By Bikermike

I wanted to try something new. I contemplated this strange desire while I was hanging naked by my wrists, secured to the rafters in this vaulted old farm building, awaiting Master’s return.

I was mid-thirties, with a gym-toned, defined physique. I had absolutely no trouble in securing (safe) sex through visiting some of the gay clubs in London, Birmingham and Manchester, and of course, through websites like Recon and Gaydar. In fact, I was getting rather bored and craved something different; more perverted.

Yes, I had tried a little bit of BDSM, if you could call being thrashed on my arse by a leather guy a few months ago. While it stung at the time, the effect soon wore off leaving me frustrated. Why didn’t the guy really hurt me? Why did I find the prospect of being soundly thrashed, tortured and humiliated so exciting? These were the “themes” of my wanking fantasies from that day to the present.

The anticipation of what was about to happen to me was so exciting I could feel my erection oozing copious amounts of precum. I glanced down as best I could and noted the small puddle of ejaculate glistening at my feet. What had I let myself into? I had a frisson of worry. True, I had told a friend the address of Master and had asked him to contact the police if he did not receive a phone call from me by the end of the weekend. In addition, I had spoken to a few of this particular guy’s “subs” on-line only a few days ago: each had vouched for the safety of the very enjoyable sessions they had experienced at this Master’s hands. In any case, it was too late to worry: here I was, wrists handcuffed, hauled high above my head by a pulley with my feet barely touching the floor. We had agreed no “stopwords”. It was to be full on, no way out.

Master had rigged up closed circuit television monitors with cameras placed around the old building. He had placed television screens within my line of sight so, he said, ‘You can watch yourself being thrashed.’

I had been hanging there for I guess the best part of an hour when Master entered; dressed in Camo army trousers, black boots and a leather body harness over his bare torso. He was I would imagine about ten years older than me, muscled, salt and pepper beard and with a shaven head. He had been similarly dressed when we had met in a leather bar in Vauxhall a week earlier. Since then we had chatted on Recon and I had agreed to spend a night with him on his farm out on the fens somewhere near Spalding. “Secluded and far from prying eyes!” he has assured me.

Master held a cutthroat razor in his hand and walked up to me grinning ominously. “I’ll shave you!” he said simply.

I do have a little hair on my pecs and I have a line of very soft but noticeable hair extending up from my pubes, over my navel and between my pronounced abdominal muscles, terminating at my sternum. Many of my sexual partners find this quite a turn-on so I feel quite proud of this little bit of body hair. With a few deft swishes of his blade, my lovely hair fell to the floor.

‘To make this more exciting I am going to oil your body, you know, like bodybuilders do before competitions,’ he said, placing the razor down on a bench and walking over to me with a bottle. He poured a copious amount on both his hands and started anointing my body.

He started at my feet and slowly and gently worked his way up each leg and between my thighs until his hands just touched my scrotum. I became rock hard. He applied more oil to his hands and slowly rubbed oil up the side of my torso and under my ribcage. He continued applying more oil very gently but firmly to my abdominals and pectoral muscles, paying particular attention to my hard nipples, massaging the oil into the two sensitive nubs of flesh. I started to moan and gasp with pleasure. Master merely grinned and tipped yet more oil into his hands.

He paused for a bit and stood back to admire his handiwork. I could see myself on the TV screen, hanging there with the front of my body glistening with oil, sporting a massive erection.

I wriggled as he applied oil to my broad shoulders, shoulder blades and back, working slowly down to my buttocks. He applied yet more oil to his hands then firmly massaged my gluteals, working his finger in and out of my anus. I very nearly orgasmed. Again, he grinned as he returned the oil bottle to the bench and returned, wearing rubber gloves and with another but smaller bottle. He then poured its contents into his gloves and smirked as he rubbed my testicles and hard penis up and down while with his other hand he worked up between my buttocks and around and into my anus. It took a few seconds before the agonising burning sensation racked my body. My genitals were on fire as was my arse. I yelled and thrashed about in my chains as he continued his ministrations with my penis. I was on the point of orgasm when he suddenly stopped. I hung there sobbing and gasping.

‘That was chili oil, slave!’ Master said with a grin, ‘The burning will wear off in a minute or so! It’ll be just in time for when my guests arrive!’

In my agonised daze I wondered ‘Guests? I didn’t know about anyone else!’

The burning pain gradually subsided and I looked at my naked body on the TV screens, glistening with body oil. I thought about Master’s “guests”: if they were present, it would afford me more humiliation. I became rock hard once again in anticipation.

A few minutes later six men entered the building, attired in an assortment of tight jeans, leathers and camos, T shirted or bare chested, booted or wearing trainers. Most I guess were as old, or older than Master but each had what I would call Rugger players’ bodies. They formed a wide semicircle around my hanging body. Master disappeared then returned, holding a coiled leather whip.

