Stripped

THE HIDDEN FILES

Ian had a furniture restoration business specializing in antiques. He
dealt with “one offs” from private customers but Smartens, the local
auction house, was his best client, sending a regular flow of items needing
work.

Ian was very proud of the quality of his firm’s work and of the six full
time specialists he employed, all of them craftsmen of outstanding ability,
even young Will, the french polisher, who was only 24. Ian had been
worried about how to replace Joe when he retired because young people don’t
have the patience needed for french polishing, but after only two years
apprenticeship Will seemed to have learned all that Joe could teach him and
his workmanship was superb.

One day Laurie, Smarten’s man, brought in a secretaire. About 1860,
commercial work, but of superior quality. The veneer was badly faded from
sunlight. “Reckon it’ll need to be stripped right down and re-polished”
said Laurie. They discussed cost and delivery estimates. As he was
leaving, Ian asked him to tell Will to come and have a word. Ian checked
for secret compartments and found two, both of them empty of course as they
always are these days. Secret compartments may fool a casual burglar but
everyone in the trade knows what to look for – which is why you never find
anything, but you can always hope.

He looked up and watched young Will striding down the length of the
workshop with his easy, confident gait. Not for the first time he thought
of himself at that age, still diffident and unsure. Mind you, if instead
of being lanky at 24 he too had had Will’s physique, perhaps Ian too would
have walked with an easy swagger. Will was wearing a sleeveless, faded blue
denim shirt which showed off his sturdy brown arms. Well, who could blame
him? If you had arms like that, wouldn’t you show ’em off?

“Find anything Boss?” he inquired, seeing Ian inspecting the secret
compartment. Ian smiled and told him ‘no’. “Nice piece” the young man
said, pulling out the top drawer and inspecting the dovetailing. “Good
workmanship”

Ian found it heartwarming that such a young man should have such a good eye
and appreciation of the cabinetmaker’s skills. He slid out the middle
drawer, laying it across the top one and bent to pull the bottom one when
Will said “Hang on, Boss. There’s something going on here” He had picked
up the middle drawer and was scrutinizing it carefully. “What do you
think?” he said.

Immediately Ian saw there was something not quite right. You get a feeling
for this sort of thing and he was surprised he had not spotted it at once.
A clumsy repair job perhaps? He turned the drawer in his hands and then
twigged. “False bottom” he said, “Well spotted, Will”

A narrow fillet of wood, little more than a quarter inch, went the whole
length of the back of drawer’s base. It slid sideways smooth as silk to
reveal a narrow cavity under the bottom. They peered in. “Anything?”
asked Will.

“Something” Ian said, tilting the drawer backwards and patting the
side. Out slid three, slim manila folders side by side. As Ian put the
drawer down, Will opened one of them. “Jesus!” he said. Glued to both
inside covers was a collection of Polaroid photos showing a man in a black
leather hood in various stages of undress, ending up stark naked, bound
. . .and very erect!

Ian’s reaction was swift, unthinking and stupid. He snatched the folder
from his employee’s hands, closed it and scooped up the other two, blurting
out “Not suitable for your eyes, boy” and shoved them in the drawer of his
desk and ostentatiously locked it.

He was conscious that his heart was pounding and his face burning. “I’ll
have to talk to Mr Smarten about this” he burbled, adding lamely “After
all, it is their property.” Only then did he look at Will who was
obviously taken aback by this absurd over-reaction and was staring at Ian
in a most odd way.

“You are still working on the Phillip’s armoire?” Ian said, trying to be
casual but with a voice which sounded strained and false. The big young
man nodded slowly. “Best carry on with that then.” Will nodded, turned
and walked away as Ian sat at his desk and busied myself checking the Work
Book with unseeing eyes.

Why? Why had he behaved in such a stupid way? Any normal man would have
shared the folders with his colleague, laughing and pointing out things.
“Oh my Gawd, have you seen this?” or “Talk about kinky! There’s no
accounting for taste!” and “That’s nothing, get a load of this one!” So,
why hadn’t he? After all, he was a perfectly normal guy, married with twin
boys, not some kinky pervert. Yet that fleeting glimpse of the contents of
the folder had churned him up in a most odd way and he couldn’t wait for
the end of the day for a more leisurely look when all the others had gone.

Come 5 o’clock and he could hear the round of “Good night”s, some nodding
to him as they passed his glass partitioned office at the far end of the
long, narrow workshop. When he was quite sure they had all gone, he
unlocked the drawer and slid out the three folders and laid them out side
by side on his desk.

