Date: Sat, 28 Apr 2001 13:35:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: questorius@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: The Humiliator.  Chapter13

The Humiliator.  Chapter Thirteen


				  BONDAGE


The corporal dropped his end of the Follow Me and I felt it swing against
my shins as it hung from my balls.  He crossed the room, his boots sounding
hollow on the bare boards of the empty attic.  There was a "flumph" sound
as of a mattress being thrown off a bed onto the floor.  He took me by the
upper arms and guided me backwards till my calves touched the cold metal of
a bed frame.

  He made me sit on the bare wire grid mesh, then grabbing me by the ankles
he swung me round to lie flat.  I was so far up the bed that my head hung
uncomfortably over the end and I made to work myself down but he snapped
"Stay!"  But at least I had managed to get so that the slave collar
cushioned the back of my neck on the sharp corner of the iron frame.  My
wrists were quickly strapped to the side bars and I saw the point of
dispensing with the mattress, to allow easy access to a variety of fixing
points, rather than just to make it more uncomfortable to lie on, as I had
supposed.  Though I daresay that was seen as an added bonus.

Next, a broad leather strap was passed under the wire lattice below my
armpits and buckled high over my chest.  I expanded my chest as he
tightened it so that it was not too tight when I relaxed.  Stupid.  This
man was an experienced professional and knew damn well what I was doing. He
simply waited for me to breathe out and yanked the belt tighter around my
chest.  With wrists and chest firmly secured I was now helpless and any
faint thought of resistance was gone.

I could, of course still kick my legs or heave my hips up off the bed, had
I a mind to do so.  But a rope passed under the mesh and knotted tightly
round my waist effectively ruled out any hip movement.  I began to feel
panicky as my options were removed one by one while this unknown man,
unseen in my blindfold darkness, worked quietly and efficiently to prepare
me for punishment.

Now he began work on my legs.  He tied a cord round one ankle, then the
other, but leaving a short length between them like a hobble.  I was
puzzled by this until he grasped my feet and turned them so that the soles
touched.  Imagine you are lying on your back, the soles of your feet
together. What happens?  Exactly!  Your knees splay, exposing your inner
thighs - the target area designated for flogging!  You can protect such
vulnerable flesh a bit by pushing your feet straight down as far as the
ankle bonds will permit.  The Follow Me, still gripping my balls with its
spiked teeth, was now pulled taut and tied to the cord between my ankles.
Push your feet down towards the end of the bed now and you can only add to
your own suffering . . .  you had to admire the care and thought which had
gone into this.

There was still one self - protective gambit open to me: I could simply
close my knees together, but somehow I felt that this would not last.
Indeed, cords were knotted below each knee and tied to the side bars of the
bed, effectively splaying them open and keeping them there.  Then it was
done.  A long silence followed.  Was he still there?  I couldn't hear him
breathing.  But he must be, I'd have heard him on the bare boards if he had
gone.  His job done, he was waiting.  Just standing there . . . waiting.

And then I heard it, he heard it, we heard it, the footfall on the stair.
Two floors down but unmistakable, the sound of spurred boots treading the
wooden stairs.

HE was coming . . .

My heart was thumping so loud that the corporal must surely be able to hear
it.  Then, as the footsteps entered there was a sudden CRASH which was so
startling it made me start and leap against my restraining bonds.  The
corporal had stamped to attention on the bare boards.  "SAR" he bellowed,
"Prisoner bound and ready for punishment. SAR!"

In the silence which followed there was only the sound of The Humiliator's
boots as he paced quietly round me inspecting the work.  I felt like a
trussed chicken, helpless and horribly naked.  I felt his fingers probe
under the strap about my chest.  Quickly, I expanded my chest to make it
tight, but too late.  "Tighten this up, corporal" he said.  The corporal
unbuckled it and tugged to tighten it, but I expanded my chest again.
"Can't get it any tighter, Sir" he reported.

