Chapter Twenty Two
DISCIPLINARY TRAINING
Pausing momentarily in the attic doorway, he snapped on the light. A single, bare, 40-watt bulb hung over the bed, its mean glare adding to the drabness of the attic as it cast shadows from the tie beams across the raftered roof. Unfortunately the shadows did not hide me and I felt horribly exposed. I despised myself for cowering so pathetically in a vain attempt to hide. He gave no sign of having noticed me but crossed to the array of implements and selected the heavy cane, which I was later to know as "Upper School". Holding it at both ends, he flexed it a couple of times between his huge fists then suddenly swished it down with brutal force across the bed.
It impacted the dirty mattress with a loud report and raised a cloud of dust. I gave an involuntary gasp of horror at the savagery of it. Maybe the purpose was, in part, to give him the feel of the cane and to loosen his shoulder for the beating, but I had no doubt that the main purpose was to terrorize me with a demonstration of what was in store, though still he gave no indication of having even noticed where I was.
With deliberate, unhurried calm, he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and proceeded to roll up the sleeve, neatly, precisely folding it back to reveal the thick forearm and the ripple of sinews along it as he twisted his cane-fist this way and that as he rolled the sleeve. Up to the elbow and then beyond, to reveal the powerful bicep. He rolled the sleeve right up to the armpit to ensure the whole splendour of his muscular arm was revealed in a blatant piece of exhibitionism. There could be no pretence that this facilitated the act of beating in any way. It was clearly done for my benefit, done to impress, and by God it did! Well, can you blame him? If you had arms like that, wouldn't you show them off?
The stroke across the bed had said "See the power of this heavy cane" and the stripping of the sleeve had as clearly said "Now see the power of this muscular arm which will wield the cane."
Now at last he strode across the bare boards to stand before the place where I cringed in abject terror. I launched myself flat on my belly in submission at his feet, pressing my face against his boots, wailing and pleading with him not to beat me again, that I couldn't take any more, that I'd do anything he wanted, anything at all, only please, please . . .
"Get up boy" he said, very quietly. Awkwardly, I scrambled to my feet and stood hunched and cowed before him in my snivelling shame, eyes downcast, my trembling arms wrapped around my naked body which still would not stop shaking and jerking.
What happened next took me completely by surprise. "Attennn . . . SHUN!" he roared. Years of obedience training at the hands of masterful men, not to mention memories of Army Cadet training at school, triggered an immediate, reflex response and I snapped to attention.
"Stand up STRAIGHT you fuck-faced slob!" he bellowed, his face inches from mine, his spittle spraying my face. "Head up/ chin in/ eyes straight ahead/ chest out/ stomach in/ legs braced/ heels together/ feet at 45 degrees/ arms straight down at the sides/ thumbs pointing down the seams of your pants - if you were wearing any." he sneered.
I allowed a flicker of a smirk at his jibe to touch my lips.
"What you laughing at, you dumb cunt?" he screamed.
"Nothing sir" Ireplied, appalled at this terrifying transformation from the dignified authority of the Brigadier to the red-faced rage of a bellowing sergeant major. Only later did I appreciate his skill in seeing the need to jerk me out of snivelling terror into a more responsive cowed obedience. But he was far from over with the sergeant major role yet.
"Don't say 'Nothing sir' when you are standing to attention, you fucking turd, say 'SIR! Nothing, SIR!' do you understand?"
I had quite forgotten this formalised 'on parade' way of answering. "Yes sir" I replied.
With his nose almost touching mine, he screamed "SIR! Yes SIR!" Dutifully I repeated the formula. "You are are stupid, useless, tossed off, bit of pig shit." he snarled, "What are you?"
"SIR! A stupid, useless bit of pig shit. SIR!"
" Are you trying to play games with me, boy?" he snarled. "SIR! No, SIR!"
He gripped my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinched hard . . . harder, watching the pain in my eyes. I remained rigidly at attention, but then he suddenly dug in his nails viciously hard. Caught off guard I yelped and twisted away.