At first sight they seemed all much the same, showing a man being stripped
in stages. In each case he started off fully clothed and ended up naked.
And all three folders clearly showed the same man, for although his face
was never revealed under the hood, the body with its smudge of body hair
across the chest was evidently the same. Ian flicked back to the front of
the folders and noticed a date on each: 26 May, 10 June and 15 July. No
year, but they were also numbered 1, 2, and 3. Clearly the sequence was
important so Ian arranged them in sequence and studied them more carefully,
noting the differences – and that the Polaroids were numbered 1 to 12 in
each file to ensure they were viewed in correct order. Obviously a bit of
a control freak this photographer, for Ian automatically assumed it was the
active partner who had compiled this record of perversion and dominance.
Man or woman, he wondered. Could be either of course, yet Ian felt somehow
that this was a homosexual act.

The May 26 file started with a pic of the victim standing, facing the
camera and dressed in a smart, dark, business suit. White shirt,
conservative tie, polished black Oxfords – and, bizarrely, a blindfold mask
which covered the top half of the face like a Tudor executioner’s mask.
Sinister! Then Ian noticed he was not merely standing, he was standing to
attention! No doubt about it: heels together, arms straight down the sides,
head erect, this man was being paraded for inspection!

The second pic was much like the first at a quick glance, but on looking
closer Ian noted the unbuttoned jacket, the tie knot loosened and askew,
the collar button undone and, yes, the flies unzipped too. The smart
businessman had been worked over and mussed up. he looked as if he had been
…HANDLED.

Pic number three was identical except for one major difference: the
genitals had been scooped out and put on full display, balls and all. Why?
Why would a man permit himself to be misused in this way – and allow
himself to be photographed? For he must certainly have heard the snap and
whirr of the camera; seen the flash even through the black mask. What
power did the photographer wield that he could force this man to stand
willingly at attention and permit such humiliating things to be done to
him?

In the next shot the rigid drill position was slightly changed. Now the
man stood with his legs a little astride, the hands were turned with the
palms facing forward and the head tilted back in an unmistakable posture
of submissive surrender. Now the tie hung loose, the shirt was unbuttoned
to below the sternum and the jacket was pushed back, agape, and almost off
one shoulder.

With mounting fascination, Ian turned his attention to the picture labelled

5. Now the jacket was gone, and the tie. The shirt had been opened to the
   waist and the two sides pushed aside to bare the chest. A wooden clothes
   peg was clipped to one nipple and jutted out from the body aggressively.
   The belt had been unbuckled and hung loose and the other notable difference
   was that the cock was now fully erect, mimicking the aggressive jut of the
   peg. The inference had to be that tit-torture excited this man sexually.
   Clearly he LIKED being a victim, a notion which Ian found … disturbing.

In the sixth picture the shirt had gone revealing the lean hard musculature
of the torso. A man in his prime – mid thirties, forty? There were pegs
on both nipples now and a dog’s, spiked, leather collar buckled about the
neck.

Pic number 7 showed the trousers dropped to around the ankles. No
underpants! Ian glanced back at the smartly dressed businessman of pic
number 1. Who would have guessed that he wore no underwear? Ian wondered
whether he had been ORDERED to report naked beneath his clothes? The
thought troubled him strangely and he was shocked to realize he had an
erection. An erection from looking at photos of a naked MAN for God’s
sake! But he realized it wasn’t the sturdy male body which excited him it
was … was what, exactly? Then he admitted it to himself, it was the
submissiveness of this man that turned him on. A man who allowed an unseen
persecutor to strip and humiliate him. To enslave him, no less. But a
Master or a Mistress? There are plenty of men who get turned on by being
humiliated by a dominant woman and for sure this guy looked manly enough.
No milksop pansy. And yet… and yet… something made Ian feel sure that
it was a man who stripped down this poor sod and photographed the process
with such obsessive care.

The next shot showed the man now completely naked, standing with legs apart
and his hands behind his head. The mouth, below the mask showed signs of
considerable distress, for no apparent reason. The penis was hugely erect.

The picture numbered 9 was different. A close up. Not of the face but of
the crotch. A leather strap encircled the base of the genitalia, another
the base of the engorged penis itself and two others separated the
testicles. Separated them? Yanked them brutally apart, more like. The
previous picture showed the pain in the contorted mouth, this one showed
the sexual arousal in the pain. And he had stood there passively and LET
this be done to him. Ian was shocked and sickened by the blatant
perversion – and aroused by it too.

