Date: Sun, 17 Jun 2001 02:56:12 -0700 (PDT) From: hugh questorius Subject: The Humiliator. Chapter 20 Chapter Twenty MIRROR GAMES Instead of guiding me over to the bed for a fuck, as I expected, he continued to stand behind me, his eyes fixed on our reflection, seemingly turned on by watching his huge hands grope all over me, as if laying claim to every inch of my flesh. Then I found myself being lifted off my feet, higher and higher, my back sliding up his hairy chest. I felt insecure and alarmed, more so when he turned me over on his shoulder and started to lower me down his back, head first. I clutched at him frantically, afraid I might fall, especially when he slid me from his right shoulder, diagonally across his back to his left hip and wound me round his waist like a towel. Right round he took me, across his belly to his back again, then up once more, this time over his left shoulder. I was beginning to feel more confident of his strength and of his expertise, for I felt I was not the first slave to be used in this way. I noticed too that his eyes remained obsessively glued to the mirror. He obviously got a powerful kick out of towelling his skin with a slave body, for his cock remained hugely, aggressively, erect throughout. My burgeoning confidence took a dive however when he next passed me right round the back of his neck and started to pull me head-down over his chest. Again I found myself nervously clutching at him, the more so when he passed my head between his legs and up his back. Instinctively, I realised that the objective was not to touch my foot down to the ground. "But that's not possible!" I told myself, and indeed one foot did touch down. He immediately took me right round again. I was learning how to work with him and went under his balls and up his back very much more easily, but one heel touched down, albeit very briefly. Nothing was said, but such was the rapport between us that I knew there'd be another pass, and this time we managed it without touchdown. Success! By now, the effort of holding and manipulating my weight was bringing him out in a sweat, and as always I was sweating too, so our bodies started sliding wetly over each other. Now he brought me up under his arm, across his chest and over his shoulder, to slide me down his wet back and pass me between his legs once more, only from back to front this time. Unfortunately, both my heels slammed down, so this manoeuvre had to be repeated until I learned how to do it. He wiped me round and round his waist and, when that was perfected, in a figure of eight over one thigh and under the other. This was repeated several times till I got the rhythm of it right and learned exactly when to turn my body and how to avoid crunching his balls, though not a word was spoken. I felt I was fairly spinning around and through his legs in an amazingly fluid and acrobatic way, such as I would not have believed possible. He turned my back against him, hooked my legs over his shoulders and hung me head down between his legs, his cock hard between my shoulder blades, while he reached down to savage my nipples with his fingers, then rake his nails up my belly to abuse my testicles, watching me writhe in pain in the mirror. All this in a total, hallucinatory silence, his eyes never leaving the mirror. It was like a mad, writhing, mating dance of snakes. I too enjoyed looking in the mirror whenever I could. I was turned on by glimpses of this huge, powerful man, his sturdy legs planted firmly astride, the sweat trickling down his hairy body making the hair darker and plastering it flat to his skin. God, but he looked fantastic! A real man among men! Once, when he had wiped me across his chest, I noticed how the hair was all smeared sideways. It was if I had left a slug-slime trail across him where my body had passed. For some reason, that really excited me. It excited me too to catch glimpses of my own back and arse, with the vertical cane stripes livid on my skin, to see where this great brute of a man had marked me. Oh but I wanted to be marked by him . . . mauled and manhandled by him . . . used by him! Finally, he spun me round and held me aloft with my back against his chest, my knees doubled up to my shoulders and his hands gripping the backs of my thighs, prising the cheeks of my arse apart. Then he lowered me, ever so slowly, onto his erect spike. I could see it in the mirror, obscenely huge. I could feel it probing and pushing against my ring. He didn't thrust upwards, just let my own bodyweight impale me on him as he lowered me. There was nothing I could do, but let it happen. There was nothing I wanted to do, but let it happen. I whimpered as the thick cock head stretched me - and stretched me - and oh God, s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d me, till suddenly he let me drop on it and I slid down his rod with a moan of pain-pleasure. My whole body felt full of him, felt bloated with him, his bigness swollen inside me. He carried me over to the bed and lay me face down across it without losing entry, my feet on the floor, and took a brisk and vigorous fuck, grunting like a pig and then shouting as his spunk thumped up me. He bit the back of my neck and my shoulder after he had cum, which was bloody painful and seemed a bit - well, unfair, somehow. It was if he wanted to mark me with his lust as well as with his cane. Then he lay still, a crushing dead weight sprawled over me, panting and sweaty. His cock still pulsed occasionally inside me in a strangely obscene way, but he rolled off me, our bodies parting with a vulgar sucking slurp of wetness. He lay sprawled on the bed and told me to lick the fuck-sweat off him, which I did with diligence. That was my introduction to the strangely surreal art of the mirror dance. It was by no means the last and I came to look forward to its bizarre sensuality over many future visits. In fact, on those occasions when he did not indulge himself in this strange ritual, I felt disappointed, cheated, even, though of course I never dared ask him to do it. Suddenly he pushed me aside before I had worked my tongue down to his cock and he went off to the bathroom. I could hear the gush of the shower. Then he called me in just as he stepped, streaming with water from the shower, and flung a huge bath towel at me. Happy to be allowed to perform this personal service for him, I towelled him down, marvelling afresh at the splendour of his body as I did so, unable to believe my luck that I was allowed to serve such a man. Dry, he went back into the bedroom pulled on a pair of linen slacks and a denim shirt and thrust his bare feet into a pair of casual shoes. I found it very exciting that he wore no briefs under his slacks. I could see the line of his penis down his thigh quite clearly through the finely tailored cloth. "Come" he said and ran lightly down the stairs and strode to the scullery, with me scuttling along behind. He nodded to my T-shirt and jeans on the floor where I had thrown them off. "Dress" he said, "we're going out."