Humiliator

The Humiliator. Chapter Seven

JOURNEY INTO SHAME

Finally it was the 28th and the long agony of waiting was over. I prayed that nothing would stop my meeting with my master.

To my surprise and delight, a further package arrived that morning. I ripped it open to find another, padded, envelope inside. On it was written "To be opened on the train, not before. And bring sunglasses." Sunglasses? What on earth for? Something small and hard inside. What the hell was this all about? He certainly knew how to keep one guessing and buzzing with anticipation.

The day at the office seemed endless, even though I left a bit early to get to Euston. In a lavatory I stripped down to the jock and packed my business gear in a holdall which had held the regulation two items of clothing plus footwear. I had a pair of old jeans, a zip-up lightweight jacket and a pair of canvas deck shoes. He had stipulated that I was to wear "minimal clothing, easy to strip off", and I guessed this met the need. I had planned on jeans and a tee shirt but suddenly the weather had turned colder. Even my wristwatch and signet ring went into the bag too. "No personal jewellery of any kind" he had said, and only a handkerchief, 10 pounds in notes and, if I wished, a credit card.

Typically, every detail was covered. I deposited the bag in Left Luggage and went to the platform carrying only the little package that had arrived this morning. Hairbrush, toothbrush, clean underwear, razor? - forget it! But it felt strange to be heading off on a journey into the unknown without any baggage. Strange . . . and exciting. Oh my God! the sunglasses! They were still in the holdall. I raced back to Left Luggage, got the bag out, retrieved sunglasses, re-deposited bag and ran back to the platform.

I still got aboard 10 minutes before departure (thank heavens I'd left myself bags of time. Well, I hadn't dared risk a holdup and missing the train) and got a window seat. Now I could open the mystery package, but I didn't. Although it was not stipulated that the train had to be moving, I felt that this was the right thing to do, so I forced myself to show disciplined restraint for a bit longer.

This was a mistake for it was a Friday night and the train was soon crowded, with a gang of noisy Manchester United louts filling up my table and the next. They were well stocked with six packs and were going to the big match next day. They soon got chatting to me, asking where I was going and why. Oh, but how I longed to tell them! (Two of them were decidedly attractive and I would have loved to have seen their reaction if I had said I was on my way to be stripped, beaten and fucked by a sadistic bastard I had never even met!)

The snag was, I did not dare open the package, not knowing what might fall out. It was bad enough wondering if they could smell my crotch-stink. So as soon a possible I went to the loo. I was about to rip the package open when I remembered his previous instruction to strip naked before reading a letter. There was no such instruction regarding this one, but I felt it was the right thing to do. I even kicked off my shoes to be stripped right down to his jock strap. Perhaps you feel that was silly? Maybe it was, but somehow it made me feel closer to him. And obedient. And subservient.

Inside were a note and a pair of those dark plastic goggles used to protect the eyes from ultra-violet sun-bed lamps. Not the single mask type but small, separate ovals that fitted right into the eye sockets. I tried them on and couldn't see a thing through the dark green, near-black plastic.The note said:

"On arrival do not go through the ticket barrier. About halfway along the platform are some benches. Sit there. Slip on the goggles and immediately cover them with the sunglasses so as not to be conspicuous. It will be dark when you arrive so you will be assumed to be blind or sight-impaired. If anyone asks if you are OK, tell them your brother is meeting you and has said to hang on as he may be delayed. My man, when he arrives, will take you by the arm and say "Come". He will guide you out to the car park and drive you here. You will follow his instructions and make no attempt to question him or engage him in conversation. TH"

So, that's what it is all about. I am to be taken to my place of servitude blindfold. Presumably so that I would not be able to find it again if he did not want me to. Very cautious, very circumspect! And, of course, very humiliating too!

I stood and looked at my naked body in the mirror. Would he like what he saw? Would he want me back again? But that, I knew, depended much more on my being able to give him the obedience he expected, than on my body. My hope was to be able to deliver the obedience he wanted AND the body to suit his tastes - whatever they might be.

