Date: Fri, 15 Nov 2002 16:41:00 +0000 (GMT) From: hugh masters Subject: Stripped, Chapter 2 STRIPPED. by questorius@yahoo.com.uk CHAPTER 2. The Second File The next morning Ian opened up and had to force himself not to go straight to the locked drawer of his desk to inspect the other two files with the same intensity with which he had devoured the first the night before. But that wouldn't do. His workers would be arriving shortly and coming to his office for instructions and he needed to be able to study those strange, disturbing pictures at leisure and with the certainty of not being interrupted. But the thought of them was never far from his mind, nagging, nagging. He wondered what he would say if young Will asked about them, but mercifully that didn't happen. He was brisk and businesslike in the only brief exchange he had with Will but realised afterwards that he had avoided eye contact. He always took lunch in his office sitting at his desk - and was invariably undisturbed. Now would be safe for a look, surely? As his hand dropped to unlock the drawer he glanced down the length of the workshop to check that all the men had gone to the pub as usual and was startled to see Will still at his bench. But not working, just sitting there - and watching! Was he watching or was it guilt that made it seem so? Ian felt a hot flush of shame wash over him and he ostentatiously carried on going through the Accounts Books. It was three weeks since his book keeper had moved on and it would be another week before the new one, Mrs Duncan, would start so he had to struggle on as best he could. The interminable afternoon dragged at last to a close and the men packed up and left. All of them? He hadn't actually seen either Martin or Will leave. He called their names. No answer. He walked down the length of the workshop, even checking the lavatory. No one. He locked both front and back doors and returned to his office, even scanning the wood racks overhead as he went. Satisfied at last that he was alone and would not be disturbed he unlocked the drawer and withdrew the three files. Number 1 he put aside carefully and as he picked up No 2 he noticed his hands were shaking. This was dated June 10, two weeks after the previous encounter so the man knew what he was in for - but came anyway! Ian opened the file and directed his gaze to the first picture, top left, deliberately trying to avoid looking at the other 11 photos. He wanted to experience them in sequence, squeezing dry each in turn for all the information it contained before allowing himself the luxury of moving on to the next. Pic No.1 was at first glance identical to the first in File 1, showing the same man wearing the same dark business suit and standing to attention, as before. Even the location seemed identical - a blank wall of dirty plaster behind and grubby, bare floorboards. Could be anywhere. A basement or store-room perhaps? The only change was that instead of the half hood which masked his features in the first file, his head was now completely covered in a loose black bag which reached down to his shoulders. Ian found this even more disturbing for it utterly obliterated his individuality. This was not a person, this was a faceless object, a victim waiting to be used. Ian tried to imagine what it would be like to stand there, blinded and obliterated and vulnerable, knowing that unspeakable obscenities were to be visited upon him. He found the idea frightening - and eerily thrilling! In pic No.2 the man was still at attention and smartly dressed - except for one detail, his flies had been unzipped and he had permitted his controller to rummage around inside there and scoop out his cock and balls. The effect was surreal - smart businessman with no face and his balls on display! Apart from the jacket being unbuttoned, No.3 seemed identical at first glance but then Ian noted that the shirt was unbuttoned too, from below the collar to the waist, leaving a narrow slit of hairy chest on show. Only a narrow slit, yet Ian felt certain that greedy hands had invaded that slit and groped the man-body under the shirt, perhaps seeking out the nipples to pinch and twist. It was noticeable too that the cock no longer dangled but stood erect. Here was a man who LIKED having his body man-handled! The fourth Polaroid showed the jacket and tie still in situ but the pants had been dropped and lay puddled around his ankles. He looked more obscenely naked like this than he would have done entirely nude. Naked and horribly vulnerable. No.5 was a close-up of the genitals. One of those long, leather bootlaces had been carefully bound round and round the base, stretching the bundle of equipment down from the body, each square section of lacing lying neatly alongside its neighbour to make a solid binding. The two ends had been brought up tight between the testes, stretching them wide apart so that the skin was stretched over them taut and shiny. Ian tried to imagine what it would be like to have that done to you and winced at the thought. But worse was to come. The next shot showed a netting bag hung from the laced binding round the balls - and at the bottom of the bag lay the silver shining sphere of a "petanc" ball. Ian had played boule on holiday in Provence. He had thrown such metal balls into the white dust of a town square and knew the weight of them.The thought of such a solid metal weight hung from your balls did not bear thinking about! Picture 7 showed the same close up, the only difference was that the netting bag now held two silver balls. Ian felt sick and outraged that a man could do this to another man - but reminded himself that the victim was not bound and helpless, he was there of his own free will! Ian wondered if the metal sphere had been gently lowered into the net or