The following picture was also a close-up shot only this time of the chest.
The single nipple peg was now replaced by a pair. But not wooden clothes
pegs but metal clamps whose iron jaws seemed to grip the sensitive flesh
ferociously. Worse, from each clip hung a metal pendant and from the way
the tits were dragged down by the weight there could be no doubting that
the metal was lead! Ian winced involuntarily as he inspected this image of
deliberate cruelty so lovingly recorded. “Bastard!” he hissed under his
breath at the unseen torturer who had inflicted this obscene pain with such
surgical precision.

The eleventh shot showed the poor sod, still with his hands clasped
obediently behind his head but now he was on his knees, his sturdy thighs
wide spread and his cock rampant above the strapped balls. The mouth was
gaped wide and the head thrown back. Then Ian noticed something else – the
shine on the skin. His body was wet. His chest, his belly, his thighs and
yes, his chin too, all had been drenched. And that gaping mouth! Ian knew
with absolute, sickening, certainty that here was a man who had been pissed
on. And not just on, either, but IN as well. He had passively knelt
there, mouth agape, while his master had pissed into his mouth! Oh God,
the horror of it! Ian could imagine how he must have choked and glugged
and spluttered, how the endless, remorseless stream of urine had filled his
mouth until it overflowed and poured down his body, drenching the tortured
nipples in their weighted clamps, soaking the leather-harnessed genitals,
washing down the splayed thighs to form dark stains on the bare
floorboards. And all this was not some sadistic excess visited on a
helpless victim. This man was not bound or held helpless by a couple of
bully boys. He had willingly submitted himself to being stripped down for
inspection, to being crudely manhandled, tortured and humiliated. What
sort of man would allow such things to be done to him, Ian wondered?

The final shot in this first file was quite different. It showed the
victim from behind, bent over what looked like a workbench, baring his ass
with the leather-strapped testicles clearly to be seen, hanging between the
splayed thighs. Lying on the base of the spine was a used condom. The man
had been buggered and the product of that sex act was blatantly flaunted
and photographed for all to see. No doubt now of the sex of the torturer.

Ian visualized how that man, sated with sex, had pulled out of his victim’s
body, peeled the cum-bloated rubber from his cock and tossed it down onto
the other man’s bare back in a final gesture of contempt – and then
photographed it so that he could ever after humiliate the other with the
evidence of his shame.

Ian felt sickened and disgusted, but was aware too of being hot and of the
wetness at his crotch as his engorged cock dribbled fuck-juice. As he
closed the file a sudden sound made him look up in alarm at the wood rack
overhead. Someone lying flat on his belly up there among the moldings and
dowels laid across the rafters could easily look straight down into his
partitioned but roofless office. “Who’s there?” he shouted, aware of the
furious blush of shame that had flooded his face. In the silence that
followed he was aware of the sweat droplet trickling down the side of his
face. He sat, frozen for several minutes, his heart thumping, before
deciding it must just have been the wood settling in the hot roof space.
Nevertheless he had been so rattled by the thought of having been watched,
he decided to leave the other two files unexamined for today and slid all
three into the drawer and securely locked it before leaving and locking up
behind him. He drove home to his wife and twin boys, firmly resolved to
dismiss any further thoughts of those strangely disturbing images from his
mind.

The Second File

The next morning Ian opened up and had to force himself not to go straight
to the locked drawer of his desk to inspect the other two files with the
same intensity with which he had devoured the first the night before. But
that wouldn’t do. His workers would be arriving shortly and coming to his
office for instructions and he needed to be able to study those strange,
disturbing pictures at leisure and with the certainty of not being
interrupted. But the thought of them was never far from his mind, nagging,
nagging.

He wondered what he would say if young Will asked about them, but
mercifully that didn’t happen. He was brisk and businesslike in the only
brief exchange he had with Will but realized afterwards that he had avoided
eye contact.

He always took lunch in his office sitting at his desk – and was invariably
undisturbed. Now would be safe for a look, surely? As his hand dropped to
unlock the drawer he glanced down the length of the workshop to check that
all the men had gone to the pub as usual and was startled to see Will still
at his bench. But not working, just sitting there – and watching! Was he
watching or was it guilt that made it seem so? Ian felt a hot flush of
shame wash over him and he ostentatiously carried on going through the
Accounts Books. It was three weeks since his book keeper had moved on and
it would be another week before the new one, Mrs Duncan, would start so he
had to struggle on as best he could.

The interminable afternoon dragged at last to a close and the men packed up
and left. All of them? He hadn’t actually seen either Martin or Will
leave. He called their names. No answer. He walked down the length of the
workshop, even checking the lavatory. No one. He locked both front and
back doors and returned to his office, even scanning the wood racks
overhead as he went.

