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Even The First - PART TWENTYSEVEN
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Even The First - PART TWENTYSEVEN
[quote] If you do some men a kindness, they'll be your slave for the rest of time. But you must hurt them, to own them. [end quote]
There are so many ways of hurting someone. You can probably think of a few. It's not just a matter of physical punishment; you can hurt their minds and hurt them emotionally. You can make them think one thing and then exploit that as a vulnerability to permanently damage them. So you can do what you want - if you want to - to find a way, so that they don't see it coming, and, when they do, they still don't know when it has already happened, and, when they do, they still don't understand what has actually happened - until they do ... and then - when it really hurts - they still don't realise that the pain is never, never ever going to stop; that they'll still feel it when they have completely forgotten how it all started and when they stopped being able to make it stop.
Because, every man has a tipping point, a point at which he cannot take any more, the point at which he's had enough and walks - if he can still walk - or runs away, if he can run. Some try to hide. Those that stay, completely give in and become mindless obeyers of everything anyone ever says to them, never again pausing to question or consider why something has to be done, never again asking, Do I have to do this? Is it good for me? Is it pleasurable? Is it right?
That's what happened to me - I think. That's how they made me hurt. What, do you think this is the first time I've been cut? Do you think this is the first time I've been punched, slapped or beaten? Do you think this is the first time I've been tied up and beaten? Do you think this is the first time I've been beat? Do you think this is the first time I've been broken? What do you think the army was all about? They break you there; they destroy you. They break you down as a man - and rebuild you as a killer. They rebuild you as a killer ... well, alright, I worked in the kitchen, but you get the idea: They destroyed me, and then they, and their brutalised bullying squaddies, turned me into what I am today.
All my life I've been hurt, and I can't sight an end to it. Can you? In a way, I pride myself on my ability to endure pain, I suppose, and humiliation - contradictory as that sounds. To be perfectly honest, this is my reality. I feel a strange kind of guilt in the effort to satisfy my master. I find myself apologising for not being in enough pain. When a man owns another man he wants to feel that slave sacrifice, see in the eyes that exhaustion of slave will, that slave focus on being totally owned, when that slave stops feeling pain as his own pain and starts feeling it as his master's property; starts feeling it as something the master has given, something that is owed, even the pain, just like everything else, something to be grateful for. That's a magical moment in a slave's training. That's what made it real with Kevin. He took me to a new level of completely obedient mindless suffering.
And he made you help him, dear reader, because, you have come this far, so you are as much to blame as anyone: You joined in. You masturbated while he was doing it. You enjoyed the ride. And now you're here, you've come this far with me - episode whatever-it-is - you might as well go the whole hog. You might as well join in one final time and help - but this time help me, not yourself! Help me ... ... back ... that's what ... I'm go'...'na do ... ... I'm ... rap on ... your door ... help ... til you ... come back ... to me ... ...
When I came round, Kevin slapping me and giving me poppers, we were still in the basement. Music was coming from somewhere. Soul. Aretha.
Oh, you thought we would be finished?
We aren't finished.
The bite-gag was mangled. The pain no longer stopped, even when he stopped. He returned to his chair and sat, looking at me, rubbing his erection through his rubber shorts and breathing through his mouth.
"God I wish we had a mirror kfag. I'd hold it up to let you look at your body - the strong man broken - that huge chest, man, narrowing to those packed ab puppies, all cut up and bleeding. See my strong cock I'm gonna fuck you with." He stroked the long black bulge in his trews. "Your face," he smiled, "the look on your face, kfag. Dead. Tired. Aren't you? Dead. Tired. But you're proud of yourself aren't you soldier? Don't lie to me, sonny," he said - he was certainly younger than I was. "So clever. So good looking. Such a good fag slave. You're still proud of yourself, ar'n'tya? Pride is a sin, soldier. You know that? We need to lose that, we need to lose that, 'n' how do we get rid of sin, heh, soldier? With a flogging!" He laughed. Then he went serious.
