A BROKEN MAN - CHAPTER TWO
I was being called in for another shoot. Apparently thosefilms where I had been brutalized had done well. There was obviously market forfilms where older guys are abused by young ones. They wanted to make a series.This time, I was to dress in a suit and look every inch the distinguished gent.I'm 6ft 3in with slightly greying hair and (though I say it myself) a prettygood physique. My abs are tight. At my age, and with my height, abs are thekey. I work on them every time I go to the gym. Anyway, I'm to be an old gentwho's mugged in a warehouse by these two young guys. I don't know what a guylike my character is doing in a warehouse in the first place, but the storyline is not my worry.
I was teamed with one of the young guys at the last shoot ofthis sort. He was a tough young bloke who obviously enjoyed knocking me aboutthen. I expected similar treatment this time. His new partner was a younger guywho looked Latin American – small, trim body and more gentle looking. Still,you can't tell. Young guys who volunteer for this sort of film must enjoybeating people up.
I had dressed in my suit, polished my shoes and took abriefcase. I think I looked the part as I arrived at the warehouse. I don'tknow how they find these places, but they seemed confident that we wouldn't bedisturbed. They took a long shot of me walking across the warehouse floor. Thetwo guys then emerged, one of them with a knife. My briefcase was taken and Iwas forced to my knees. Acting scared is no problem. I am scared. You neverquite know what these guys are going to do to you. We only have a basic scriptand it wouldn't take much for the whole thing to go haywire. They tipped outthe papers from my briefcase, pocketed my wallet and then the older guy orderedme to kneel and started slapping me round the face. He was obviously enjoyinghimself. Every time I recovered myself, he gave me a few more slaps and thentold me to open my mouth. He gathered together a whole lump of saliva and letit drop. I swallowed it fast and opened my mouth again for the other guy to dothe same.
`Thank you, Sirs,' I said
`You like gob, loser? You want more? How about some snot?'
That was his cue to spew some snot out of his nose into myopen mouth. He obviously found that hugely funny, and got his mate to give mesome too.
`Thank you, Sirs,' I said again.
You know what you are, loser.' He shouted into my face.You're a perverted old fucker. You come down to places like this hoping thatsome young lad will let you suck his cock for a few pounds. You don't mind whatyou do as long as you can drool over young flesh. You disgust me. Get thoseclothes off.'
I knew this would be coming sooner or later, and I hurriedto strip. When I was naked, I knelt down again on the concrete floor. I wasn't quite sure what would happen next,but I was pretty sure that the older guy had a plan for me. All it said in thescript was that I got mugged.
`You're a disgusting sight. You know that, old man? Yourskin sags. You're wrinkled. You're clapped out. You don't deserve to be aliveany more. Why don't you die?'
That young guy was good at making up a script as he wentalong. Not for him a silent film, with the occasional word of abuse. It waseasier for me. I simply reacted to him, and for me this was real. If theyweren't likely to strangle me, they might come close and I didn't think thatthe director was likely to intervene until the last moment.
`I'm sorry, Sir. I'm disgusting. I'm a worthless piece ofshit.'
`Put your forehead on the ground and stick your disgustingbutt in the air.'
I did so. From the corner of my eye, I could see him takingthe belt off my trousers, and then began a whole load of blows to my butt. Iwas expected twelve – maybe twenty – but I lost count. He stared on my butt,went on to my shoulders and then back to my butt.
`Stay there, shithole. I'm tired. You take over', he said tohis partner.
And it began again, with renewed force. I toppled over. Icouldn't take any more. But this only got the older guy kicking me.
`Get back up, you filthy faggot. Kneel. Show that pathetic butt.'
`Please, Sir. No more. I can't take any more.'
`You'll take as much as we want to give you, worm. Kneel,stick your butt in the air so my mate can get at it, and lick my boots clean.'
So I started licking. The guy made it harder for me bymoving backwards all the time, so I had to crawl after him, all the whilegetting my tortured butt beaten by his mate.
`You thirsty, dickhead?' shouted his mate.
`Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' I knew what was coming – orthought I did.
`Kneel up and open your mouth. If you lose a drop, you'llget the buckle end of your belt. I've made it special for you. I had asparagusfor lunch.'
He pointed his cock at my mouth. Before, I had just beenpissed on. I hadn't been expected to drink it. This time was different. The guy was obviously proud of his bladdercontrol. He emptied himself into my mouth and then stopped while he ordered meto gulp it down. Then he started again. He did this three or four times andeach time I had to gulp down a whole mouthful of his stinking piss. I knew whatordinary piss tasted like, but I had no idea how disgusting piss tasted after aguy has eaten asparagus. I was retching but, what was more weird, I was gettinghard. I was scared. I was hurting. My stomach was in spasm. I wanted it all tostop and yet my cock was getting hard and I couldn't do anything about it.
Look at the dirty fucker. He's got a boner, yelled theolder guy. Stand up, shithole.'
I stood up, my cock jutting out in front. The older guythumped me in the stomach, so I fell back. The other guy got me by the arms andheld me up. The other guy kept on thumping in the stomach, all the whileshouting abuse into my face. This might be a film, might be just a scene, butit was real too. Both these guys were getting their rocks off and I wasterrified – and more terrified by my response. My cock jus stayed stiff as aboard through it all.
`That was great, lads. Best you've ever done.' The directorwas speaking to the two lads. I didn't count. I was on the floor again, my legshad given out.
`Take his clothes. Make him run after you. We'll shoot that,and then call it a day.'
I couldn't run. They went off with my clothes and Istaggered after them, but then collapsed. They all seemed to find it funny. They were chatting together in the farcorner, kicking my clothes around, but otherwise ignoring me. Finally, theywent off. They left my clothes, thank God. I put them on my aching body asquick as I could. I looked a wreck. My jacket and trousers were torn andcovered in dirt, my shirt was ripped, my tie had gone.
Walking back to the tube, I wondered how much longer I couldstand this. I was aching all over. I was completely exhausted. And yet I knewthere was more to come and, if the punters were to be kept interested, it wouldget worse. How far would they go? No doubt they were being asked forsuggestions. `What shall we do to the old shit next time?'
The next time wasn't a film. It was a private party. I usedto enjoy these. Older guys like me were usually hired to act as butlers. Weserved at table and stayed in the background afterwards while a couple ofyounger guys would fuck each other while the port went round. It was easypickings. I didn't know what would be expected of me this time, but was fairlyrelaxed as I arrived at this flat in Clarges Street. A manservant let me in andleft me in a small room on the first floor. He didn't give me any instructions,so I waited to see what would happen. I could hear people arriving and comingup the stairs to a room just next door, where they were having dinner. I couldhear them talking, but not well enough to hear what they were saying. It musthave been a good hour before the manservant returned. Without speaking, hegestured me to strip. He then took out some handcuffs. I put out my hands andhe clipped them onto my wrists. He then led me out of the small room and intothe room next door.
I tried to keep my eyes down but I needed to get some ideaof who was there. There must have been about 15 men in dinner jackets – of allages – seated around the table. They were still talking and took little noticeof me. It was a large room, with a dais in a window recess at one end. Themanservant led me there. A rope with a clip on its end was hanging from theceiling, and my cuffs were attached to this. Using a pulley at the side, themanservant pulled on the rope until my arms were fully extended – so much sothat I was nearly pulled off the ground and was desperately trying to reach theground with at least one foot. He then put a couple of large books under myfeet. I was grateful for that mercy. I obviously now realized what was instore. I had been beaten before, but in a haphazard way, as part of anotherscenario. It had never been the main course. Now I could see that I was in fora tough time, and I hoped that I would manage it. I started to focus on mybreathing. There didn't seem much else I could do by way of preparation.
The manservant now stripped off his jacket and shirt. Hewasn't tall, but he was certainly burly with a deep hairy chest. He lookedMiddle Eastern and maybe his silence was due to his not speaking English. Hethen took a whip from behind the curtain. I had been hoping for a paddle but atleast, I thought, it wasn't a cane. On reflection, anything would have beeneasier to endure than that whip.