Satisfied at last that he was alone and would not be disturbed he unlocked
the drawer and withdrew the three files. Number 1 he put aside carefully
and as he picked up No 2 he noticed his hands were shaking. This was dated
June 10, two weeks after the previous encounter so the man knew what he was
in for – but came anyway! Ian opened the file and directed his gaze to the
first picture, top left, deliberately trying to avoid looking at the other
11 photos. He wanted to experience them in sequence, squeezing dry each in
turn for all the information it contained before allowing himself the
luxury of moving on to the next.

Pic No.1 was at first glance identical to the first in File 1, showing the
same man wearing the same dark business suit and standing to attention, as
before. Even the location seemed identical – a blank wall of dirty plaster
behind and grubby, bare floorboards. Could be anywhere. A basement or
store-room perhaps? The only change was that instead of the half hood
which masked his features in the first file, his head was now completely
covered in a loose black bag which reached down to his shoulders.

Ian found this even more disturbing for it utterly obliterated his
individuality. This was not a person, this was a faceless object, a victim
waiting to be used. Ian tried to imagine what it would be like to stand
there, blinded and obliterated and vulnerable, knowing that unspeakable
obscenities were to be visited upon him. He found the idea frightening –
and eerily thrilling!

In pic No.2 the man was still at attention and smartly dressed – except for
one detail, his flies had been unzipped and he had permitted his controller
to rummage around inside there and scoop out his cock and balls. The effect
was surreal – smart businessman with no face and his balls on display!

Apart from the jacket being unbuttoned, No.3 seemed identical at first
glance but then Ian noted that the shirt was unbuttoned too, from below the
collar to the waist, leaving a narrow slit of hairy chest on show. Only a
narrow slit, yet Ian felt certain that greedy hands had invaded that slit
and groped the man-body under the shirt, perhaps seeking out the nipples to
pinch and twist. It was noticeable too that the cock no longer dangled but
stood erect. Here was a man who LIKED having his body man-handled!

The fourth Polaroid showed the jacket and tie still in situ but the pants
had been dropped and lay puddled around his ankles. He looked more
obscenely naked like this than he would have done entirely nude. Naked and
horribly vulnerable.

No.5 was a close-up of the genitals. One of those long, leather bootlaces
had been carefully bound round and round the base, stretching the bundle of
equipment down from the body, each square section of lacing lying neatly
alongside its neighbor to make a solid binding. The two ends had been
brought up tight between the testes, stretching them wide apart so that the
skin was stretched over them taut and shiny. Ian tried to imagine what it
would be like to have that done to you and winced at the thought. But
worse was to come.

The next shot showed a netting bag hung from the laced binding round the
balls – and at the bottom of the bag lay the silver shining sphere of a
“petanc” ball. Ian had played boules on holiday in Provence. He had thrown
such metal balls into the white dust of a town square and knew the weight
of them.The thought of such a solid metal weight hung from your balls did
not bear thinking about!

Picture 7 showed the same close up, the only difference was that the
netting bag now held two silver balls. Ian felt sick and outraged that a
man could do this to another man – but reminded himself that the victim was
not bound and helpless, he was there of his own free will! Ian wondered if
the metal sphere had been gently lowered into the net or allowed to drop
suddenly, striking the first with that distinctive “petanc” clash. He had
only to ask the question to feel certain he knew the answer. . .

No.8 showed the man now on his knees, his hands behind his back. Bound or
just clasped there? Impossible to tell. But now the jacket and shirt had
been yanked open and pushed down over the shoulders, baring the torso. The
bag-obliterated head was thrown back and you could see by the way the black
material was sucked into the gape of the mouth that he was gasping with
pain. He knelt upright, sturdy thighs taut and splayed wide. The boules in
the net bag hung within an inch of the floor. “Stupid bastard” murmered
Ian,”why doesn’t he sit down on his heels?” That way the bag would have
rested on the ground, easing the drag on his testicles. Or had he perhaps
done so, only to be ordered to kneel up to ensure he suffered the full
rigor of the weight? Or had he deliberately and knowingly opted to suffer
the pain – to offer it up to his Master, as it were? That idea disturbed
and thrilled Ian. He was conscious of the leakage from his cock soaking his
jeans.

Notable too, in this shot, were the red, inflamed areas around the nipples.
Something nasty had been done there, that was sure. Then he noted the
object lying on the floor between the man’s knees – a lavatory brush! He
had had his tits scrubbed with those stiff bristles! Oh God, Oh God, the
horror of it, thought Ian. The sheer, sadistic cruelty of it! He imagined
the lavatory brush scraping over the tender nubs or being rammed hard
against them and s-l-o-w-l-y rotated under full pressure. No wonder the
surrounding skin looked red-raw. Ian unzipped, pulled out his cock and
used his handkerchief to mop up the sticky fluid oozing from it.