I dressed, put the goggles and letter in one side pocket of my jacket with the sunglasses in the other, reflecting that the jacket had its advantages over just a tee shirt, and made my way back to my seat. The fans had gone, presumably to the bar and I reflected that I ought to get something to eat too. The trouble was that my guts felt so twisted with tension I really didn't fancy anything. It would be unwise to assume I'd be fed on arrival - in his position I'd expect a slave to see to his own vittles - so I went and had a brandy and forced myself to eat a sandwich. The Man. United yobbos were there, making a bit of noise, laughing and joshing and shoving one another as they poured lager down their throats. I could not help but admire their arrogant swagger, their male cockiness and pea-brained aggression. They were concentrated testosterone. I noted too the couple I had eyed before. The younger one, about my own age, quite good looking and with a powerful physique. The slightly older one, with shaven head and tattooed arms, was bigger, heavier, more fleshy and with the makings of a beer belly sagging over his belt. I mused that being fucked by the younger would be a very exciting experience, but that the other one would be selfish, brutal, greedy, demanding and thoroughly unpleasant. But if forced to choose between 'em, the loutish pig would win, no contest!

I went back to my seat and, as darkness fell, drifted into a sexual fantasy in which the two of them used me turn and turn about, the three of us crammed into the tiny toilet on the train, which required considerable agility and near-acrobatic organisation . . .

And thus it was that, randy as hell and with my cock seeping fuck-juice into the soggy jock strap, we arrived in Buxton.

I sat on the platform bench, goggled into blindness, hidden behind sunglasses and waited. I hunched down into my light jacket, now zipped right up to the chin, and thanked heaven I'd not worn the tee shirt - though a tee shirt as well under the jacket would have been most welcome - and waited. Suppose no one came? Suppose there had been a car crash? How long should I wait? How long had I waited? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Impossible to tell. Being blind really screws up all your senses. I waited. And shivered. God it was cold. Suddenly a firm grip on my upper arm. And a voice, "Come". I allowed myself to be steered to the barrier. A fumbling for my ticket. Then out into the night. "Steps" he said and guided me skillfully down them. I suddenly felt sure that I was not the first to be met and guided in this way. The whole operation had an air of practiced routine.

I was stopped without a word by the hand gripping my arm. Sound of key, of car door opened. I was guided up into it. High. Must be a Landrover type. It certainly smelled of farmyard and dogs. Seat belt on. Driver's door open - close - ignition - movement. An eerie, almost surreal feeling, driving in darkness, through darkness, an unknown, unseen and silent man at my side, headed God knew where or how far.

Then he spoke. "Strip" he said. I was about to say 'what here? now?' but remembered the instruction to do as I was told. So I stripped down to the jock - only one man was allowed to take that off me. At least it was warm in the car. And I sat there effectively naked, being driven through the night. So, I thought, the humiliation begins, I am to be groped by his servant. Dutifully, I gaped my bare thighs wide for him. But no hand rested on my knee to slide up my leg. Nothing. PerverseIy I felt a longing to be mauled and manhandled. I slumped low in my seat and splayed my thighs wide, touching the gear lever with my knee. He dropped his hand to change gear and touched my knee. I pressed it against him, offering my nakedness to him. Brusquely he pushed me away. I felt acutely ashamed and humiliated by his rejection.

Well, wasn't that what I wanted? To be shamed and humiliated? Not like that, no! By his manservant, for God's sake! I sat up straight and closed my legs. It was a long drive. Up into the moors, one could tell by the engine. Then down again. Eventually we slowed and turned right onto a bumpy country lane - or private road perhaps? God, where was I being taken? Then another turn and what sounded like the crunch of gravel under the wheels. Then stop. He got out, walked round to my side, opened the door and guided me out. I tried to grope for my discarded clothes but was hustled away. No gravel here but cobbles or setts underfoot. Across to a door which was opened and I was pushed through. The door closed behind me.

Was he in the room too or had he delivered me and stayed outside? No, he was still here, I sensed, wherever "here" was. Cold flagstones underfoot. A farm kitchen? Interesting how one automatically tries to interpret every clue of sound or touch. Then a surprise as he scooped my hands behind my back and snapped handcuffs on me. The sound of another door ahead of me being opened . . . closed, and his footsteps turning left outside and fading. I was delivered and left, naked and in chains, while he went off to report.

I could hear voices faintly. They seemed to come from above. Then more footsteps, yes, definitely overhead, and the voices sounding closer. A door opened, I heard "Goodnight Sir" and "Goodnight Corporal" Corporal? had I heard correctly? Good God, what was this place, a barracks or something?) Then the door closed. A heavy door, like a front door, but upstairs? Odd. Unless I was in a basement of course. Now I heard different footsteps approaching. Booted feet on stone floors. Descending stone stairs. A heavier tread. My heart pounded, my guts knotted. He was coming. The Humiliator. My master. Coming closer. God help me. He was here . . .