Date: Mon, 29 Jan 2018 14:41:59 +0000 (UTC)
From: Grovel Slave <grovel.slave@yahoo.com>
Subject: On the Heath

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On the Heath
by
grovel.slave@yahoo.com


Years ago, there were two distinct sections of gay activity on the Heath -
there was the vanilla section, approached from the car park behind the pub,
Jack Straw's Castle; but deeper into the Heath was the perve, fetish
section. I used to go with a mate, a leather man like me, and it was often
like running the gauntlet. The vanilla guys would part before us like the
Red Sea but there was often sniggering as we left them behind to their
conventional sucking and fucking and headed downhill towards darker aspects
of male sexuality.

Later, as I became much more of a regular on the Heath, I found another
approach to the perve section. I just looked at a map and saw that there
was more direct access to the fetish area. I'd park my motorcycle in a
residential street, cross the road and plunge into the woodland. I'd cross
a bridge, turn right and there it was all happening around me. Another
advantage of this approach was that often the police would hang out in the
car park by the pub and pull you aside for questioning. There was nothing
they could do as the standard response to their questions was that I was
`taking the air' - yes at 3am...

Occasionally they'd actually raid the Heath and that was a different
matter. You didn't want to be caught in flagrante delicto and there'd be a
lot of climbing of trees and plunging into bushes to avoid that. I never
was caught. And there was a time when I was going there at least once a
week.

No matter how often I went and no matter the conditions, winter or summer,
there were always guys getting it on. I was there when there was snow on
the ground, or heavy rain.  Numbers would be lower than usual but I was
NEVER there alone. The libido doesn't recognize weather conditions. It has
its own dictates.

However, there was nothing like a hot summer night to bring out the crowds
and there were nights when there were literally hundreds of guys there. Not
all were participants. There were lots of voyeurs, wanking at the
sights. The sound of a belt hitting flesh always produced a crowd rushing
to source the cp action. One of the more dramatic sights was two Leather
Masters chasing a totally naked slave through the woods, whipping him as
they ran and loudly verbally abusing him. It was exciting and I kind of
envied the slave but, in general, I didn't really want to be the cabaret
for lurkers.

And yet, on one memorable occasion, I was.

I had my own notions of what it constituted to be a slave. I wanted the
psychological element. I could get off easily on verbal abuse, a lot of
bootlicking, sucking cock, being fucked while being told what a useless
slave I was (and that was certainly true). I loved bondage, especially
metal. Metal has a psychological dimension that ropes and restraints simply
don't. With those, there is always the possibility of escape - with metal,
no way. But the bottom line was, I hated pain. Little by little I learned
to be turned on by nipple stimulation but nothing too heavy. And beating
was a complete taboo. Not even a hand spanking.

So...it was winter, with temperatures down to just above freezing. But
there was a full moon and I had always watched out for those ever since I
had read that the police put more officers on the street when the moon is
full. There are more lunatics out and about and where better to go than the
Heath?

Midnight was the time to go. The leather bars had closed at 11pm and that
would lead to guys heading for the anonymity of the Heath. The unwritten
rules of the Heath at that time were never to go home with someone and
never to make a date with someone you met there. You did it there and that
was that. I wasn't in position for more than five minutes when I was
approached by what l considered my ideal - tall, well built, about 35 and
in head to toe leather gear. In retrospect, I was totally a fetishist
rather than a slave. I wanted full leather, preferably topped by a Muir
cap. The whole Tom of Finland look.

We set to. It seems strange now but in those days a lot of meetings like
this began with a kind of pseudo romance. There was a lot of kissing, a lot
of sensual appreciation of leather that would lead, in my case anyway, to a
lot of bootlicking and cock sucking, then I'd shoot and leave.

So I was involved in part one of that familiar scenario, when I heard the
clank of chains about ten yards away. Talk about a Pavlovian reaction on my
part. I hastily put a stop to the kissing with the leather guy and moved in
the direction of the chains. And there was a guy of about thirty, also in
full leather, pulling a lot of heavy chains out of a rucksack. Now an
obsession with metal bondage seems to be in my dna. Even before puberty I
was fascinated by men in metal bondage - prisoners behind bars, men
handcuffed and, best of all, things like Ben Hur with galley slaves chained
in position.

I took up a position directly opposite this guy, with my hands behind my
back and head respectfully lowered but not so low that I couldn't see him
or what he was doing. He paused in his unloading of the chains and beckoned
me to approach. He sized me up and then said, `So you are a chain slave?'

`Yes, Sir,' I replied.

`Let's get you chained up then.'

He had a set of heavy prison irons, ankles, wrists and a collar, all
interconnected by chain. My cock was hard as a rock. Although I had
fantasized about such a thing, and seen irons like this in Roman epics, I
had never seen them in reality, nor ever been in anything other than
handcuffs now and again. Soon I was fettered, the most exciting act being
the locking on of the steel collar. It all had a very powerful impact on
me. I felt more submissive instantly than I had ever done. I expected him
now to order me to my knees and suck his cock. Instead, he attached a chain
leash to the collar and led me off.