Strangely, the guys at the table were still engrossed intheir conversation. They didn't seem interested. However, the manservant wasready to begin. The first stroke caught me on the shoulders. It was no lightbrushing. It was hard and cut into my flesh. I didn't know whether the skin wasbroken, but the shock made my cry out. But, in mid-cry, a second stroke hit mealmost in the same place and then another and another. This rain of blows threwme into a pit of pain. My mind was befuddled. I didn't cry. I didn't have theenergy. I could only struggle away from the source of the blows and somehowfind the strength to survive. When I began to drift into unconsciousness – ablessed means of self-defence that every victim of torture knows – the focus ofthe attack changed and the blows began to come on my butt cheeks. I heard avoice call out,
`Take a book away.'
One of the books on which I was standing was kicked away andI was on tiptoe once again. As I swung away from my tormentor, I was knockedoff the remaining book. I desperately tried to regain my footing before theother blow landed. I suppose it must have looked as though I was doing a sortof dance and I could hear laughing.
`Keep him going. He's loving it. Kick the other book away.'
Clearly the guys at the table were now fully engaged withwhat was going on. I was now swinging freely, unable even to try to dodge theblows that came relentlessly. This guy was clearly an expert whip-master. Firstmy shoulders, then my butt. He seemed to be alternating, and there were nostrokes that didn't land where he intended. The waves of pain were crashing allround me. I had never been in this place before. It was like entering anotherworld, where nothing was recognizable. Just pain – just relentless, hard,searing pain. And through it all, I felt my cock growing hard. It was beyond myunderstanding. It was completely beyond my control.
`Harder. Cut him. Get the blood flowing.'
The voices were louder. The guys from the table seemed nowto be standing closer. I was beyond seeing anything. I was in this other world,which somehow seemed strangely warm and comforting. My cock was harder thanever. It was as if I was a baby in my mother's arms, pressed against her. Thepain had become part of my comfort. I wanted it to go on. I feared to lose itbecause I would thereby lose the world in which I now nestled, a world in whichI had no responsibility in which I was only loved and held.
But it did come to an end. The blows ceased and I feltmyself being slowly lowered. As my feet met the ground, I tried to stand, but Icouldn't. I was dizzy with pain. My legs had lost all power. I could only waituntil I was lying on the ground. But the pain continued. It increased. I washurting as I hurt when my ordeal began. The warmth was gone, the shooting,stabbing, unbearable pain was back. I heard myself gabbling incoherently. I wastrying to say, `No more, Sir. Please no more, Sir.' But it didn't come out likethat.
I can't remember what happened next. In fact, I remembernothing before I was lying face down on some sort of sheet in the small room.Someone was pouring stuff on my back and the waves of pain were crashing overme again. I began to wimper. Somehow it helped me now to weep, and I couldspeak too.
`I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Thank you. Thank you.'
Why was I apologizing? Who was I apologizing to? Who was I thanking?My words came from deep within me, they were just anguish and sorrow for theperson I was, the person I had always been. It was as if that beating had beenpunishment for all the sins I had ever committed. But it was also as if thefruit of my wretchedness had been beaten out of me. I felt an extraordinaryfreedom – I was no longer the person I had been. I was freed from my constant,unrelenting brokenness that had tortured me all my conscious life. I had neverfelt so free before.
It didn't last. I couldn't go home. My wife would be thereand she could not but see the state I was in. And anyway I still couldn't walk.A car took me to the offices of Rendell & Poole. I was helped into thefamiliar vestibule and through some kind of back door. I hadn't been herebefore. There were cubicles, like in a sauna. I was taken into one and helpedto lie down face down on a bed. Then the door closed and there was silence.Maybe I had been given something, but somehow or other I drifted into a deep,healing sleep.
All comments & suggestions very welcome – edmundb45@yahoo.co.uk