally.  And when you
do it comes as a bit of a shock.  At least it is drier here against the
wall away from where he pissed.  If only I could get this bit of coal out
of my arse.  It is so damned sharp.  I wonder what time it is now?  Boring?
Boring to read about dragging misery?  Of course it is.  Not half as boring
as living it though!  Was that sleep that came at last, or unconciousness?
Certainly I was startled into wakefullness - yes, and terror - by those
bloody bolts and the bang of the door.  Oh God, what now?  "It's all right
mate, it's only me with your breakfast."  "Corporal?" I queried.  He said
yes and I heard him put down what sounded like an enamel bowl and mug, then
he was unlocking the 'cuffs.  It seemed to take for ever, but at last my
hands were free but my arms fell limp and useless at my sides.  I was free
to move my feet now - but couldn't move them either and had to ask him to
pull them forward for me.  He did and the hateful broom fell to the floor.

"Now listen" he said, "I'm going to leave you with your breakfast.  When
you hear the door bolted you can take off the goggles so you can see to
eat.  He'll be down shortly to give you your morning beating, but as soon
as you hear him at the bolts, you must put the goggles back on.

And make sure you do it proper, 'cos if he thought you could see anything
. . . well just make sure you can't, that's all."

"Morning beating?" I asked.  "Yeah, well don't worry 'bout it too much.
It's usually three or four cuts with the cane.  That sort of thing.  Laid
on pretty hard of course, but no big deal.  It's just that the Brig has
this thing about slaves needing a bit of a beating first thing every
morning, just to sort of start the day right, you know?"  "The Brig? That's
what you call him?"  "The Brigadier. Er, yeah." he answered uneasily as if
he might have divulged more than he should. "And does he beat you every
morning?" I asked.  "Christ no!" he snapped, "I'm not one of you lot" I
asked if he was an employee then.  "You ask too many questions.  Watch it.
The Brig wouln't like it" And with that he was gone, followed by the bolts
routine.

I forced my leaden arms up and peeled the goggles out of my eye sockets for
the first time in eight or ten hours.  A hurricane lamp hung from a nail in
the wall.  My cell was much as I had pictured it from my body survey.  A
grim little brick box about four foot square with the understair bit
through a low arch.  I looked at my hands and knees - smudged black with
coal dust so I'd got that right too.  The only surprise was how low the
ceiling was.  Only a few inches above my head when standing.  I turned my
attention to the much more interesting subject of breakfast.  The
distinctly grubby-looking mug was steaming.  I picked it up, and cradling
it in my cold hands, drank.  Strong tea sweetened with condensed milk.
Disgusting!  But I drained it without pausing for breath. The enamel plate
appeared to contain porridge.  Real prison grub!  But how was I to eat it?
There was no spoon.  Oh no, not with my fingers, surely? My dirty fingers?
Like a fool I still looked round for a spoon, unable to believe the
obvious.  But of course there was no spoon.

Would this meticulous bastard miss such a chance?  Have you ever tried
eating tepid porridge with your fingers, clean or dirty?  Silly question.
Of course you haven't.  You might think you can imagine how messy it would
be.  Well, you can't.

Bizarrely the effort was more humiliating than some of the more obvious
things he'd done to me.

Naturally, the porridge was without salt or sugar or milk, a sort of grey
wallpaper paste.  I am ashamed to say I ate it all, scooping the sticky
mess into my mouth as best I could, scooping up the dollops that slid down
my chin, even licking the plate like a dog, I was so hungry.  Afterwards I
felt angry.  Not because he had humiliated me so, but because he had
contrived to make me humiliate myself.

Footsteps!  I scrabbled for the goggles. Bolt one.  Christ, where they?
Bolt two.  Round your neck, you fool.  I shove 'em on as the door opens.

I hear the mug put on the plate and the plate picked up.  Not quite what I
expected.  "Er . . . yeah"

It is the corporal again!  "Forget the morning beating.  Change of plan.  I
er . . . I've dropped you in the shit . . . a bit."  What's that mean, I
ask him.  "He wants a full Court Martial."  is the astonishing reply.
Brigadiers, Corporals, "drill positions", Courts Martial, what the hell is
all this military crap?  "What for?" I demand, forgetting my status.
"You'll find out" he snaps, offended at my tone.  He moves behind me and
snaps those bloody handcuffs on my bruised wrists again, rather
un-necessarily roughly.  "He's waiting" he says in a tone which implies
'Shut up' and, grabbing both my arms above the elbows, he propels me
forward at a fast trot , shouting "Hep hi, Hep hi, Hep hi" in true military
fashion.  We cross the big cellar.  " Steps UP" he bellows and having
negotiated those, it's "Right TURN!  Hep hi, hep hi, hep hi Left TURN! Hep
hi, Prisoner-r-r HALT!  Prisoner and escort reporting for Court Martial,
SAR!"  he yells and releases his grip on me, no doubt to tear off a smart
salute.  Am I hallucinating? Can this mad military charade really be
happening?  The trouble is I feel caught up in it.  My heart is beating and
I feel as nervous as if it were all for real.  But then, of course, it is
. . .