The next picture was a back view. The man standing again, stripped stark
naked now and with his wrists emphatically bound behind his back with a
leather belt wrapped tightly around them several times. Very tightly – you
could see the edges cutting into the flesh. Whether or not the wrists had
been bound in the previous shot, they certainly were now! The bagged head
hung forwards away from the camera and the shoulders were slumped. He
looked exhausted and defeated – very different from the proud, erect stance
of the figure in the smart business suit before he had been worked over.
But his trials were clearly not over yet, for behind him on the floor stood
a little wooden three-legged stool, like an old fashioned milking stool.
Only this one had been “modified” for nailed onto its seat was a black
rubber but plug, its spear point jutting threateningly upwards.

The tenth Polaroid kept the same back view only now the victim had been
carefully lowered onto the spike with the first couple of inches
penetrating the anus. To protect himself from further intrusion the poor
bastard was desperately trying to support himself in that untenable
squatting position. You could see the tension in the bunched muscles along
the thighs and in the ridged sinews of his calves and lower legs and his
back shone with sweat from the effort of trying to hold that position.

Ian reflected that there was no way he could have lowered himself into that
situation. His torturer must have held his upper arms and supported him
while guiding him down slowly onto the spike. And all he had to do was
press sharply down on the shoulders and the man would have had no option but
to go fully down on the spike. But that hadn’t happened. The master had
left his victim in that unsustainable position and stood there, watching
him sweat as he tried to protect himself from further pain. How long for?
Impossible to say but that amount of sweat suggested perhaps as much as a
minute. But it could not last. He would have to let go and allow his own
body weight to impale him. What sort of sick sadistic bastard would dream
up such a nasty refinement as that?

Picture 11 was a front view taken not long after that moment of
self-impalement for the torso was arched back in a taut rictus of pain with
positive rivulets of sweat running down his chest and abdomen. Yet despite
all this the penis was still hugely rampant! Amazing! Moreover it had been
sheathed in a black condom.

Why black? Ian wondered, only to decide that it was somehow more obscene
and therefore absolutely right. Clearly the man was going to be milked of
his semen – but why not just let it spurt? Why collect it?

The twelfth and final picture was perhaps the most sickening of all. It
showed the man on all fours crawling away from the camera like a cowed and
beaten beast. The three-legged stool and its monstrous plug had been
ripped out and lay discarded on its side. Perhaps to free up access for a
fucking? Who could tell? The ball weights dragged behind him along the
floor, tugging still at his testicles.But most sad of all, the blind,
hooded head was turned over the shoulder as if to “look” at the
camera. There was something so pathetic and contemptible about that blind,
pleading angle of the head. The bag had been rolled up over the tip of the
nose to give access to the mouth and from that dangled a black condom, flat
and flaccid, apparently sucked dry. No, look closer – that was not one
condom hanging from his mouth, there were two. The poor, sad, humiliated
and defeated creature had even been made to consume its own semen and to
suck out his master’s.

Ian felt sickened by that image of utter degradation – sickened and
something else too. Envy! That is what it was. Oh God, envy! He closed
the folder slowly and noticed his hand was shaking again. Could he take any
more of this sick horror? Perhaps he should leave the last file for study
tomorrow night? But, as if compulsively driven, and thinking himself alone
and unobserved, he pulled the third file towards him.

The Third File

The final file was dated June 15, nearly a month after No.2. Ian tried to
imagine what might have gone on in that time. Had the tormentor waited
that long before summoning his victim a third time? Or had the man
volunteered himself? Perhaps he had fought with himself to stay away but
finally succumbed to the need for another “fix” of humiliation. There was
no way of telling. Ian opened the file.

There was a change here. For the first time we were in the open air. The
man stood in leaf dappled shade – perhaps in a long-abandoned quarry to
judge by the vertical rock wall behind, but one which was invaded by mature
trees now. As before he was smartly dressed and blindfolded, only the
blindfold was much smaller, like one of those sleep masks they give you on
long-haul flights, and the suit was pale beige and of light summer-weight
fabric. Very smart still, with a dark raspberry colored shirt and a
striped silk tie. Why had he dressed up like this in order to be stripped?
Had he been ordered to do so?

Another, more subtle change was that he was not standing at attention as
before but with his legs apart and his arms hanging loose with the hands
turned to face forward – in a gesture of supplication.