"No! No!" I thought. "No, no more. Please!" My legs were weak, the muscles in my thighs, calves and feet screaming with the pain of exhaustion. My arms were in agony, stretching to support my weight. I was covered in the sting of his frenzied whip and his sadistic assault.
"I don't like the way you're standing. Stand up straight soldier! Don't slouch!"
I tried to stand up straight. It was impossible. I could no longer straighten my neck.
"Cmon soldier! You can do this. Can't you take anymore, heh?"
I couldn't answer.
"Okfag, let's relax. Let's put on some fag music."
He flicked his phone and got it to play something different - I wouldn't describe it as disco. The small tinny speakers didn't make much impression on the cellar's unforgiving acoustics, but Kevin seemed to really like it, or seemed to want to pretend that he did.
"Je suis actuellement le DJ!" he cried, wiggling his hips like it was Saturday night.
"Man I feel alive," he said, laughing.
"I feel so fucking alive. Man this is great. How do you feel, bitchboy? You feel alive? Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up."
"Dance for me bitchboy."
If Vince could see me now ...
"Ok."
Kevin danced up to me and, in time to the music, released me from the restraints. I crumpled to his feet. I couldn't support my own weight. I was sobbing with exhaustion.
He reached down and unhooked the gag, which dropped from my mouth gooey with froth, then he put his boot close to my face, nudging it against my lips.
"Good boy. Good Soldier. Say thank you, soldier."
"Thank you Sir," I said, licking the grimy leather obediently whilst he tapped my face with his toe - "Cmon now! One! More! Time!" - in time to the music. "Ok enough. Look at me. You've had long enough." I raised my face. He grabbed my chin, coughed up some phlegm and spat it in my face. It hit my forehead and rolled down over one eye. "Eat it." I raised a weary hand and wiped it into my mouth. He was rubbing his cock.
I struggled to my knees, facing him.
"It's time."
Rotating his hips 'sexily', he pulled down the front of his rubber trews to let his erection fly out. It bounced around, hard and straight, white and pink, whilst he reached down and grabbed his bollocks out as well, like loose change.
"See this cock. Want it. I know you want it. See I know exactly what you want. Exactly. I knew you wanted to be hurt, soldier," he smiled. "I know you wanted it. Want it? Yeh, I know you want it." He held his cock by the base of the shaft and rocked it about in front of my face. Then he stroked my head. "Want that cock soldier." Then he grabbed my head, directed me onto him and pushed himself into my mouth, down my neck hard, choking me repeatedly. "Make love to me baby!" He laughed. "Cunt faced bitch!" He held the back of my head whilst forcing himself into it, then slapping my ears whilst I struggled to keep him deep without breath for as long as I could. "Look at me!" I raised my eyes and saw his delight at my panic. "Choke for me! Let me see you suffocate." Our eyes met. He watched me struggle to contain it, the look on his face manic like a look of fear and anger, pleasure mixed with terror.
His balls bounced about on my chin.
For some time he was doing my face like this, violently bruising the back of my neck, "Fucking ... wanna ... put it ... in you." Then he kicked me hard in the thigh. "... Fucking position soldier!" I pulled my face away, gasping for air, spit, sweat, and phlegm and tears running from my face, lifted myself to all fours and rotated fast to present my hole to him, at the same time pressing my face to the hard cold floor, kissing the cold hard floor.
"Oh yeah, I am so ... fucking ... your ... ... cunt!" I felt him rest a hand on my haunch, then direct his solid down to an angle where he could make it go in. Then he rode forcefully down with a punch, slapping my sore buttocks, his rubber clothes squeaking stupidly. His prick slid in easily so that his groin hit me with a slap.
"Oh yeah I'm gonna cum fag tell me how it feels! Tell me how it feels! Shut the fuck up! Tell me how it feels! Shut the fuck up! Yeah. Shut the fuck up! Yeah. Tell me how it feels! Shut the fuck up! Nyeh! Ngueah!"
(For a librarian, he was making a lot of noise.)