allowed to drop suddenly, striking the first with that distinctive "petanc" clash. He had only to ask the question to feel certain he knew the answer. . . No.8 showed the man now on his knees, his hands behind his back. Bound or just clasped there? Impossible to tell. But now the jacket and shirt had been yanked open and pushed down over the shoulders, baring the torso. The bag-obliterated head was thrown back and you could see by the way the black material was sucked into the gape of the mouth that he was gasping with pain. He knelt upright, sturdy thighs taut and splayed wide. The boules in the net bag hung within an inch of the floor. "Stupid bastard" mumered Ian,"why doesn't he sit down on his heels?" That way the bag would have rested on the ground, easing the drag on his tesicles. Or had he perhaps done so, only to be ordered to kneel up to ensure he suffered the full rigour of the weight? Or had he deliberately and knowingly opted to suffer the pain - to offer it up to his Master, as it were? That idea disturbed and thrilled Ian. He was concious of the leakage from his cock soaking his jeans. Notable too, in this shot, were the red, inflamed areas around the nipples. Something nasty had been done there, that was sure. Then he noted the object lying on the floor between the man's knees - a lavatory brush! He had had his tits scrubbed with those stiff bristles! Oh God, Oh God, the horror of it, thought Ian. The sheer, sadistic cruelty of it! He imagined the lavatory brush scraping over the tender nubs or being rammed hard against them and s-l-o-w-l-y rotated under full pressure. No wonder the surrounding skin looked red-raw. Ian unzipped, pulled out his cock and used his handkerchief to mop up the sticky fluid oozing from it. The next picture was a back view. The man standing again, stripped stark naked now and with his wrists emphatically bound behind his back with a leather belt wrapped tightly around them several times. Very tightly - you could see the edges cutting into the flesh. Whether or not the wrists had been bound in the previous shot, they certainly were now! The bagged head hung forwards away from the camera and the shoulers were slumped. He looked exhausted and defeated - very different from the proud, erect stance of the figure in the smart business suit before he had been worked over. But his trials were clearly not over yet, for behind him on the floor stood a little wooden three-legged stool, like an old fashioned milking stool. Only this one had been "modified" for nailed onto its seat was a black rubber but plug, its spear point jutting threateningly upwards. The tenth Polaroid kept the same back view only now the victim had been carefully lowered onto the spike with the first couple of inches penetrating the anus. To protect himself from further intrusion the poor bastard was desperately trying to support himself in that untenable squatting position. You could see the tension in the bunched muscles along the thighs and in the ridged sinews of his calves and lower legs and his back shone with sweat from the effort of trying to hold that position. Ian reflected that there was no way he could have lowered himself into that situation. His torturer must have held his upper arms and supported him while guiding him down slowly onto the spike. And all he had to do was press sharply down on the shoulers and the man would have had no option but to go fully down on the spike. But that hadn't happened. The master had left his victim in that unsustainable position and stood there, watching him sweat as he tried to protect himself from further pain. How long for? Impossible to say but that amount of sweat suggested perhaps as much as a minute. But it could not last. He would have to let go and allow his own body weight to impale him. What sort of sick sadistic bastard would dream up such a nasty refinement as that? Picture 11 was a front view taken not long after that moment of self-impalement for the torso was arched back in a taut rictus of pain with positive rivulets of sweat running down his chest and abdomen. Yet despite all this the penis was still hugely rampant! Amazing! Moreover it had been sheathed in a black condom. Why black? Ian wondered, only to decide that it was somehow more obscene and therefore absolutely right. Clearly the man was going to be milked of his semen - but why not just let it spurt? Why collect it? The twelfth and final picture was perhaps the most sickening of all. It showed the man on all fours crawling away from the camera like a cowed and beaten beast. The three-legged stool and its monstrous plug had been ripped out and lay discarded on its side. Perhaps to free up access for a fucking? Who could tell? The ball weights dragged behind him along the floor, tugging still at his testicles.But most sad of all, the blind, hooded head was turned over the shoulder as if to "look" at the camera. There was something so pathetic and contemptible about that blind, pleading angle of the head. The bag had been rolled up over the tip of the nose to give access to the mouth and from that dangled a black condom, flat and flaccid, apparently sucked dry. No, look closer - that was not one condom hanging from his mouth, there were two. The poor, sad, humiliated and defeated creature had even been made to consume its own semen and to suck out his master's. Ian felt sickened by that image of utter degradation - sickened and something else too. Envy! That is what it was. Oh God, envy! He closed the folder slowly and noticed his hand was shaking again. Could he take any more of this sick horror? Perhaps he should leave the last file for study tomorrow night? But, as if compusively driven, and thinking himself alone and unobserved, he pulled the third file towards him . . . To be continued.