In the event, after he had forced me to become his bitch-boy, fucked my brains out, made me suck his cock clean and reduced me to angry tears, Gary did not take me back immediately to the basement shop, aka the torture chamber. While Gary had been bondage-fucking me, there had been a call on his Mobile. Having ended the fuck, he played it back. He looked at me for a moment with his head on one side, smiling slightly. My wrists were still chained to the bed-head. No way could I easily escape, even if I could summon the energy. Then he threw on a dressing gown, shut the bedroom door and ran out of the flat. I heard an elevator glide smoothly up; the doors slid open, and Gary presumably got in. Then the doors shut quietly and the lift went down.
Now what? I still suspected that Gary really planned to kill me in some painful and artistic way and, probably, turn me into burgers. I had read of that happening to murder victims. If so, probably no-one would ever know. I had no partner, male or female, and had never wanted one. I had always kept my few close living relations, and my numerous superficial friends (like Jake), at a certain distance. There had been no need for them to know what I was really like. None of them knew anything about my real life; of what I really cared for. It would be a while before anyone apart from my employers noticed my absence. By the time they realised that something was seriously wrong, it would be far too late. And there would be very few clues to follow up.
There followed a few minutes of peace and quiet, during which I lay listening to reassuringly normal street sounds from beyond the net curtains and the window-panes: traffic, an ice cream van tinkling a popular tune, and pigeons cooing amorously on the window-sill. The sound of busy, vibrant London was like the distant bourdon note of a cathedral organ. I felt like an outsider, a spectator. I wondered whether I would ever again be part of it, or whether this was indeed the end for Alex. If it was, my life would be short and my death at Psycho Bodybuilder Gary's hands would be slow and unpleasant. I did not underestimate him.
The lift came back up. The flat door opened and there was a buzz of male voices. They came in. Gary was smirking with pleasure. He introduced his friend as follows:
"Alex, although you kindly nominated me as the most frightening man you had ever met, I cannot accept that honour. This is the scariest man you are ever likely to meet: my friend Bill! He scares even me!"
I looked up at Bill. Could he really be worse than Gary? It was always possible, but at first sight I preferred Bill. He was not obviously a psychopath, although he might be one. The mere fact that he was a friend of Gary's was not reassuring. He was as good-looking as Gary, but in a more natural and less-poser-ish way. I doubted that he had ever popped steroids. He hardly needed to: he was naturally massive and muscular. By contrast with Bill - but only by comparison with Bill - Gary the Bodybuilder looked smooth, immature and boyish.
Bill reminded me strongly of the former England Rugby Captain, Will Carling, about whom I had had lustful thoughts when I was younger: so, reportedly, had quite a lot of other people, including the late Princess Diana. Bill had the same thuggish good looks; the rugged features; the strong jaw; the boyish retroussé nose; the dark, curly hair; the herculean rugby forward's build. By contrast with all this butch masculinity, his sleepy, mischievous dark-blue eyes were shaded by long, sexy eyelashes, worthy of an odalisque. A slight smile was playing on his fleshy, sensual lips. He exuded leadership and testosterone.
Where they differed was in scale. I am six feet tall; Carling was a fraction less. Gary, I would guess, was about six feet, three inches. Bill however was a little over six-feet-six: not quite six-feet-seven. He looked less, because he was also broad-shouldered, square-built and seriously muscular, with massive biceps, forearms and legs. His biceps were bigger than some men's thighs. Unlike Gary, Bill did not shave his body: his khaki shirt gaped open in a v-shape at the throat - it was a warm day - to show a dark, curly pelt. Finer dark hair covered his forearms. I knew that, unless he shaved his pits and crotch, which I was pretty certain that he would not, there would be dense midnight curls in his armpits; above and around his genitals, which had to be heroically big and heavy; and vigorous blue-black curly tendrils sprouting between his heavily muscled ass-cheeks: especially around the rosy pucker of his asshole, which is any man's most intimate and sensitive place. Fuck! I wanted to get there and see that!
Whether he was a psychopath or not, Bill, if ill-disposed, could do me a lot of damage with just his bare hands. He could have ripped me apart like a barbecued chicken. So, yes: he was scary. However he seemed not to want to damage me for the moment. Bill smiled down at me with sardonic amusement. The tip of his pink tongue suddenly showed between his lips. He licked them hungrily; then it was gone again, just as quickly. This reflex act was somehow both slightly obscene and very erotic.
As for me... despite having been flogged and fucked into an abject and painful submission by Gary, I was still - if only just - a living and sensual man. I was seriously attracted to Bill from Minute One.
The other thing that was blindingly obvious about Bill was that he was a soldier. He must have come straight from his work, whatever that was. He was still wearing disruptive pattern (DP) combat trousers with shirt-sleeve order and a beret: the Army's working dress, when he entered the flat. His combat trousers were held up by a gaudy stable-belt. He wore commando boots. He pulled off his beret, whose insignia he evidently did not want me to see, and shoved it into a pocket of his army backpack. He ruffled his short, dark curls and grinned. It was good to relax, and even better to have the prospect of sex! A lot of young gay men like to dress up in military uniform, because it is macho and sexy. However on most of them, even if they are fit and muscular, it looks like fancy dress, because they are just civilians dressing up. On Bill it looked completely right and unremarkable, because he was the real thing. He now spoke to Gary:
"So this is the bastard? You didn't tell me he was handsome! I like blond men! It'll be a pleasure.... but you seem to have mauled him a bit! I thought that that was supposed to wait until I got here? You have no self-restraint, Gary!"
