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On the Heath by grovel.slave@yahoo.com
Years ago, there were two distinct sections of gay activity on the Heath - there was the vanilla section, approached from the car park behind the pub, Jack Straw's Castle; but deeper into the Heath was the perve, fetish section. I used to go with a mate, a leather man like me, and it was often like running the gauntlet. The vanilla guys would part before us like the Red Sea but there was often sniggering as we left them behind to their conventional sucking and fucking and headed downhill towards darker aspects of male sexuality.
Later, as I became much more of a regular on the Heath, I found another approach to the perve section. I just looked at a map and saw that there was more direct access to the fetish area. I'd park my motorcycle in a residential street, cross the road and plunge into the woodland. I'd cross a bridge, turn right and there it was all happening around me. Another advantage of this approach was that often the police would hang out in the car park by the pub and pull you aside for questioning. There was nothing they could do as the standard response to their questions was that I was `taking the air' - yes at 3am...
Occasionally they'd actually raid the Heath and that was a different matter. You didn't want to be caught in flagrante delicto and there'd be a lot of climbing of trees and plunging into bushes to avoid that. I never was caught. And there was a time when I was going there at least once a week.
No matter how often I went and no matter the conditions, winter or summer, there were always guys getting it on. I was there when there was snow on the ground, or heavy rain. Numbers would be lower than usual but I was NEVER there alone. The libido doesn't recognize weather conditions. It has its own dictates.
However, there was nothing like a hot summer night to bring out the crowds and there were nights when there were literally hundreds of guys there. Not all were participants. There were lots of voyeurs, wanking at the sights. The sound of a belt hitting flesh always produced a crowd rushing to source the cp action. One of the more dramatic sights was two Leather Masters chasing a totally naked slave through the woods, whipping him as they ran and loudly verbally abusing him. It was exciting and I kind of envied the slave but, in general, I didn't really want to be the cabaret for lurkers.
And yet, on one memorable occasion, I was.
I had my own notions of what it constituted to be a slave. I wanted the psychological element. I could get off easily on verbal abuse, a lot of bootlicking, sucking cock, being fucked while being told what a useless slave I was (and that was certainly true). I loved bondage, especially metal. Metal has a psychological dimension that ropes and restraints simply don't. With those, there is always the possibility of escape - with metal, no way. But the bottom line was, I hated pain. Little by little I learned to be turned on by nipple stimulation but nothing too heavy. And beating was a complete taboo. Not even a hand spanking.
So...it was winter, with temperatures down to just above freezing. But there was a full moon and I had always watched out for those ever since I had read that the police put more officers on the street when the moon is full. There are more lunatics out and about and where better to go than the Heath?
Midnight was the time to go. The leather bars had closed at 11pm and that would lead to guys heading for the anonymity of the Heath. The unwritten rules of the Heath at that time were never to go home with someone and never to make a date with someone you met there. You did it there and that was that. I wasn't in position for more than five minutes when I was approached by what l considered my ideal - tall, well built, about 35 and in head to toe leather gear. In retrospect, I was totally a fetishist rather than a slave. I wanted full leather, preferably topped by a Muir cap. The whole Tom of Finland look.
We set to. It seems strange now but in those days a lot of meetings like this began with a kind of pseudo romance. There was a lot of kissing, a lot of sensual appreciation of leather that would lead, in my case anyway, to a lot of bootlicking and cock sucking, then I'd shoot and leave.
So I was involved in part one of that familiar scenario, when I heard the clank of chains about ten yards away. Talk about a Pavlovian reaction on my part. I hastily put a stop to the kissing with the leather guy and moved in the direction of the chains. And there was a guy of about thirty, also in full leather, pulling a lot of heavy chains out of a rucksack. Now an obsession with metal bondage seems to be in my dna. Even before puberty I was fascinated by men in metal bondage - prisoners behind bars, men handcuffed and, best of all, things like Ben Hur with galley slaves chained in position.
I took up a position directly opposite this guy, with my hands behind my back and head respectfully lowered but not so low that I couldn't see him or what he was doing. He paused in his unloading of the chains and beckoned me to approach. He sized me up and then said, `So you are a chain slave?'
`Yes, Sir,' I replied.
`Let's get you chained up then.'
He had a set of heavy prison irons, ankles, wrists and a collar, all interconnected by chain. My cock was hard as a rock. Although I had fantasized about such a thing, and seen irons like this in Roman epics, I had never seen them in reality, nor ever been in anything other than handcuffs now and again. Soon I was fettered, the most exciting act being the locking on of the steel collar. It all had a very powerful impact on me. I felt more submissive instantly than I had ever done. I expected him now to order me to my knees and suck his cock. Instead, he attached a chain leash to the collar and led me off.
The chains were making a lot of noise as I stumbled along behind him and this had the effect of drawing a number of curious guys. My submissive nature had never been so exposed to public view as this but curiously I didn't mind at all. I was on a submissive high and mentally I was going lower, deeper into submission.