"You are at Attention" he purred, rolling my tit between his nails. "There's a good little shit-licker" he cooed, as I forced myself to stand rigidly at the 'Shun. He took his nails out of my tit and rubbed it gently with the backs of his fingers, up and down, up and down, slowly. Oh shit, I started to get an erection.
"Now then boy" he murmered, with threatening sweetness, "what did I say you were?"
"SIR! A useless bit of pig shit, SIR!"
"No, that's not quite it" he said ever-so-patiently, as he gripped my nipple again and started twisting it. "What I said was that you are a fucking stupid, useless, tossed off bit of pig shit WHAT ARE YOU?"
"SIR! I'm a fucking stupid, useless, tossed off bit of pig shit, SIR!"
He placed the cane along my cheek, tapping it lightly as he smiled sweetly and growled "That's right boy, and don't you forget it. What's your name, boy?"
Oh God. Did he want my real name or my slave name? Or my "parade" name, "pig shit"? In panic at getting it wrong I plumped for the latter. "Pig Shit, Sir" He gave me a sharp thwack with the cane, vertically on my chest.
"That's what you are. I asked for your name."
"Sweat Pig, Sir" I hazarded. He hit me again, harder, right over the heart and snarled "You are at attention, shithead!"
"SIR! Sweat Pig, SIR!" I yelled.
"That's better" he crooned, tapping me lightly with the cane, approvingly. "Display" he ordered and I immediately went into the display position. "So why are you here, Sweat Pig?"
"SIR! To be beaten, SIR!"
He told me I was no longer at attention so there was no need to answer in "Parade" mode any more, and his own tone lapsed into more normal speech instead of the parade-ground bark of a drill sergeant. "And why are you to be beaten?" he asked, now rubbing the cane back and forth over my nipple. Perhaps that distracted me, but suddenly I could not for the life of me remember why I had been sentenced to be punished. I felt such a fool as I stammered that I didn't know - couldn't remember. He asked if I remembered what the sentence was. Oh yes, I remembered that alright and told him 12 cuts of the cane. That seemed to mollify him and he reminded me that I had failed to telephone him at the ordered time some weeks back, so I was to be punished for disobedience.
I protested that it was not disobedience, but due to exceptional circumstances beyond my control as he well knew. I got the full Ice Blaze. Had I been specifically ordered to phone him at a particular time on a particular day? Yes. And had I done so? Well, no, but - Had I done so, yes or no? (The cane rapping on my chest) No sir.
When a slave does as his master tells him, what is the word to describe that? he enquired. Obedience sir? And when a slave fails to carry out his master's orders, what is the word for that? Oh shit, I was trapped. "Disobedience", I mumbled. The cane rapped harder on my chest.
"Speak up, boy."
"Disobedience, sir, but it wasn't my fault." I whined.
"Of course it wasn't. That is why you are only getting 12 cuts. Do you imagine you'd get off so lightly for deliberate disobedience? Or for wilful disobedience?"
"No sir"
So what did I expect, forgiveness, for God's sake?
"No sir."
Quite! I was being given a half sentence of "only" 12 cuts but those 12 would be full force with a proper punishment cane so that I would know what to expect if ever I was deliberately disobedient. I had to understand that a master was not a free agent. He was bound by the rules of the master/slave contract too. "And anyway" he added, "how would you feel if I announced you were not to be beaten after all?"
Relieved, I replied, very relieved!
"Yes, but what else?"
To my horror, I realised that there was something else, but I was not ready to admit it to myself, let alone to my tormentor. I said I didn't know. "Oh yes you do" he breathed, stroking the cane along the line of my jaw, "you would feel disappointed. Cheated. Aggreived, even. Yes?"
The bastard, how could he know me so intimately, know what I would feel, even better than I knew myself? I hung my head and nodded miserably, but this was not enough for him. He put the cane under my chin and forced me to raise my face to his. "Yes sir", I agreed.
"So, knowing you are guilty of disobedience, you not only expect to be punished, you want to be punished too, don't you?"