‘Watch my slaveboy dance!’ Master jeered as he stood to my left and took aim with his whip. ‘Count each stroke, slave, and thank me each time!’ he barked to me.

‘Yes, Master! S -sir!’ I stammered.

Crack! The first cut smote my buttocks, leaving a trail of white hot agony. I gasped ‘Aaah! One sir! Thank you Sir! I deserved that Sir! May I have another lash please, Sir?’

Crack! Another lash cut into my arse. I looked at the TV monitor. The whip had cut the skin and a trickle of blood formed at the welt. ‘Two Sir!…’ I repeated the mantra.

Another lash cut my shoulder blades. Another and another… I gasped and yelled and sobbed, not forgetting to count each stroke and thanking Master as he demanded.

The audience were becoming excited. Some began kissing, some fondling themselves or another while others played with their own nipples or merely stood and watched me being punished. I could see each part of my body on the TV monitors, well striped and bleeding from my back, buttocks and flanks where the whip had curled round my torso.

I could see Master getting hot; his body dripping with sweat from the exertion. He nodded to one of his “guests”, some signal that I couldn’t identify through my torture. The guest applied rubber gloves and picked up the bottle picked up the bottle of chilli oil. I had counted thirty lashes and on the final one Master had said that it would ‘do for now’.

The guest applied chilli oil to my excoriated arse muscles, working his fingers up and down my arsehole. With his other hand he massaged my still erect cock, faster and faster, faster, harder and faster, faster — I shot with a scream of agony and ecstasy, sending a jet of my semen over another of Master’s guests’ leather jeans and black boots. I hung there, spent and whimpering.

‘Look what you have done, boy!’ said Master. ‘You had better clean your worthless secretions off his clothes with your tongue, and then we had better think of a suitable punishment for you for this misdemeanour.’ With that he untied the rope of the pulley allowing me to fall to the ground.

Master then secured a leather dog collar round my neck and attached a leather lead and dragged me still handcuffed, over to the guest that had been soiled with my sperm. With a vicious tug he forced me to my knees in front of him.

I knew what to do and cleaned his shining leather jeans and boots with my tongue.

Master said, ‘As a way of rewarding our guests and me for our patience while watching you getting correctly and properly punished, you will proceed to suck off each one of us and appreciate swallowing our semen. You will of course be secured in a pillory with your neck fixed at the appropriate height. I will stand behind you with the whip, which I will apply to your buttocks should you fail to satisfy any of our guests in any way. Understood, boy?’

He dragged me by my collar and lead to an annexe of the building, followed by the other men. In the centre of the room stood a steel pillory, bolted to the floor. I was dragged into position, released from my handcuffs and fixed with my head and wrists immobilised, awaiting the first guest.

I suppose it took about two hours to satisfy each of the men, which involved extracting varying amounts of cum from penises of differing lengths and girths with my tongue. Only once did I suffer a beating from Master standing behind me with his whip. That was because one man became soft in my mouth. A few cuts of the whip across my still bleeding buttocks was all it took for me to redouble my efforts with my tongue over this particular guy’s cockhead.

Finally, the guests watched as I fellated Master, with him holding the back of my already secured head, allowing absolutely no retreat. He shot with a roar to the applause of our audience. He said to them: ‘Our slave has done well, I think. Shall we reward him with another wank?’ the audience nodded their agreement.

Master then released me from the pillory, handcuffed me once again and led me out into the main room of the building where I had been flogged. Again, I was hauled up by the pulley until I was standing on tiptoe.

One of the guests said, ‘Here! Put these on his tits!’ and stood there brandishing a vicious pair of clamps with weights attached and secured to one another with a heavy chain.

‘You put them on him,’ said Master, ‘and give him a wank!’

The man needed no further encouragement. He applied the clamps as near to the end of my nipples as he could; obviously the most sensitive parts of the nubs of flesh. With his left hand he tugged on the chain connecting the clamps while with his right he wanked me brutally.

I yelled as I once again orgasmed, coinciding with him ripping the clamps off my already sore nipples. He offered up his wet hand to my mouth and I cleaned it greedily.

One by one the guests left, leaving me still chained with Master standing in front. I glanced at the TV screens and admired my striped back and buttocks. I was beginning to get hard once again. ‘Do you need another wank, boy?’ he asked, ‘It looks like it!’

This time it took me a few minutes of his hard ministrations for me to ejaculate a tiny amount.

‘Had enough, boy? I have! said the Master.

He released the rope and once again I sank to the floor, totally spent. He released me from the handcuffs and I stood there, my body still glistening with the oil and still oozing blood.

‘Stay and lie on your front.’ He said, ‘I’ll dress your cuts so you can put your clothes on. You want to try this again?’

‘Definitely Sir! You say when!’ I replied.

Master merely grinned and nodded.

 

The End

Metal would like to thank Bikermike for this story!