Chapter 30
PUB SCENE 2. (PISSER MARTIN)
After weeks of bathing my pierced nipple with salt water every morning and religiously rotating the heavy ring to keep it moving freely, I got quite used to it and accepted it as part of me. There had been that awkward time with Mike, my regular squash partner, when I had made feeble excuses not to play, but after a fortnight I thought "This is ridiculous" and decided to brazen it out. After the game (which I won for once. Ha!) we went for a shower and as I stripped off my shirt he said "Christ almighty! What's that?"
"What?" I asked with a casualness I didn't feel, "the tit ring? Do you like it?"
"I've never seen one that thick before" he said, uneasily, "it must have hurt like hell!"
"It did, rather" I admitted offhandedly. "Why? Thinking of getting it done yourself?"
"Christ, no!" he swore, then apologised lest his vehemence had been offensive.
After that, having "come out" as it were, I actively looked for opportunities to show off my trophy of bondage and went swimming at least once a week, proud to flaunt my shame as if it were a symbol of manliness.
It was five weeks before I was summoned to Manor Farm again. On entering the scullery, my "orders sheet" propped up on the draining board had just one word - "Cellar". I stripped and with some misgiving after last time, went through to the cellar and stood by the spot-lit table in patient humility till he came.
He was fully dressed but in a way I had never seen before, with jeans and a thigh-length, leather jacket, buttoned not zipped, - not at all the English country gentleman of his usual style. Nothing under the jacket it seemed for the vee of the collar revealed the hairiness of his chest. Nothing under his jeans either, tailored to display his generous lunch box to good effect. God! But the sight of him could still stir me most powerfully, and dressed like this . . .
He fixed my collar first, as usual, then inspected the nipple ring, rotating it slowly. He gave a grunt that I took to be a sign of satisfaction, and told me to get on the table. "Oh God," I thought "what now?" He took from a pocket an ink-marker pen and wrote unhurriedly round my pierced tit, then round the other. Finished, he told me to get dressed. "We're going out," he said.
As I went back to the scullery to dress I peered down at my chest. Even upside down the messages were clear. Above my pierced tit was the word "PINCH" and under it, "HARD". Two carefully drawn black triangles at either side pointed inwards, amplifying the message. Above my right tit was the word "TWIST" and "HARD" underneath it. Again, two black triangles were placed either side, but this time rotating clockwise. Ug!
As I pulled on my jeans he threw a white tee shirt at me. I held it up to find the front and saw to my horror that two large holes had been roughly hacked out of it to leave the nipples bare and that between the holes was scrawled in bold print the words FEEL FREE. I turned it round to find the same two words, even larger, scrawled across the back. FEEL FREE. A blatant invitation to anyone to have a grope. Where on earth could he be taking me dressed like that? Not to the usual pub up on the moors, surely?
Outside, he led me to his car. Not the beat up old Landrover this time but one of the new Volvo's. I raced to open the driver's door for him then nipped round to the passenger seat and we were off. Over the dark moors we drove. And drove. Eventually I realised from the road signs we were headed for Manchester. Clearly he knew his way around the city and we eventually turned off Oxford St into a side road with cars parked either side. At last he found a parking place and did not wait for me to skip round and open his door but strode off in that arrogant way of his, just assuming that I'd be trotting along behind like a faithful collie.
A pub. Brightly lit. Raucous music. Drinkers spilling out onto the pavement. All men, dressed in leather. Dear God, he'd brought me to a gay, leather bar! This was the sort of scene in which I had never expected to see him. He gave me a fiver, "Get two pints" he said. I looked at the heaving mob - how was I ever going to fight my way to the bar through that lot? It was if he saw the problem and led the way. It was fantastic, the crowd just seemed to melt away in front of him, like the parting of the Red Sea! There was no Wild West swagger, but his size plus his natural air of authority just cleared a path for him. It was fantastically impressive and all the more so for being so low key. I had imagined that all eyes would be focussed on my bizarre and provocative outfit, but no one seemed to notice me in his shadow.
I got the two beers in and went to raise one, but a barely perceptible look warned me not to. Both pints were for him! I cringed with embarrassment and felt inches tall!
A small man beside him craned his neck up and said "Good to see you here again, Hugh." There was a barely perceptible pause while he riffled through his memory banks for the name of this small person at his side. "Thanks Jon" he said. That's the stuff of leaders of men! Then he capped this by showing he remembered more than just the name. "That young lad of yours still with you?" he asked, "What was his name? Zan?"
"Yes, I've parked him over there with the other trash in the Pig Pen. But my bladder's suffering from beer bloat so I'm taking him to the loo . . ." and off he went with a sly grin. I felt for the unfortunate Zan, being required to attend the piss needs of an owner more than twice his age.
Someone standing behind me read my tee shirt aloud "Feel free", and slid his hands up over my chest, pulling me back against him. I looked down to see very black hands fondling me. I'd never been groped by a black man before and I got a shock of eroticism as these black hands travelled over my white tee shirt. As he rubbed his hips against me I could feel his cock nestling along the crack of my buttocks and the thought of his black cock pushing at me gave me a thrill too. But then he found my exposed tits and started to work them vigorously between thumb and forefinger. I winced and looked down and was revolted to see his pink palms. No logic there, but whereas black hands were exciting, pink palms were a powerful turn-off - not that there was anything I could do about it except just let it happen and cringe inwardly. Worse, he slid his hands under my tee shirt to handle my bare flesh. "Mm," he said "all this and a titty ring too. Nice!" Then, to Hugh he said "Yours?" Hugh nodded. I could feel the black rod hardening in my bun-cleft as he rubbed himself against me. "And what else is he free for besides feeling?" the black man asked. Hugh smiled indulgently, "Feeling only"
"And if I pay?" he asked, sliding his hand down to my crotch in full view of everyone in the bar.