I felt confused and frightened. What did he want from me? Clearly he wanted me to say yes, so I said it even though I was not at all sure what it was I was agreeing to. Why didn't he just get on with it and beat the shit out of me, if that's what he wanted? My arms were starting to ache, held up in the display position and I was prepared to say yes to anything he wanted me to.
"So you are prepared to meet the pain - to greet the pain - as your right?" Oh come on! I thought, this is getting sick. But I nodded in submissive assent as that was clearly what he wanted. Yet still he persisted with this perverted mental torture.
"And you will submit to the punishment willingly, with no need for bondage?" Yes sir. "And you will not move until the beating is complete?"
What did he want from me? What did he want? "Yes sir I mean no sir - I think, sir?"
"Because if you threw yourself at my feet, half way through, begging for mercy or any thing like that, you would no longer be submitting willingly to your proper punishment. And in that case I would have to tie you down and impose the punishment on you - starting again right from the beginning. You understand?"
"Yes sir." Oh I understand alright, you sadistic, torturing fucker, I thought. He must have seen my hatred for him in my eyes, despite my submissive words, for there was unmistakeble triumph in his face as he moved in for the coup de grace. "So now, ask me to punish you."
I looked at him aghast. "Ask you?" I gasped. "That's right" he said in a voice of sweet reason, "it's what you want, so ask me to do it." I felt disgust at these cruel, manipulative games.
Incredulous, I repeated "You want me to ASK you to beat me?" This was sick!
"That's right," he reasoned, "you have been disobedient, so you know that punishment has to happen and you agreed that you'd feel upset if it was not given, so - ask me to do it. Simple"
I felt I'd been backed into a corner and there was no way out. With dull duty I said "Please punish me, sir"
"No no. That will not do. PERSUADE me."
"Beat me sir. Please beat me" I said, and to my astonishment, found I meant it! But now his tone suddenly changed. Gone was the voice of sweet reason as he barked "Continue!" Even though I had not been given permission to move out of the display position, I threw myself at his feet and seized his cane-gripping fist. I kissed the hard knuckles and begged him, implored him to punish me. He towered above me, huge and implacable and sternly silent. I flung my arms about his legs, buried my face in his crotch and in muffled tones, told him of my need to be disciplined, to be thrashed. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. He looked down into my face, his mouth twisted with contempt. "Twelve strokes?" he snarled.
"Yessir. Please sir."
"With a heavy, punishment cane?"
"Yessir. Please sir."
"Hard?"
"Yessir. Please sir."
He walked over to the bed, dragging me behind him by the hair. He placed the dirty pillow half way down the mattress at one edge and threw me across it. My feet were still on the floor, my hips over the pillow. I gripped the far edge of the mattress and buried my face in its stained ticking. The time for word games was over, the time for discipline was begun. Oh God help me ...
I would like to be able to report that I took my beating with manly courage and stoic silence. I'm afraid it was not like that. I bit hard into the mattress to try and muffle my howls, even pulling the bottom of it completely over my head, oblivious to the stench in my extremity of pain.
About half way through I realised I had slipped down so that my knees were on the floor. Fearing that this might count as "movement" and trigger the penalty, I quickly hoisted my hips back up onto the pillow and presented my arse to the cane properly again.
When I had seen him make that demonstration strike across the mattress, I had somehow thought that it was not for real - that he wouldn't really thrash me as hard as that. Of course I was wrong. He had compromised by cutting the punishment down to only half, but each one of those strokes was designed to inflict maximum pain and so were delivered with maximum force. The Brigadier was a stickler for doing things correctly.
When he had finished, I expected him to fuck me, or to make me body-lick him, but to my surprise and relief, he did neither. I was too utterly exhausted by suffering to want anything other than to be left slumped down on my knees and lying across the bed. But he had other ideas and ordered me to stand. Painfully, I forced myself up onto my feet while he hung "Upper School" back on its nail. He told me to roll up the pillow and mattress and bring them down with me. He left, turning off the light, leaving me to struggle with the mattress as best I could in the near dark and follow him down.
Oh God, what now?