We came to a clearing with a large fallen tree, extending across the middle of it. The moon was high and visibility was really excellent. He stopped me, grabbed my chin and raised my head to look him in the eyes. I really couldn't believe my luck. Not only was he a dominant leather guy but he was handsome, fit and best of all, was a real metal bondage fan.
Quietly, so he could not be overheard by the lurkers, he asked, `Are you in a hurry tonight, slave?'
`No, Sir.'
`Good. Up for a few hours of play?'
`Yes, Sir!' Better and better. Already I wanted his phone number, a date the next day. Anything. Except not what he proposed...
`Good. Then here's the plan. I am going to put you across this tree trunk and beat you with my belt.'
`Oh, no, Sir! I can't stand pain. I hate to be beaten.'
`Are you a slave?'
`Well, I want to be, Sir, but not that, I can't. I really can't.'
`But a slave has no choice. A slave accepts. A slave obeys.'
I was silent despite feeling agitated and bitterly disappointed.
Here is what's going to happen,' he continued. I'm going to give you one hundred strokes with my leather belt. You'll count them, silently, as will I. I'll check from time to time that you are keeping accurate track of your beating.' `Oh, Sir, I was beginning to think that I could take some beating just to show you I really do want to be a slave but one hundred strokes! No way can I take that. Please, Sir. Make it less. Make it ten!'
He laughed and said, `Well, let's see how you handle ten! Now drop your trousers and get over the trunk.'
I looked around. There were about ten guys grouped around us, waited no to see what we were going to do.
`Ok, Sir. Ten then, Sir.'
I dropped my trousers and stretched over the trunk which was about waist height. I heard him getting his belt out of his trousers. I waited with dread and a racing heart for the first blow. Fear lies more in anticipation than anything else. Everything was tremendously heightened for me. I could hear the eagerness of the group to see some action. Then I heard the whoosh of the belt through the air and the crack as it landed heavily on my arse. I jumped at the strength of it but uttered not a word. Stoicism has been bred into me and even then I felt that I should not make a sound. One.
The second was just as heavy, and the third, and the four elicited a gasp from me. Then, strangely, the fifth was much less heavy and so was the sixth. I was waiting for the seventh but instead I heard him say, Get up and pull up your trousers.' He said it rather matter of factly. In fact, other than calling me slave' from time to time, he was devoid of theatrics. There was no acting. As a Master, he was very laid back.
As I was pulling up my trousers, I said to him, `Sir, you said ten. Are you letting me off now?'
Again he laughed. Oh, I haven't finished with you, yet.' And with that he led me on. I noticed that the group following us had grown. The sound of the belting had evidently carried in the crisp, cold night. We stopped. He positioned me against an upright tree and pulled my trousers down. So I WAS going to get the remaining four. They weren't so bad. After the tenth, he leaned forward and whispered, How about a few more?' I considered for a moment, then nodded yes.
Six more were despatched. My arse felt on fire. So I had taken sixteen. But some weren't so strong... And unexpectedly, the growing crowd made a difference to me. I began to feel I would lose face, that I'd be exposed as a wimp, if I were to holler and make a scene. Again I was led away to another part of the Heath. But now he began to ask me questions about my sex life, what I was into, what I had done. He was such a friendly guy but at the same time very much in charge.
And so it went on. We'd walk then stop. I'd be beaten. We'd chat. And on we'd go. When I reached forty, I thought, Well it'd be a kind of victory if I reached fifty...' But he didn't stop at fifty and then I was at fifty-four. And on... I found the sixties very tough and then I was at seventy-two and I thought, Come on, slave! The end is in sight.' And by then it had become a matter of pride. Some of the guys had followed us from the start. Now it was no longer about being exposed as a wimp but rather seeming to be brave.
Looking back, I know he not only knew what he was doing in terms of physical prowess- he was playing me psychologically. And it worked.
I reached the hundred. The nineties weren't so terrible until we got to ninety-seven which was a corker, and each thereafter progressively more severe with the hundredth really making me shout. But I had got there and I felt so proud of myself.
Now if this were fiction, it'd be tempting to say that then I sucked his cock to orgasm, or that he fucked my well heated arse. But no, we sat down, alone now, and chatted like mates. And then I asked him if I could meet him again. He said, `I only get up to this kind of thing here on the Heath. I have a vanilla boyfriend so although he knows what I get up to, I don't bring it home. I'll be here next Monday - there's a guy I see regularly. And he beats me just like I've beaten you.'
And that was that. But what a learning experience for me! It represented for me a huge step forward in terms of submission towards becoming the slave I now am.
One last observation. In the weeks that followed, my arse went through all the colours of the rainbow and a few more. I've had heavier beatings since then and I still tell prospective Masters that I am not a pain slave but no beating has ever been so memorable as that one.