The same pose in the second picture but now, as before, the full genitalia
were fished out and put on display. The man had passively stood there and
allowed this to be done to him. Why? Why would any man allow that?

The third picture showed the jacket unbuttoned and the shirt hanging out.
Just to muss up the tailored image? – or to give access to groping hands
pushed up under the shirt? Hands that would have felt him up with obscene
pleasure?

Pic 4 had the tie hanging loose, the shirt fully unbuttoned and pushed back
to reveal the torso. The jacket was gone but a heavy, leather collar of
spike-studded rawhide was buckled about the neck.

The shirt was gone in the next photo and he was standing, stripped to the
waist with his hands behind his head and legs astride. He looked good, Ian
decided. Especially with that collar about his neck and the dappled
sunlight angled across his body – with one particularly bright splash of
sun happening to light up those grossly displayed genitals.

No. 6 had him in the same position but now stripped entirely naked and with
something black hung about his neck. Ian peered closer. It looked like
the sort of webbing sling you would use as a shoulder strap on a sports bag.
It had chrome, “G” clips at both ends, the sort with little spring-loaded
bolts to snap over a “D” ring. There was just such a ring on that leather
dog’s collar but then again the two clips hung against the skin of his
chest just below the nipples. Could it be that . . .

The next picture confirmed Ian’s intuition. The strap, still hung around
the neck was crossed high on the chest and the two clips were firmly
anchored into the tits. Crossing the strap shortened it so that the nipples
were pulled upwards despite which, the man stood proud and straight, chest
expanded against the taut tug of the webbing, as if defying the worst that
the clips could do.

A big close-up of one nipple was the subject of the next photo. You could
actually see the way that the spring-loaded bolt of the G clip had buried
its head into the nip-flesh. Ian winced and wondered had the metal shaft
been eased into that position – or had it been lined up, fully retracted,
and then let go with the whole force of the spring behind it to effectively
fire the bolt into the nipple? Ian felt he could guess the answer and
moaned in sympathy with the man. He looked back at the previous shot.
Perhaps the man was not standing erect and proud and defiant at all.
Perhaps he was caught in a reflex jerk of agony!

Certainly in the following shot he was standing slouched and
slump-shouldered. The webbing strap had been removed and re-applied to the
nipples so that it now hung from them in a loose loop just under his
balls. The tenth pic showed why. Clearly he had been ordered to stand
erect, still with his hands behind his head, so that now his balls and cock
were yanked right up onto his belly. That looked a bit uncomfortable but
the real point was what was being done to his poor, tortured nipples.
Gripped in those steel jaws they were dragged down most cruelly. He was
being made to torture himself, balls pulled against tits, tits against
balls. Ian felt sickened by the callous cruelty of the man who could
devise such a vicious torture – but his cock was oozing fuck-juice so
liberally that he unzipped his flies and eased it out without taking his
eyes from the page.

There was a big change next. The man’s naked body was bent over a huge,
fallen trunk, green with moss and his arms were widespread, reaching
forward and up, tied to a branch with ropes about the wrists. He was
stretched taut in the sunlight, his buttocks thrust toward the camera by
the fallen trunk in a provocative way. Laid across the small of his back
was a long thin switch, its thicker end resting on the horizontal trunk,
waiting to be picked up . . .

“He’s going to be punished!” Ian gasped aloud, his voice rasping in his dry
throat. And indeed the twelfth and final Polaroid showed the result of
that savage beating. Ian carefully counted the red weals across the
buttocks. There were ten horizontal, parallel ones and two more at an
angle crossing these. Undoubtedly they had been applied last to ensure
maximum pain, thrashing thrashed flesh! And laid vertically across the
raised welts on the left cheek was the obscene whiteness of a used condom,
carefully displayed like a campaign medal-ribbon. He had been thrashed and
then he had been fucked by a man who was sexually aroused by the use of the
cane.

Ian’s hand stroked the length of his exposed cock. He leaned back in his
chair – and yelped with shock. For there in the doorway of his office stood
Will, leaning against the jamb, arms folded across his chest and with an
insolent, sardonic smile on his face. It was evident from his relaxed
stance that he had been there some while. Ian was transfixed with
horrified embarrassment, his heart banging against his ribs.

Oh God he thought, what now?

Will Power

The odd thing was that Will had always quite liked Ian – thought him a good
boss and rather respected him. But leaning there against the door jamb,
watching his boss slowly wanking himself while poring over porno pictures,
well, it was hard to respect such a man! The way he peered at each picture
in turn, wholly engrossed and oblivious to anything going on around him
filled Will with amused contempt. Then Ian looked up and for a second
their eyes locked.

