Chapter Thirty Five
THE WHIP HAND
After the sheer nastiness of what had been done to me on that country walk of my last visit, I was more than usually uneasy about the next time I was ordered up to Manor Farm. But in the event, the next two visits were relatively uneventful. That is to say they followed the usual pattern of sexual abuse and casual cruelty but with no new obscenities. Indeed, a new thought began to insinuate itself in my mind: was it possible that we were slipping into a routine, that the five and a half year relationship was running out of steam? Perhaps it was time to "grow up" and leave this dependant, master/slave business behind me? But then an image of his powerful, hairy body would slide into my mind and I would feel the old hungry longing to kneel between his legs and bury my face in his crotch. I would think of his quiet strength and authority and command and it would swamp me with a desperate longing to abase myself before him.
Then on one of my regular Monday phone-ins he said he wanted me on Wednesday. This threw me into a spin, for in all these years he had never demanded anything other than a Friday or week-end attendance and usually he'd give me a couple of weeks warning. I was excited by the apparent urgency and novelty of this but then a dreadful thought struck me and I wailed "But I can't, Sir, not this Wednesday. We've got the big presentation to Mercato that we've been working on for weeks!"
"Well, someone else will have to do it, won't they?"
"But its MY presentation! The Chairman and the whole board are involved and Sir Charles has said that if we pull this off 'I can expect to benefit'. So you see, it is just too important. The whole future development of the Company hangs on this Mercato deal"
"And your future development depends on you being here on Wednesday"
I asked why, what was so important about Wednesday?
"You know I never discuss things with you beforehand" he snapped. "Just be here. 8pm sharp!"
"But Sir..."
"Just be here!" and the line went dead.
I sat there, stunned, the receiver still in my hand. It was inconceivable that I should let Sir Charles down - which would do my career no good at all. But it was equally inconceivable that I should disobey my master, especially when he was more insistant about this date than he had ever been about any other. What could he be planning?
Then I worked out that I could probably meet both obligations provided i could get away by 5pm at the latest. That might not go down well with my bosses, but what the hell, the Mercato presentation itself would be over and even a rising young turk was allowed SOME private life!
In the event it was no problem and was able to get away by 4.45 and arrive in good time. The usual ritual, let myself in through the scullery door, strip naked and then check for a note of written instructions on the draining board. Only this time, the note did not say where he wanted me, instead it carried the odd and perplexing message "Follow your instinct"
What the hell did that mean? I interrogated myself, what did my instinct tell me to do? The answer was clear, to obey orders. Well, that was not very helpful! Then I heard it, the unmistakable sound of leather impacting on flesh. Someone was being whipped! My cock sprang erect and my instinct pulled me to discover the source of that exciting sound.
There it was again, the sharp 'crack' followed by a grunt of pain. It came from the big cellar opposite. Swifly I crossed the passage and pushed open the door onto a thrilling tableau.
Hanging by bound wrists from a single meat hook in the brick roof was a naked man, his back to me and marked by two livid weals slicing across his shoulders. The four tiny spotlights illumined his lean, taut body in a harsh brilliance against the gloomy recesses of the spacious cellar and his head was encased in a leather hood.
My master turned as he heard me enter and motioned me to come forward. He was dressed but his shirt gaped open to give a glimpse for my greedy eyes of his broad chest, deep chest, hairy chest, man chest. Dear God, after all these years the merest glimpse of his body still triggered instant lust.
As I approached he put his hands on the victims body and turned him round to face me. I noted the slim, smooth, athletic physique glazed with the sweat of pain. Metal nipple clips jutted from his tits and the black hood obliterated his face into a blank nothing. Faceless, he was less than human. This was just an attractive body reduced to a piece of whip-meat. His torturer thrust the handle of the whip towards me, saying "Here. Take it. Whip those clips off his tits, boy"
I was shocked. Shocked and excited. Shocked by the savagery of the order. Excited by the passive helplessness of the faceless victim. But I couldn't bring myself to do something so cruel. Hugh repeated the order but I asked why, what had he done - and why me?
Most unusually, for he hated to be questioned, he answered that this man was a slave who had gone "hawking his arsehole around public lavatories for other men to use" and so needed to be punished "with great severity". Anguished muffled noises from within the strapped leather hood sought to deny this version of events, but were ignored. And why me? Because he wanted the added shame of the punishment being administered by another slave. "And now" he finished, "take those tit clamps off him." I made a move to do so with my fingers but he stopped me. "With the whip" he insisted.
I stepped back and raised the whip - but, shocked by such cruelty, could not do it. "DO IT" my master snapped. I swung the lash but it was if an arm held me back and the leather curled feebly around his ribs, far too low. "Harder!" Cowed by his ferocity, I lashed out harder and cracked it across the chest, but still missed the nipple. Even so, the body jerked under the impact and I heard a sharp intake of breath. That excited me and I hit out again...and again...and again. It was not until that fourth swipe that I caught a clip and sent it flying into the darkness beyond the lights. He yowled at that and I went for the other, getting it first go and leaving a stripe of red pain across his chest as he screamed through the zipped-up mouth of the hood.
