Chapter Eighteen
TRIAL BY TELEPHONE
I wrote up the account of my visit and posted it just two days later, well ahead of the deadline. I felt rather pleased with myself for this though I had found it hard to write because it was difficult to remember the sequence of events - and there'd been so many! Being blind-folded from start to finish gave the whole experience a strange, dream-like quality. I didn't know where I'd been taken, what the house was really like, or what the complete stranger was like who had fucked me three times and whose body I had so intimately licked. Doubtless my master would find amusing some of my mistakes and misconceptions resulting from trying to interpret from sounds and touch only. But I felt that the sadist friend he wanted the report for would be impressed by this account of the Brigadier's inventive cruelty . . . all six pages of it!
I included the Euston humiliation of course because I felt that was so original and excruciating. I even added a postcript to describe how the first thing I did when I got home was to strip off to inspect the evidence of his brutality, craning round to see my back and arse in the bathroom mirror, and how shocked I was by the sight of my poor beaten thighs, all blotched and bruised and lumpy. I had a shower to cleanse my soiled flesh and patted myself dry (very gently!) with my softest towel.
The only thing I omitted was that the sight of my beaten body excited me and that before I showered I tossed myself off, while re-living what he had done to me in the bath in particular. I didn't care for him to know that.
Once that was posted off, there was nothing to do but wait until the following Monday when I would be able to phone him. And how I longed to do that! I imagined conversations with him, hearing that deep, resonant voice. I was dying to know his reaction to my written report - was it allright? was it what he wanted from me? had his friend seen it yet and what was his reaction? And more to the point, would he want me back for further use? and if so, when?
Why did I have to wait a week to phone him? Why couldn't I call him this Monday? Would it matter if I did? Yes it bloody would! His instructions were very specific. And obedience was my kick!
The days passed slowly. Somehow I got through the week and the week end. I seemed to be in a state of almost permanent sexual arousal, watching the bruises blossom in purple and orange and brown on my thighs, and tossed off repeatedly.
Monday dragged interminably. 8pm eighteen minutes to go. At 20.17 I dialled all but the last digit, then at exactly 20.18 I dropped in the last digit. His phone rang. My heart was thumping and my lips were dry - ridiculous, but there it was. The phone was picked up:
"Yes?"
"Sweat Pig reporting as ordered Sir."
and the line went dead! I looked stupidly and disbelieving at the receiver, then in near panic I re-dialled. It rang and rang. The sweat broke out on my face and body. Answer, please answer.
"Yes?"
"Sorry Sir, we were cut off . . ."
"No"
"S-sir?"
"You were told to phone at 20.18. You did. End of story"
and again the phone went dead. I couldn't believe it! A rage of helpless frustration boiled up inside me. "Bastard!" I said aloud, "Bloody bloody bastard!" After a week of longing for that contact, of eager anticipation, of mounting excitement. And now this cruel, hurtful dismissal. "You were told to phone. You did. End of story". Christ! There are more ways to humiliate a man than to piss in his face, and some of the more casual ones can be even more crushing. But even so, this was . . . well, what? Fucking rude? So what did I want, a polite master for God's sake? A considerate master? Had I not always said that I longed for a real pig of a man, selfish, greedy, demanding and cruel? Well OK buster, that's what you've got - and in spades! So stop your whining and be grateful, I told myself. Yes, but if only he had . . . had what? Done what you wanted him to do? Is that what you're after, a master who does what you want? Well hard luck, 'cos what you've got is a real man - one who knows what he wants and takes it. And if you don't like it - tough tit!
So it was that my first phone contact taught me a harsh lesson. There were more to come. I tried to second guess what he would do the next week. The same? Possible, but unlikely. This man liked to keep you always wrong footed. What would I least expect? A long, casual, chat? A stream of obscene abuse? Both seemed unlikely.
Come the second Monday and despite my best endeavours at self control, I still found myself all hyped up. I dialled and it rang . . . and rang . . . and rang. He wasn't going to answer, was he? How long should I let it ring? To little and he might accuse me of showing an unseemly impatience, too long and it could appear importunate. I counted twelve rings and put down the receiver. Was he sitting there, not bothering to bestir himself to answer? Had he simply gone out because there was nothing important to keep him home? Either way it was a sharp slap in the face for me. By doing nothing at all, he had most effectively humiliated me again. I told myself it was stupid to allow myself to feel so hurt by his manipulative tricks, but that didn't help at all. I felt so angry and helpless and frustrated.
