Chapter Two
ORDERS RECEIVED
One week, two weeks, three weeks passed. I was in despair. I asked myself what I would do in his position, answer immediately? No of course not. I'd let the bugger sweat. Keep him on tenterhooks. But it was no good. I knew I'd blown it. My answers were too long or else just failed to please. Did I dare to write again, begging for a second chance? No, that would be totally wrong. Anyway, he probably had dozens or even scores of applicants to consider. But that thought only made me even more depressed - What chance did I have against such competition? I lay awake at night fantasising about imaginary replies demanding my immediate presence.
Some mornings the post would be late and I'd hang on as long as I dared, risking being late for work, but still desperately trying to persuade myself that this morning his reply would surely come. Surely? Then, one morning, a small brown envelope with a Buxton post mark. I knew no-one in that area. Could this be it? Surely not. Something so important would surely be more impressive? I ripped it open to find one small, flimsy, slip with a typed message of brutal brevity. It read:
"Fuckface.
Fri 28th pm. Be here.
Detailed travel instructions will be sent.
T H"
TH? Of course, The Humiliator. So even now I was not to be allowed to know his name. The only clue I had to his identity was the Buxton post mark, but even that may mean nothing. Strange how I had assumed that such a Dominant Male must be based in London. Typical of the arrogance of Londoners like myself to assume that anything of outstanding quality must be here in the Capital!
I got a road map out to try and estimate how long a drive it might be. On a Friday night, three hours perhaps? Hmm. I'd better start making noises about needing to get away from the office early on the 28th. Today was the fourth. Three and a half weeks to wait. Three and a half weeks to wonder and worry and stew. I must be mad even to consider driving a couple of hundred miles into God knows what sort of remote wilderness to deliver myself into the hands of a self-proclaimed sex pervert of whom I knew absolutely nothing. It was stupid. It was dangerous. There was no doubt in my mind that I should not go . . . and no doubt that I would! In vain I told myself that he'd probably turn out to be an ignorant old farmer with BO and calloused hands. But the thought of strong, work-roughened hands groping my body only excited me.
But suppose he was some repulsively scrawny, septuagenarian, pansy artist, rather than a horny-handed son of toil? The name Fuckface clearly indicated that he would be shoving his cock into my mouth while he fucked my face. Did I really want such a man to use me in such a way? The answer shocked me, for the simple, shaming, truth was that it didn't matter what he was like, provided he genuinely posessed that essential authority of the true master. And every indication to date was that here was a man of such arrogant confidence that he took obedience for granted and it was just that sort of man to whom I longed to submit. And after all, I reminded myself, slaves did not have the right to pick and choose their masters. If a master wanted you then you kissed his hands in gratitude and submitted to whatever he wanted, whether you found him repulsive or attractive. I reminded myself that although I knew nothing of him, he knew a great deal about me - my age, looks, experience of servitude, even my fantasies. And had chosen me to serve him. "Be here" he had ordered. And I would do as he said. Should I write to confirm? I longed to do so. But he had not asked for confirmation - just taken obedience for granted. My duty was to keep that day free, (that week-end free!) and to await the further instructions which had been promised. And dear God, how difficult that waiting was.
On the 24th came a knock at the door before I was up. I leapt out of bed, pulled on a towelling gown to answer the door but had such an erection that I had to hide behind the door. It was the postman with a large, padded envelope too big to go through the the letterbox. "Recorded delivery" he announced, "sign here" In trying to manage the package and sign the slip, the door swung open a bit wider. "I'm sorry to pull you off the nest" he said with a smirk and a downward glance. I looked down and realised my hard-on was very obvious even under my robe. Embarrassed, I shoved the signed slip back at him and slammed the door.
A Buxton postmark! Immediately my pulse started to race. I had expected a brief note giving road directions, not such a bumper bundle as this. What could it contain? I carried it back to the bedroom, ripping it open with trembling fingers, and sat on the bed. It contained a wodge of typesript and a soft parcel in a silver-grey plastic bag across which was written "Do not open before reading instructions". I turned my attention to the sheaf of papers and began to read, with mounting excitement:
Fuckface
You are to read this only when naked. Strip now.
TH
The manipulative bastard! He was obviously some sort of control freak who not only ordered the sequence in which I read his letter, but even the conditions under which I was to read it. But wasn't that exactly what I wanted - some masterful sod to order me around and take control of me? I stripped as instructed. So, he would never know if I had obeyed or not, but I would, and obedience was what turned me on, after all! I read:
"With immediate effect, you are celibate. You are now under my orders and the control of your body and of your semen lies with me. Not only are you forbidden to ejaculate, you are also forbidden even to handle your genitals other than the minimum required when taking a piss."
Christ! This man really was a control freak! Did he really suppose he could impose his will on me from 200 miles away, just by letter? Well, yes, obviously he did. What the hell was I letting myself in for? But the grim fact was that the arrogance of his commands had re-ignited my powerful erection! The letter continued:
"Travel orders for 28th You will travel by train. Ticket attached. Catch the 18.10 from Euston. On arrival at Buxton, do not exit the platform. Sit on one of the seats on the platform, put on the dark goggles which you will discover later and cover these with a pair of your own sunglasses so as not to attract attention. Wait there. One of my men will approach you, take you by the arm and say "come". He will guide you to the car and bring you here. You will follow any instructions he gives you but you will not ask him any questions."
"One of my men"? What was this all about? An employee? A servant? Another sex slave? Bizarre! And I was to be taken blindfolded to an unknown destination, by an unknown man and delivered to an unknown pervert, like a parcel. Creepy! Rather frightening in fact. But exciting too! And, strangely, rather reassuring in a way, to think that such carefully contrived and complex arrangements were being made for my reception. I returned to the letter -
"Dress. Apart from footwear (slip-on / kick off,) you are permitted only two items of clothing viz slacks/ jeans/ shorts even, and topwear. This can be anything from a simple T shirt if it is warm, to a padded anorak / jacket if cold. In other words, it is of no interest to me what you wear, only that it is minimal and easily stripped off.You will wear no watch or jewellery unless you have any body-piercing rings.
"Preparation. You will bathe as late as possible before setting out, scrubbing your body with special rigour but will use unscented soap and avoid any use of deodorant or aftershave. You may leave me stinking and soiled, but you will arrive clean."
Oh God, oh God, oh God. "Stinking and soiled" God, but he knew how to turn me on! How I longed to be rendered "stinking and soiled" by his use. My cock was now dribbling fuck juice. Instinctively I clasped it in my fist but immediately snatched my hand away again, remembering the embargo laid on such activity . . . my first intimation of just how difficult obedience to this man would prove to be.
"Package Two. It is important that you should not open the second package until you have a full understanding of its contents and the conditions attached to it.
"It contains a jock strap which you will put on immediately after opening and which you are then forbidden to remove for any reason. When needing a piss, you will scoop your cock out at one side, ensuring that your balls remain in the pouch, permanently, day and night, until you come to me to have it peeled off you.
"You will put it on at the latest when you dress on the morning of the 28th, but you may put it on earlier if you wish, but the package may not be opened until you are ready to put it on immediately. I repeat, so that there is no possibility of misunderstanding, that you may open the package at any time of your own choosing prior to the 28th. You could put it on right now provided you leave it on for the next four days, like my hand clamped over your genitals. However, there is something you ought to know, before you decide. . .