I looked uncetainly to my master, what now? He gave a curt nod of satisfaction and said "Good. Now put twenty four lashes across his back"
I looked at the whip. This was the real thing. Plaited leather, three foot long tapering from a solid, pommelled handle with leather wrist strap. I hefted it. Twenty four lashes with this would be no joke. Uneasily I went round behind him and looked at the existing two welts slanting across the lean, muscular back. I raised the whip and struck out, but as before it was as if something physically restrained me making my srtike innefectual. Again I lashed, but my shoulder seemed to lock somehow. I raised the whip for a third strike but my master grabbed my wrist. "Do it properly" he snarled "or I'll string you up there with him, belly to belly and coil the lash around both of you together"
I knew this was no idle threat. "I am trying to do it properly Sir" I pleaded.
"Try harder!"
And I did. This time the whip sang through the air and exploded across his bare back. He gave a grunt of pain and his body jerked. A livid weal, every bit as savage as Hugh's two, blossomed on his skin.
"That's more like it! That'll count as No. one. Twenty three more like that" And I laid on, painting parallel stripes and enjoying what I was doing with a fierce joy. I learned the skill of wielding the lash, varying the strokes; switching to backhand to cross the weals on an opposite diagonal; over-reaching so that the whip coiled round his body and jerking it away to spin him round like a whipping top so I could lash him across the ribs and chest; striking short so that the tip bit into his shoulders; slicing at his buttocks and the back of his legs to make him dance. And oh! the thrilling sense of power! The control. The command. I played him like an instrument, making him yelp or grunt or gasp or whimper as I willed. After a lifetime of submission and suffering I tasted the giddy delights of cruelty for the first time, relishing the thud of leather on flesh, enjoying the jerk of his body as the whip bit, excited by his helplesness, his vulnerability.
"That'll do. That'll do" Hugh said. I stood there triumphant, rampant with sex, chest heaving, streaming with sweat.
"Want to fuck him?" he asked, looking pointedly at my hard-on.
"Am I allowed to?" I asked. "I thought only you..."
"Not now. He's of no use to me any more. Anyone can use him as far as I'm concerned. Even a slave like you. Want to?"
I nodded eagerly. I had never fucked anyone before. Fucking was what men did to me. The thought of shoving my cock into that piece of faceless whipmeat excited me hugely. The Brig cut him down and he collapsed to his knees with the exhaustion of suffering. We dragged him onto the low bench and laid him along it, his still-bound wrists hooked helplessly under one end, his legs splayed either side. I lubed him, laid myself over his naked, whipped body and entered him. And oh the sensual joy of that! It was a revelation to me who had never entered another body. And I fucked him, dear God, how I fucked him. I rioted and rampaged inside him, making him grunt and moan. I felt the power of control, of being able to use him entirely for my own selfish pleasure, just as many men had used me in the past.
As my orgasm hit, I banged into him as hard as I could, wanting to hurt him, then buried myself deep, deep inside him as my spunk fired bolt after bolt in an overwhelming climax and I was only subliminally aware of the repeated camera flashes. I lay sprawled over him gasping and sweating in an exhaustion of extasy. Then I heard my master say "Right, you can go now."
I looked up at him blankly and stupidly protested that I'd only just got here.
He shrugged. "You've done what I wanted done. Now you can go"
I heaved myself reluctantly to my feet and turned to confront him. I wanted to protest that he'd dragged me on a 400 mile round trip for a bare half hour. But standing naked and selfconciously flaccid in front of a fully dressed and powerful man, I could do nothing but drop my eyes submissively and obey.
As I dressed in the scullery I felt sure he'd come in and say "Oh, before you go..." but no. Summarily dismissed, I went to my car and started driving back to London. I was in a turmoil of confusion, having been prompted into the power role of flogger and fucker only to be unceremoniously smacked back down to servile obedience immediately after. But as the image came to mind of that naked, anonymous body jerking and dancing as I whipped him, my cock grew hard again and I longed to use that piece of whipmeat as fuck meat once more. I wondered what Hugh would be doing to him right now. Fucking him? A surge of mad jealousy swept over me at the thought but then I reflected that if Hugh would not fuck where another master had been, he would most certainly never fuck a hole that a slave had filled! I wondered what he would do to that poor bastard. Impossible to imaging, but it was bound to be very unpleasant - and I found myself speculating what I would do to him if I was in Hugh's position.
I had changed tonight. I had discovered the thrill of sadistic cruelty and the wondrous power of using a submissive body for my sexual gratification. But I had also been used as a slave to serve my master's puposes, and then been humiliatingly dismissed as soon as those puposes were fulfilled. Was I dom or sub? Or both?
I drove through the night in a high state of confusion - and of sexual arousal. Where did I go from here? What might the futre hold ...