The third call the following week saw me much more under control. He wasn't going to get to me this time! I was awake to his tricks. He answered on the second ring - which promptly caught me off guard!
"Yes?"
"Sweat Pig repor...
"Are you naked?" he snapped, interrupting me.
"Naked? Er, no Sir, I...
"Why not?"
"Ah, I, er, didn't know I should be Sir."
"Christ, boy, I thought you were supposed to be an experienced slave! When you report to your master you always do so naked. Stark bollock naked. Do you understand me boy? You come to my house, you strip as soon as you cross the threshold. You report in by phone, you strip down first. You send me an e-mail, you do so starkers, unless you are in a public place.
And if I come to your place, you'd better make sure you are naked and available for immediate use or take the consequences. Do you understand? Do - you - understand?" he repeated as though addressing an imbecile.
"Yes Sir" And the line went dead!
I was shaking. I felt so ashamed. As quickly as I could I stripped off and re-dialled.
"Yes?"
"I am naked now Sir."
"But it is not 20.18 is it?" and again he hung up.
Oh God, I felt so gauche, so useless, such a failure. I had told him that I wanted to be the best slave he'd ever had, and here I was too bloody stupid to be of any use at all to a man of his calibre. I picked up my slacks from the floor, slipped the belt out and punished myself. Hard. It seemed the least I could do.
Week four, and again he answered straight away.
"Yes?"
"Sweat Pig reporting naked Sir"
"Why do you tell me you are naked?"
"I, er, wanted you to know I'd done as you told me"
There was an icy pause. Then he said, very quietly, "There is no need to state the obvious" and rang off!
I could feel the blush of shame sweep hot over my body and I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Even now, after all this time, I cringe with embarrassment at the memory. How could I have been so crass?
Far from looking forward to these Monday calls, I was starting to dread them. I so much wanted to do the right thing but seemed to get it hopelessly wrong each time. How would he contrive to humiliate me next Monday?
To my surprise, on the Thursday morning I got a letter from him. Inside was a small padded envelope, a condom sealed in a foil sachet and a note. It said "Have this to hand when you phone on Monday and be ready to post it off immediately." I turned the padded bag over. It carried a first class stamp and a printed address label. But to my astonishment, the address was not the PO Box, but his own, with his own name! For the first time I knew the name of the man who had abused me so rigorously nearly two months ago, and the address of the place where he'd done it! It read:
Brigadier Hugh Markman-Ryder
Manor Farm
Sterndale
Buxton Could it be true? Could he really be called Markman? I felt a shiver of thrill at the thought that the man who had marked me was a Markman. And Ryder (Rider!) too. For sure as hell he'd ridden me as well as marked me! That he was a military man, and a brigadier, I already knew, but Hugh was new. Yes, I liked it. A good strong, manly name. I decided that if I was to invent a name for such a masterful man, then Hugh Markman-Ryder could hardly be improved upon. And brigadier? What of that? Well, one didn't get to that rank before you were thirty, that's for sure.
So he was a mature man. In his fifties perhaps? Obviously retired - could even be in his sixties! Not so good, at first thought, but did it matter? Any man who could fuck like that was impressive and I'd detected no hint of flab when licking his body. And anyway, since when did slaves decide whether or not to serve a master on the strength of his age and physique? The only qualities that mattered were authority and stern command. Given those, any man had the right to use me.
And talking of stern-ness, what about that address, "Sterndale"? Surely that was too much? I got out my road map and checked. It took a bit of finding, but there it was, sure enough, in the Peak District National Park as far as I could make out. Could he have slipped up by revealing all this information? No, not he. Clearly he wanted my semen delivered as quickly as possible, so his home address rather than a PO Box was preferable. But it must also mean that if he was now prepared to reveal himself, I had been accepted. Despite the gauche blunders of the telephone calls - or maybe even because of them - I had proved myself reliable and with the potential for further training. For the first time, I felt confident that the time would come when I'd be summoned back to Manor Farm. But for the moment, the immediate prospect was next Monday's phone call and the presumption that I would be made to toss off to order into the condom and send him the product. I had wondered what more he could do to humiliatiate me over the phone. Now I knew. Once more I felt admiration for a man so single minded in the pusuit of finding ways of grinding his victim's face in the filth of shame.