"Out of my way" the master said.  He unbuckled it' explaining "You need to
get your boot against him for leverage" and I felt his boot heel planted
firmly against my side, then an almighty wrench as he pulled the belt
crushingly tight across my chest, restricting my breathing.  "It's not
enough to tie him down," he explained, "he's got to FEEL the restraint."
He paced down to the end of the bed and tugged at the cord linking my ankle
bond to the bottom rail.  "Get this tightened up too." he ordered.  "I was
afraid of pulling his balls off if it was any tighter, Sir" explained the
corp. The master assured him there was no fear of that yet, and accordingly
this bond was loosed and then yanked brutally tight which not only dragged
ny balls further down towards my knees but also tightened the Follow Me
through its steel slip-ring, digging its internal spikes deeper into my
stretched scrotum.  But I didn't yell, didn't even whimper.  I just gritted
my teeth, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my suffering.

The only trouble now was that my balls were stretched so far down that they
were liable to restrict his freedom to lash my thighs.  The master asked
the corporal for the leather pad to protect my testes.  "We don't want to
go flogging his balls now, do we?  At least not with heavy things like
these."  he added sinisterly.  I felt a leather pad spread over my balls
and tucked under my thighs to hold it in position.  All was now ready.

"We'll start with the tawse, corporal"

"The rubber one, Sir?"

Pause. "No, I don't think so.  The leather one will do well enough.  It is
a first offence after all"

Was I supposed to feel grateful for this?  I hated the tawse. A master I
had in Notting Hill used to love using it on me - mainly, I think, because
he knew how I hated it.  I often wondered what sort of vicious Scottish
bastard invented it.  For the tawse was to Scotland what the bastinado was
to the Inquisition or the dreaded knout was to Russia - with one important
difference: the tawse was invented for use in Scottish schools . . . on
children!  It takes a particularly sick mind to devise such a cruel means
of punishing kids, for God's sake.  You can imagine him, tall, thin, mean
and sandy haired, cutting a two foot length of heavy rawhide three inches
wide to use on his cowed pupils.  He finds it hard to grip such a wide
blade of leather, so, with meticulous care, he carves out a scoop on either
side to form a handle.  That gives a better grip, but a thicker handle
would be better still, so he carefully marks out two more thicknesses of
leather to match but only about six inches long and these he sews flat on
either side of the handle to give a really solid grip.

Can't you see him, waxing the cobbler's thread, absorbed in his task, then
punching the holes and sewing the triple thickness together with neat welt
stitches.  Finally his labours are complete.  He straightens his back and
hefts the thing in his hand, relishing the brutal weight of it.  Suddenly
he whacks it down onto his workbench with a crack like a gun shot.  He
envisages the pale, bare buttocks of young Wullie MacEvoy and thrashes his
new toy down on the workbench with even greater force and greater
satisfaction.  But there is a problem - the benchtop is flat but young
Wullie's bum is rounded (beautifully rounded!)  Will the thick, flat,
leather impact a curved surface as powerfully as on a flat bench?  Pehaps
his oh-so-carefully-crafted invention is flawed after all?

And then, in a flash, inspiration blazes.  He sees, quite clearly, the
stunningly simple modification which will ensure that his invention will be
used by sadistic Scottish schoolmasters for generations to come - he slits
the blade of hide along its length three times.  He now has four leather
fingers to fit themselves to any contour, snugly, precisely, intimately.
And generations of children yet unborn will suffer the savage caress of
those fingers on their bare arses.  And not only children, but adults too.
Adults like me, depraved and perverted enough to surrender themselves into
the hands of a Dominant Male ready to teach the rituals of servitude.

But my master was not merely cruel, he knew how to wield the whips of shame
too.  "Right, corporal" he announced, "I have some phone calls to make, so
you carry on here.  Six lashes to each thigh - the tender inside of the
thigh, mind.  I'll be back shortly.  Lay on with a will, corporal."

Another stamp to attention.  "SAR!" he yelled.  And then the sound of
retreating foot falls going down the stairs.  Oh God!  Not only was he
going to have me beaten by his servant, he would not even bother to watch!
Not for nothing was he named The Humiliator!  I seethed with anger and
shame.  But I was alone with the corporal.  I was bound and helpless and he
held the tawse and had his orders.

Truly, "corporal punishment" was about to begin and I was powerless to do
anything about it.