"He's not for hire. You can grope but you can't poke."
"Then I'd better make the most of it" snarled the black, and he gripped my balls in a vicious clench and simultaneously twisted my nip with equal harshness. Taken by surprise I yelped so that heads turned as he tightened his grip even harder so that I was on tiptoe whimpering "No, no, no, no."
Suddenly he released me and shoved me away, against Hugh. Turning away in disgust he snarled "If you can't stand the heat, boy, better keep out o' the kitchen" and stalked off. I felt I had let my master down in some way and said I was sorry but he ignored me and asked the barman if Pisser Martin was in tonight. He answered that he was in the other bar.
"Ask him to come and have a word, will you?". The barman grinned and, busy as he was' went off to do Hugh's bidding. I felt that to anyone else he'd have said "Go and ask him yourself." But somehow Hugh always got people to do as he asked.
A few minutes later a man in his sixties, ginger bearded and heavily overweight in his biker gear came up and greeted Hugh. "Roy said you wanted a word - and that you had a bit of new meat in tow." he leered, eyeing me up and down, taking in my exposed tits and the lewd invitation scrawled across my tee shirt. He reached out both hands, gripped a nipple firmly with each and yanked me towards him, holding me against his fat belly. He was over six feet and gazed down into my eyes at point blank range.
"Don't you just love to see the pain in their eyes?" he asked Hugh happily, and then brusquely shoved me away from him and with pointed rudeness he turned his back on me to talk to my owner.
"Ain't seen this one here before" he said. "New, is he?"
"First time here, anyway"
"Nice one, Hugh. And broken in by the look of him?"
"He's learning fine, but you know, there's always more to learn"
Pisser Martin grinned. "And you reckon it'd be good for his soul to give him to me to play with for a bit?" He leaned back, both elbows on the bar behind him and looked me up and down hungrily.
"Let me get you a beer" said Hugh.
"Thanks - set one up for later. Right now though I have another priority!"
"OK. You know the rules - no penetration - at either end. You'll need this." And Hugh took my dog lead from his jacket pocket and gave it to the older man who promptly clipped it onto my collar and strode off without more ado.
As he dragged me through the crowd I was conscious of the comments: "Hey, Pisser's got a victim" "Its cabaret time, boys" and "What's the fuss?" "You don't know? Come and watch"
The lavatory stank. It was grubby and sordid with a piss-wet floor, graffiti walls and a urine-flooded trough with butt ends and gobs of sputum floating in it. Pisser unclipped my lead, spun me round and kicked my ankles from under me with practiced ease so that I found myself sitting on the wet step with my back against the white porcelain. I could feel the coldness of it through my tee shirt. He pushed me sideways and down so that I was lying on my side. He put his boot on my head and shoved my face into the flooded piss-trough.
Men were crowding into the loo for the show and a jeer went up as he ground my face into the trough. "Stay" he said as he removed his foot and moved a little away. I heard him unzip, then an expectant pause followed by a mocking cheer from the crowd as the stream of his piss hit the back of my head. But he wasn't content with that for he played the stream over my back drenching my tee shirt and over my jeans, soaking them too in the seemingly endless stream of his warm beer-piss.
Finally it was over and I dared raise my face from the flooded gutter. "Give 'im the money" they chanted. Puzzled by this I looked up to see Pisser pull some loose change from his pocket. He tossed the coins into the gutter and grinned down at me and nodded. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. It was obvious what was required of me. With numb resignation I lowered my face once more into the yellow flood and tried to retrieve the coins in my mouth. I thought it would be easy but in fact it was surprisingly hard to do. After several failed attempts with my lips, I realised that the only way would be to SUCK the damned things up into my mouth from where they lay under two inches of men's piss. I duly did so, sucked 'em clean and, seeing that Pisser was holding out his hand for them, I got to my knees and dropped them from my mouth into his hand. A cheer went up and I felt a rush of pride at having completed a difficult task. Pathetic!
"On your back" snapped Pisser and I obediently lay full length along the urinal step. Pisser stood back and gave the nod to the men crowding round. They lined up, five in a row and emptied themselves onto me. As one finished another took his place . . . and another . . . and another.
They jostled for the top end so that they could direct the stream of their piss straight down into my face. Some even hawked up phlegm and spat on me. One bastard stood there pulling at his cock and snarled "Time to suck cock, piss-boy" but Pisser intervened saying there'd be no sucking. Eventually it was over, the crowd thinned and Pisser stooped to clip the lead to my collar and dragged me to my feet. Standing, I could feel the urine streaming down my body and pouring into my trainers. He dragged me back through the crowded bar like that. The press of bodies parted to let us through and it was all strangely silent after the hooting and jeering in the gents. Many even looked away as we passed as if ashamed to see such degradation. I was led back to where Hugh stood by the bar and stood with my head bowed in shame.
"Thanks mate" said Pisser to Hugh. Hugh said only "Your beer's there" as he took the lead and led me out of the pub. Walking back to the car I kept my head down, my eyes resolutely on the pavement, cringing with shame to be seen in the street in that soaked state.
There was no way he could have such a soiled object sitting in his car. He opened the boot and I noticed its floor had been covered in plastic. Dutifully I climbed in. He slammed the lid shut and we started the long, miserable drive back to the farm.
On getting home he took me into the cellar and took his belt to me "for being such a disgusting slug". Then it was into the prison pit for a long, cold, miserable night spent in bondage, still in my wet clothes. Now, at last, I thought, I surely had reached the absolute bottom of the pit of degradation. I shifted uncomfortably in my bonds on the hard, cold floor. Nothing could possibly be more shameful than tonight, I thought. Could it?