Will noted how he went deathly white and seemed locked in a rictus of blind
panic. Pathetic! He walked across and round behind the desk to lean over
Ian, one hand on his shoulder. There was no hurried sweeping away of the
shameful evidence this time – what was the point? – but Will noted how the
right hand was brought up from beneath the desk with a studiedly slow
casualness, except that it was visibly shaking which made the effort to
hide its dirty purpose quite ridiculous.

Will scanned the photos laid out in the open file, deliberately pressing
himself against Ian as he did so. Ian felt the pressure and the warmth
seeping from Will’s body, could hear his breath close to his ear and, still
frozen into immobility, watched with fascinated horror as the young man
reached down to touch one of the pictures. It was the close-up of the
beaten buttocks, livid with red weals, and Ian saw the middle finger stroke
gently across the striped cheeks as if feeling the raised welts with
lascivious pleasure.

It was too much! With a sudden awkward jerkiness, Ian got to his feet and
turned to face his young employee. Somehow Will’s hand remained resting on
his shoulder. That is all it was doing, just resting there, but to Ian
it’s weight seemed crushing. His convulsively shaking knees began to
buckle and he was sinking down, down, down. How long did it take him to
fall to his knees? Half a second maybe? But to Ian it took an age,
seemingly in extreme slow motion. And as he went down a voice inside his
head was screaming “No! no! this isn’t right! I am the senior one here. I
am his boss. I am 10 years older. I am a husband and a father. I should
not be kneeling to him!” But he could not stop himself and found himself
on his knees with the young giant towering over him.

Will cupped his hand behind his boss’s neck and drew him in. There was no
resistance – it all seemed so natural and inevitable – and scrubbed the
face in his burgeoning crotch, scrubbed it hard! And Ian was lost. Totally
lost. He just felt so at home down there having his face rubbed in this
man’s crotch, smelling the man-smell of him, breathing the sweet scent of
submission. It was something he had never even imagined himself doing, yet
it felt so right!

By the same token Will had never had a man kneeling at his feet before and
he decided he liked it. He felt a surge of power. He’d certainly never
had a man hungering for his cock, gnawing at the harsh denim of his jeans
as if impatient to get inside to gobble raw cock. That prostitute he’d
hired in Birmingham when he’d gone to the NEC for the big Antique Furniture
Show, she had given him a blow job and so had that red-headed barmaid from
The Crown, but on both occasions he had been sprawled naked on the
bed. Both had been very exciting, very satisfying, but neither carried
quite the charge of heady power he got from having his boss kneeling
between his legs, paying homage to the him as the Dominant Male!

Will unzipped and hoisted out his rampant penis. Ian looked up at him in
wide eyed amazement at the size of the ugly, brute thing in front of his
face and he gaped his mouth wide to engulf it. Will noted the eagerness,
like a baby bird gaping to be fed, and felt disgusted that another man
should be so depraved as to do this. He put his hand flat on his lower
belly with one finger down either side of his cock and with this leverage,
synchronized with a swing of his hips, he used his dick like a hard rubber
truncheon to cosh Ian about the face. He grinned happily to see the look
of outraged shock on his employer’s face as the thick erection smashed
across his face. So he did it again … and again … and again. It felt
good to cock-whip the grovelling bastard! He felt strong. He felt
powerful. He felt in control. Show the bastard who was really the boss
now!

Shocked by this crude brutality, Ian looked up at his tormentor and in a
hoarse whisper asked “Why, Will, why?” to which the young man replied with
a cruel and unanswerable logic “Because I can.”

It didn’t really hurt Ian’s face much to have it cock-thrashed, but it hurt
his pride and damaged his sense of manhood. There was his life before, as
a man, a husband, a father. And then there was his life after, as a –
what? As a submissive, cock sucking, degraded pervert, that’s what!

Having cock-whipped him, Will looked down and seeing the moist, warm, pink
fuck-hole in the face, he slammed his dick into it. Ian gagged and heaved
and pushed against the hard thighs to distance himself but Will simply
grabbed his ears and, using them like fuck handles, continued to pleasure
himself, gaining added satisfaction from his victim’s struggles and
strangled complaints. Unfortunately, when he shot, the spasm was so
violent his cock jerked right out of the mouth and the first bolt of cum
fired directly up the face’s left nostril. Will quickly poked himself back
in and all the following spurts went properly to the back of the throat.
Only then did he let go of the ears and Ian sank into a heap on the floor,
coughing and gasping. Will looked down on the untidy sprawl of the
cast-off fuck with considerable disgust and was about to turn and leave
when Ian turned his ravaged face up to his user and noisily snorted the
semen up his nose into his throat and ostentatiously swallowed it. That
was nauseating enough but what really sickened Will was the smug “what a
good boy am I” look on his silly face as if expecting praise. Will kicked
him in the guts to show his contempt, turned on his heel and strode down
the length of the workshop to the door and escaped into the street,
slamming the door behind him.