It was on that Friday night's TV that the news broke of the hostile take-over bid for the firm I worked for. I got a phone call at 11pm from my boss saying that a special task force was being set up to fight the take-over and that Sir Malcolm had specifically asked for me to be on it. I was hugely flattered. I had not known that he was even aware that I existed, but apparently he'd seen some of my market assessment reports and been impressed. I drove into the office at once and by midnight the "Battle Team" was assembled.
We worked all through that night to plan our strategy and prepare a press statement, and through most of the rest of the week-end too, sleeping in corners, eating at our desks.
Early on Monday, Sir Malcolm and the MD decided they would lie low as far as the media were concerned and that I should be the front man to keep the pressure off them until they were ready to launch their bombshell counter-attack in mid week. I was sent home to get cleaned up and shaved and changed into a media-friendly suit and it was not till I got back to the flat that I thought "Oh God. Monday!" Well hopefully I'd be back in time and there'd be no problem. But as I left to dash back to the office I shoved the condom and padded bag in my pocket, to cover all eventualities.
A mad, mad day followed with head to tail interviews with TV, the financial press and radio, some live, some recorded, some over the phone, interspersed with frantic up-date meetings with the MD etc to discuss progress and decide what should and shouldn't be said. By 6.30 it was all over, and just as I was about to go home to collapse in a heap, word came that the giant Unibond Corp were putting in a counter bid for us and everything was up in the air again. More meetings, more endless dicussions of possible options. Something made me glance at my watch. Christ! 20.16. What the hell was I to do? I excused myself and ran to my desk at the other end of the largely deserted but open plan office. I dialled, wondering what the hell I was going to say.
"Yes?"
"Sir, it's me. I'm not at home and not, ah, properly dressed. Sorry Sir, but I'll have to call you later. Can't explain now. Bit of a crisis on. Hope you'll forgive me. Sorry."
"I'm not surprised. Every time I turn the telly on you seem to be on it. Call me as soon as you can."
"Yes Sir, thankyou Sir."
"But Sweat Pig . . ."
"Sir?"
"I understand the situation may be unavoidable but that does not mean it is forgiven. It will be remembered."
And on that chilling note, the line went dead. I eventually got home just before midnight, collapsed on the bed still fully clothed and slept for ten hours. I got up, stripped, showered, shaved and made coffee. I sat on the edge of the bed sipping the hot brew. 'Call me when you can' he'd said. It was 10.35am. What the hell. I dialled.
"Yes?"
"Sweat Pig, Sir."
"Where are you?"
"Home, Sir"
"Naked?"
"Yes, Sir. And with the condom to hand if wanted."
"Got a hard on?"
"Very much so, Sir"
"Open the rubber and put it on"
I tore open the silver foil and found the condom was black. I'd never worn a black one and it excited me inordinately, for reasons I couldn't really explain. It seemed so depraved, somehow. I rolled it down my shaft and admired myself. My cock looked big and black and dangerous.
"Now listen to me, boy. You are going to toss yourself off and when you are milked dry you will knot it securely and get it in the post to me immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir"
Then in a near whisper, he began to tell me of the corrective discipline I would have to suffer over my disobedience the previous night. Of how I would be taken up to the punishment room again to have my failure purged with the cane. He described in loving detail the particular cane he would use and its special characteristics. I would "only" be given 12 strokes because of the unusual circumstances causing my failure, but they would be laid on with "punitive ferocity". I asked if I would be tied down. Certainly not, was the reply, I would be expected to offer myself voluntarily to the punishment to show my acceptance of it. But, he went on, if I failed to remain still under the beating, then I would be tied down and the punishment would begin all over again from the beginning, even if I moved on the 12th cut. The cold barbarity of this caused me to shoot my load so explosively that I shouted as the semen ripped out of my cock into the black rubber.
"Milk your cock like a cow's teat. I want every last drop of you in that condom. And keep at it till you are drained dry. Then dress and
get it in the post to me at once."
"Yes, Sir" but the phone was already dead.
I posted the package as ordered and returned to the office, feeling that now I really had most certainly been plunged down to the very lowest depths of degredation - that nothing more humiliating could ever be done to me than to be made to wank to order by remote control - and then post off the product for him to do God knows what with. Oh dear, how naiive! If I could have forseen then what appalling things were to be done to me in the future, would I have gone on with him?
Yes. Oh yes. Absolutely, yes!