I braced while he did what he wanted. It seemed, to him hurting someone was just a game. Fucking someone, just a game. Sex just a game. Everything was just a game. He liked the stupidity of it. He liked it to be meaningless. His kick was simply to be able to behave in as depraved and brutalising a way as possible, making a joke of my humiliation. Even his praise was humiliation, mocking that I could take pride in what I had become - like I could take pride in what I was.
There's no saying how long he would have gone on for, ripping the soft lining of my sphincter until he got bored. There was no real sign of him cuming, though he kept saying like he was, and ramming me like a piece of furniture, sometimes to the beat of the music, sometimes less so. Sometimes he grabbed me round the waist, hugging me tight, pressing his chest against my hard wounded back, clinging to the sweaty shine of it, licking my neck, insisting that I turn my head to let him kiss me, wiping his arms over the sore letters he had scalpelled into my chest, humping me down so I was ground into the floor; it was a fuck that went relentlessly on. Selfishly pursuing his own sensations inside my hole, like you'd expect; I knew he'd love it if he knew, and yet he didn't know, how much he was hurting me, ruining and stretching me, grinding me into the concrete ground, perpetuating an agony that I had no ability to protest.
Suddenly he stopped. Panting, less violently sliding his penis in and out of it, he said, "Look soldier: You're pretty enough to turn me on. We both know that. And," he caressed my cut back and raw backside, "you've become my property. I've destroyed you, haven't I? You're MY fuck hole, aren't you, soldier? You're MY bitch. I'm using you now, making sure you're being properly used, aren't you, soldier." He bent forward and touched my back with his lips.
"You made me hard flogging you," he said. "Know that?"
I didn't speak.
"KNOW THAT FAGGOT?!"
"Yes Sir. I know that. Sir," I wept.
"Now all YOU have to do is make me happy. THAT'S ALL. Understand?"
"Yes Sir. Make you happy Sir.
"Now make me cum!"
"Yes Sir," I mumbled, "make you cum."
I had no idea how to make him cum.
"You are fucking useless! Soldier. Fu-cking use-less."
He pulled out.
"You're useless," he said with a grunt. "You do nothing. You aren't even trying to turn me on. You aren't gripping. You aren't holding it. It's useless. You're like you're just useless. You're just dead, lying dead, like a hole in a sack of meat." He jumped up and kicked me in the ribs.
"Why can't you be tight? Hole worn out? Fucknuseless. You're so used. No wonder, all the cock it's had." He poked it with his thumb. "Fuknjeesus, I need to cum. It's time now'n'I need to cum now. Had enough. What you playing at? What are you doing? This isn't what I need. You. Useless. Cunt. Useless turn off."
I bent my neck to see him and apologise. He kicked me again, stared at me angrily and kicked me again. Harder.
"Fuck I want to fuck it, fuck, I want to fuck it, for godsake. Back!"
I was in such a state of exhaustion and pain. I rolled onto my back. Perhaps if he took me in that position he'd find it easier. The freezing concrete rubbed my broken skin and I lay, with my eyes shut, my arms holding my thighs up and my legs apart, knees up and feet in the air.
"Hey! Wake up!"
He kicked me again, and grinned.
"Piece of shit."
I opened my eyes. He was towering above me, tall like an enormous shiny plastic doll, stroking his hardon obsessively, not like he was scared he would lose it - more like if he didn't cum it would never go away. His expression of contempt didn't focus, like he was looking in my direction but not at me, wanking his first angrily.
Eventually I said, "Hold me, please hold me Sir."
"Can you make me cum?"
"Yes Sir, I promise."
"Make me cum then, you piece of shit. Open your legs properly. Show me your hole. That's it. Piece of shit. Legs higher. Piece of shit. Show me."
As he said this he kicked me again and lunged forward onto his knees, aiming his prick, grabbing my legs violently and pushing my thighs apart. Looking into my face with absurd concentration, he was penetrating me again, he was re-opening my sore raw hole, when there was a click! from the top of the stairs ... and the sound of steps coming down.
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END OF Even The First - PART TWENTYSEVEN