Ian lay there on the floor, gasping for air and clutching his belly – God
but that kick HURT! – and listening to the sound of Will’s heavy boots
clomping down the length of the workshop and the the door slamming shut.
Alone, he rolled onto his back and as he recovered he began to do something
that shocked even himself – he began to masturbate. But it was not the
thought of Will’s huge cock fucking his face or the taste of the semen in
his mouth which excited him. It was the power and brutality of the man
that turned him on. Above all the look of contempt on Will’s face just
before he kicked him in the guts. He knew he had been USED by a genuinely
dominant male and the concept excited him to orgasm.

That night two men on opposite sides of the town lay awake and unable to
sleep. Ian in his comfortable home in a leafy suburb, lay sleepless in his
pajamas beside his wife, worrying about tomorrow. How could he face Will?
One thing was clear, what had happened tonight was an aberration, never to
be repeated. It had to be put from his mind. Wiped clean. The only
possible strategy was to act as if nothing whatever had happened. In time
it would be forgotten and Will would be again what he had always been, a
skilled craftsman, a pleasant and easy-going employee. And Ian would not
think of the surprising hardness of those strapping thighs as he pressed
his hands against them, trying to push himself away. Nor of the ease with
which Will had imposed himself on him. Nor … NO! In desperation he
reached out for his sleeping wife and pulled her close. “I am a man, a
husband, a father!” he told himself as he fondled her breasts and pressed
his erection against her.

Lying naked in his bed in his flat over a grocer’s shop, Will was also
wondering how things would be tomorrow morning. Perhaps Ian would fire
him! He smiled to himself, no, he wouldn’t be that stupid. That would be
asking for trouble! But it would be a bit tricky finding a way to relate to
a man last seen on his knees chewing on your spunk! Will, like Ian, came
to the conclusion that the best strategy would be to act during working
hours as if nothing had happened. In that they were as one but where they
differed was on what would happen once the others had left. Will had
enjoyed the heady sense of power and control far too much to give it up
now. He thought of those extraordinary photographs and realized he had only
scratched the surface of the possibilities open to him in putting Ian’s
submissiveness to the test. Perhaps he might try the slow stripping
technique, transforming his boss into a naked, sniveling fuck-slave.
Alternatively he might just saunter into his office at five o’clock and say
“Strip!” And what if Ian refused, or blustered? Will was confidant that a
swift slap across the mouth with the hard-knuckled back of his hand would
quickly re-establish a proper state of affairs! Not that he would impose
his will on the unfortunate man every evening. Sometimes he would leave
with the others, other times he would work late but make no move to use his
sex-toy. The point was that Ian would never know and would be kept in an
agony of doubt. Was this a night when he would have un-natural uses made
of him or not? He realized with a sense of glee that there were subtle
psychological ways in which he could show his power which in their
different way could be as pleasing as more overt cruelties.

Will stroked one hand over his naked torso while the other massaged his
hefty cock which dribbled fuck-juice at the thought of those “overt
cruelties”. He had never in his life tortured someone’s nipples as the man
in the photographs had been tortured, nor tied up someone’s balls with
straps and cords and weights but he had every intention of exploring these
interesting activities in future. And he had most certainly never flogged
or thrashed a man, but as he remembered those pictures of savagely welted
flesh his sexual excitement grew. He imagined what it would be like to
raise a leather strap and crack it across a naked back, to see the target
flinch, to hear it gasp with pain, or to wield a long, whippy cane and
swish it across bared buttocks. Yes! Oh yes! And then to mount the
beaten body and penetrate it and punish-fuck it till it whimpered and
moaned…

His sweat-drenched body jerked and spasmed and the wet, white fuck
fountained from his body for the second time that night. Afterwards he
slid into contented slumber musing on the ways in which his boss would be
made to submit to his rampant maleness in ever more degrading ways, simply
because he had the power to do so – simply because he could.

Ian too slept after pleasuring his wife. He felt much easier in his mind
now that he had re-affirmed his manhood and, resolving never to wallow in
the mire of shame ever again, and he slept peacefully.

Two men. One sure that the normality of a boss / employee relationship
could be re-established, the other devising fresh humiliations for his
sex-victim. One of them had it wrong. Disastrously wrong.

The End