The chains were making a lot of noise as I stumbled along behind him and
this had the effect of drawing a number of curious guys. My submissive
nature had never been so exposed to public view as this but curiously I
didn't mind at all. I was on a submissive high and mentally I was going
lower, deeper into submission.

We came to a clearing with a large fallen tree, extending across the middle
of it. The moon was high and visibility was really excellent. He stopped
me, grabbed my chin and raised my head to look him in the eyes. I really
couldn't believe my luck. Not only was he a dominant leather guy but he was
handsome, fit and best of all, was a real metal bondage fan.

Quietly, so he could not be overheard by the lurkers, he asked, `Are you in
a hurry tonight, slave?'

`No, Sir.'

`Good. Up for a few hours of play?'

`Yes, Sir!' Better and better. Already I wanted his phone number, a date
the next day. Anything. Except not what he proposed...

`Good. Then here's the plan. I am going to put you across this tree trunk
and beat you with my belt.'

`Oh, no, Sir! I can't stand pain. I hate to be beaten.'

`Are you a slave?'

`Well, I want to be, Sir, but not that, I can't. I really can't.'

`But a slave has no choice. A slave accepts. A slave obeys.'

I was silent despite feeling agitated and bitterly disappointed.

`Here is what's going to happen,' he continued. `I'm going to give you one
hundred strokes with my leather belt. You'll count them, silently, as will
I. I'll check from time to time that you are keeping accurate track of your
beating.'  `Oh, Sir, I was beginning to think that I could take some
beating just to show you I really do want to be a slave but one hundred
strokes! No way can I take that. Please, Sir. Make it less. Make it ten!'

He laughed and said, `Well, let's see how you handle ten! Now drop your
trousers and get over the trunk.'

I looked around. There were about ten guys grouped around us, waited no to
see what we were going to do.

`Ok, Sir. Ten then, Sir.'

I dropped my trousers and stretched over the trunk which was about waist
height. I heard him getting his belt out of his trousers. I waited with
dread and a racing heart for the first blow. Fear lies more in anticipation
than anything else. Everything was tremendously heightened for me. I could
hear the eagerness of the group to see some action. Then I heard the whoosh
of the belt through the air and the crack as it landed heavily on my
arse. I jumped at the strength of it but uttered not a word. Stoicism has
been bred into me and even then I felt that I should not make a sound. One.

The second was just as heavy, and the third, and the four elicited a gasp
from me. Then, strangely, the fifth was much less heavy and so was the
sixth. I was waiting for the seventh but instead I heard him say, `Get up
and pull up your trousers.' He said it rather matter of factly. In fact,
other than calling me `slave' from time to time, he was devoid of
theatrics. There was no acting. As a Master, he was very laid back.

As I was pulling up my trousers, I said to him, `Sir, you said ten. Are you
letting me off now?'

Again he laughed. `Oh, I haven't finished with you, yet.' And with that he
led me on. I noticed that the group following us had grown. The sound of
the belting had evidently carried in the crisp, cold night. We stopped. He
positioned me against an upright tree and pulled my trousers down. So I WAS
going to get the remaining four. They weren't so bad. After the tenth, he
leaned forward and whispered, `How about a few more?' I considered for a
moment, then nodded yes.

Six more were despatched. My arse felt on fire. So I had taken sixteen. But
some weren't so strong... And unexpectedly, the growing crowd made a
difference to me. I began to feel I would lose face, that I'd be exposed as
a wimp, if I were to holler and make a scene. Again I was led away to
another part of the Heath. But now he began to ask me questions about my
sex life, what I was into, what I had done. He was such a friendly guy but
at the same time very much in charge.

And so it went on. We'd walk then stop. I'd be beaten. We'd chat. And on
we'd go. When I reached forty, I thought, `Well it'd be a kind of victory
if I reached fifty...' But he didn't stop at fifty and then I was at
fifty-four. And on... I found the sixties very tough and then I was at
seventy-two and I thought, `Come on, slave! The end is in sight.' And by
then it had become a matter of pride. Some of the guys had followed us from
the start. Now it was no longer about being exposed as a wimp but rather
seeming to be brave.

Looking back, I know he not only knew what he was doing in terms of
physical prowess- he was playing me psychologically. And it worked.

I reached the hundred. The nineties weren't so terrible until we got to
ninety-seven which was a corker, and each thereafter progressively more
severe with the hundredth really making me shout. But I had got there and I
felt so proud of myself.

Now if this were fiction, it'd be tempting to say that then I sucked his
cock to orgasm, or that he fucked my well heated arse. But no, we sat down,
alone now, and chatted like mates. And then I asked him if I could meet him
again. He said, `I only get up to this kind of thing here on the Heath. I
have a vanilla boyfriend so although he knows what I get up to, I don't
bring it home. I'll be here next Monday - there's a guy I see regularly.
And he beats me just like I've beaten you.'

And that was that. But what a learning experience for me! It represented
for me a huge step forward in terms of submission towards becoming the
slave I now am.

One last observation. In the weeks that followed, my arse went through all
the colours of the rainbow and a few more. I've had heavier beatings since
then and I still tell prospective Masters that I am not a pain slave but no
beating has ever been so memorable as that one.