Copyright: Beastmaster42.
This story is fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
Comments to beasmaster42@hotmail.com
JOURNEY INTO NIGHT
CHAPTER FIVE
The magistrate eventually returned after a month and my case was heard: my name was called out in the usual way, and this time the other prisoners, headed by Karl, released me so that I could go forward and answer to my name.
One of the guards came to the door of the cell, unlocked it, and I stepped out. I was pushed forward towards the door of the "courtroom" and ushered in. The guard withdrew, leaving me standing in front of the Magistrate's desk as he sat perusing my papers. I was alone with him and, of course, completely naked and still handcuffed. There must have been the odd streak of shit on my face, and I certainly stank. I had been fucked only a few minutes before, and spunk was leaking out of my hole and dripping down the inside of my thighs. I was desperately embarrassed, and looked down at the floor uncomfortably, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Finally, the Magistrate looked up - a man in his forties I guessed, with short-cropped hair and steel-grey eyes - he looked my naked, shaved and abused body slowly up and down...
"You are British?" he asked...
"Yes Sir," I replied politely.
"The laws in our country are very strict," he continued in almost perfect English, "and you have broken one of them... You were driving too fast... but I see you did not have any drugs on you - this is fortunate, because if you did have drugs on you, your sentence would be very severe indeed...."
The Examining Magistrate stood up and walked round his desk towards me... He spoke quietly, taking out a cigarette and lighting it:
"I like your country," he said nonchalantly, "I studied at university there for three years..." He was now standing next to me, to me left. He put his hand on one of my beaten buttocks, examining my rear end as he did so:
"I see you have been punished in the usual way..." he said, as he ran his hand over the welts on my caned backside...
"Yes Sir," I replied, embarrassed...
"We do not treat you any differently from the others," he continued, exhaling cigarette smoke in my face, which I was grateful to breathe in, not having had a cigarette for weeks now...
Suddenly, I felt his fingers exploring the crack between my buttocks, one of them pushing its way into my spunky hole...
"And," he said in a low voice, "I see you have been made to show respect for our men..." Blushing with shame, I could only stutter: "Y-yes Sir..."
"This is only right and proper, young men like you should always show respect for our men, even if they are only prisoners... They have no women, so..."
"Yes Sir," I continued, my voice almost a whisper. He continued to finger my hole obscenely as he spoke:
"The maximum sentence I can impose on you is life... or even death..." - at these words I froze: life? Never to be released from this hell-hole? Executed? I felt doomed... I turned my head to face him as he stood, fingering my hole and squeezing my beaten buttocks painfully...
"But... Sir, I..." Blowing more smoke in my face, he spoke softly...
I fell to my knees, deciding to plead with him, hoping to move him to pity.
"Please, let me go, I did not mean to..." He looked down at me, smiling - clearly my gesture of humility had pleased him. My life was in his hands... I could see from the bulge in his trousers, now directly in front of my face, that he was excited by this little scenario....
"But I will be lenient to you: I will release you - of course, you will have to be flogged first, but then you will be set free. You must leave this country immediately, or you will be arrested again, and then your sentence will be life... You will also write an account of your experiences in jail for the Authorities... You will spare no details, you must describe everything, including your feelings..."
(I have done as I was ordered, which is why this journal was written.)
The Magistrate returned to his desk and called the guard. I was sentenced to the usual flogging, of course. The guard pulled me out of the room and, assisted by another guard, took me out into the yard, released my handcuffs and secured me to the whipping post with my hands tied above my head. A belt was tied tightly around my waist, which pushed my arse out and rendered me completely immobile. There was some discussion about who would administer the punishment, and the whipping began - just as the magistrate was getting into his car to leave. He smiled at me as the first lash cracked across my back, which drew an agonising scream from my throat, then he closed the door of his car and drove off, leaving me to the tender mercies of the guards.
After the daily canings, being tied to the whipping post and feeling the lash of the whip on my back, buttocks and thighs was not so intolerable as I had thought. The first strokes were excruciating, and I screamed as the other prisoners had done - but after the first ten strokes, the pain grew more acceptable. I was given fifty strokes altogether, and at the end of punishment, administered in front of the other guards out in the exercise yard, my back, buttocks and thighs were on fire, especially after they threw a bucket of salt water over me to wash the cuts.
I accepted the punishment - not for the simple offence itself, for which this punishment was out of all proportion, but for becoming the animal that I now am...
After I was released from the whipping post, I was escorted to the prison gates and pushed outside. They gave me back my passport and the keys to my car, which was parked some distance away, by the side of the hot, dusty road. The gates banged shut behind me. I was still naked, of course, and a couple of passing peasant boys (I guess they were about fifteen years old) laughed at me, jeering at my shaved cock (and the rest of my body).
I walked slowly, painfully, towards my car. It had been parked there for a month: it was covered in dust and a couple of the windows had been smashed. Everything had been taken from inside, including my little bag of clothes. The guards had kept my wallet with the only money I had, and my credit cards.
So here I was, naked, my back, buttocks and thighs striped from the flogging, shaved from head to foot, with no means of buying any clothes or petrol to get me out of this place. Yet the thought of returning to normality, back to London to my job and the life I had known before this nightmare began seemed so ordinary, so uninviting, so useless, that I slowly turned round, looking back to the prison, and began to walk towards it... to the continuing taunts of the peasant boys, who surrounded me, smacking my beaten rump, even taking a stick to me, hitting my buttocks and legs - but the pain was nothing compared to what I had just endured.
I sat down on my haunches beside the gates to wait for the inspector to come out. I waited several hours in the hot sun until finally I heard the key turning in the lock: my heart began to beat faster as I waited to see who would come out, hoping it would be the inspector. Three guards came out, saw me there and laughed at me. I knew enough of their language by now to know that they said something like: "What? Not had enough? Go home, filthy foreigner!" But I just looked submissively down at their booted feet and said nothing. By way of encouragement, one of them got his cock out and urinated all over me - but I did not move. I knew I deserved to be punished, just for being such a disgusting animal...
They went away, laughing and sniggering, leaving me dripping in piss. The sun was going down now, and I began to wonder if the inspector would come out at all - maybe he would stay there for the night.
Then I heard the gate being unlocked again, and I was happy (strangely) to see the inspector... He looked down at me and asked me why I had not left. I answered by kneeling in front him, handing him my passport and car keys, and kissing his boots, then moving behind him on my knees and kissing his big arse, bulging out in his tight uniform. I had surrendered myself entirely and without reservation to him. He was the man who had started the whole thing, and I felt strangely grateful to him.
He turned round slowly, looking down at me as I looked him in the eye, took out a cigarette and lit it, looking at me all the while. My heart was pounding, but I said nothing, continuing to kneel in front of him. When he had finished his cigarette, he reached for his handcuffs, attached to his belt, and, without a word, motioned for me to stand up and turn round: he snapped them shut over my wrists behind my back, clapped a big hand round the back of my neck and marched me down the road towards his car. He unlocked the boot and pushed me into it. It was rather small, so I had to curl up in foetal position - not very easy with my hands cuffed behind me - then be banged the lid down and I was left in darkness. I heard him get in the car, start it up, and drive off along the bumpy road. After about twenty minutes, we stopped and I heard him get out. He came round and opened the boot again. As he helped me out, I could see we were in the middle of a forest, just outside a large, rambling house which had fallen into disrepair. Obviously, it had belonged to one of the former aristocrats who had fled when the communists took over. I presumed it was his home.
He walked up the steps, pushing me in front of him. Then he unlocked the front door, which creaked open, and pushed me inside....