Gigantic Bill punched Gary affectionately and quite gently on the shoulder. Even so, he almost knocked him over. Gary looked uncomfortable but made no reply. He was trying to think of something mitigating to say.
Meanwhile Bill ran his hands over me and made a few intimate, probing investigations. I didn't care for this, so I didn't wait for Gary to answer but piped up:
"Hey, Bill: the 'bastard' has a voice, you know! I also have a name: it's Alex! I'm not an inanimate side of beef! You can address questions directly to me if you like!"
Bill laughed and pulled my cock in a friendly way:
"Well, fuck me! Alex, you cocky lad; I only just got here. I haven't even decided whether we should let you live, and already you're cracking jokes! That takes chutzpah!"
I hoped that that too was a joke. It was clear from his voice that Bill had to be an officer or at least a gentleman ranker. In his grim way, he was quite humorous. A tiny gleam of hope began to kindle inside me: Serious psychopaths usually have no sense of humour at all.
"Despite appearances, he's not really a wimp," muttered Gary, "whatever else he may be."
"Yes," said Bill, shortly. "A reason to show him some respect, I'd have thought."
"He didn't show me much," said Gary.
Bill stared thoughtfully out of the window. The sun was starting to go down; fiery rays were coming through the window. There would be a wonderful red sunset in an hour or so. Bill, whose face was illuminated by the westering sun, had the beginnings of a six-o'clock shadow. How many hours had I been Gary's captive?
Finally Bill said to Gary, "I like to keep my word and anyway I'm feeling hungry." He smiled darkly at me as he said this. "I'll help you punish him as I promised, but not one iota more than I judge to be just or necessary. And you were not supposed to touch him till I got here but I can see that, like the impatient man you are, you've already beaten him up and fucked his brains out. That's disobeying orders! I hope you haven't given him any internal injuries. I know what you're like when you get carried away. You don't want a corpse on your hands, or so I presume anyway - or should that be another corpse?
"Flogged him a little and fucked him a little; that's all," said Gary sullenly, in a breathtaking understatement.
"Yeah right; well, let's get moving," said Bill. "Is your new gym ready?"
"Ready and waiting," said Gary.
"We'll go straight down, then," said Bill.
"The lift only takes two: two normal-sized men, that is," joked Gary.
"Right! You go ahead and I'll follow with the prisoner," said Bill cheerfully.
Gary went down and I waited with Bill. We eyed each other. He released me from Gary's bed, let me stand up, but handcuffed my hands behind my back. Handcuffs apart, I was bollock-naked.
"I suppose it's no use telling you that this is all a ghastly mistake? I've never met Gary in my life, so please let me go?" I asked hopefully.
"No use at all: it's not a mistake," said Bill evenly. "You do know Gary and you treated him badly, even if you have now forgotten him. I suppose that he was just a statistic to you. So you have to be punished, to let you know how Gary felt when you let him down. But I shall be in control, and I shall not get carried away, as Gary tends to do. Even so, it'll hurt. It's an art. But you'll be hurt in a controlled way to the very highest military-interrogation standard and without permanent damage. Permanent physical damage, that is. There might well be some psychological after-effects, ho ho ho!"
Bill chuckled and smiled dazzlingly.
"I'll tell you something else: I won't let Gary hurt you too badly for another reason: I really fancy you; I want to have serious sex with you after we've done the S & M!"
Oh great, I thought, but did not say aloud; bloody great. Do I have any vote whatever in this? You'll probably finish me off completely, assuming that I am still alive this evening. On the other hand, what a way to go...
The lift arrived. Bill steered me into it and got in after me. There was not much room. Nor was he in any great hurry to descend. The doors closed automatically. Some men find claustrophobic spaces intensely erotic: I don't know why. Bill, who could hardly stand upright in the space available, was evidently one of them. He did not press the "descend" button immediately. Instead, he grabbed and raised one of my legs at the knee with his left hand, like a punter preparing to fuck a tart against a wall. His huge hand was caressing my thigh. His combat-trouser-clad crotch was now thrust repeatedly against mine. Bill was wearing Para-cut DP combat trousers: instead of being baggy, they were close-fitting; skin-tight above the knee. I could see and feel his massive leg muscles inside them. His trouser-fly had large, external green khaki buttons as well as a zip. They made for easy opening. This looked incredibly erotic. I could see and feel that he had a massive erection. If my hands had been free, I'd have unbuttoned and unzipped him there and then. He started kissing my mouth and throat hungrily. He bit my lower lip; he bit my armpits; he tweaked my nipples painfully. He lifted me up like a child or a small animal, my feet not touching the ground, and thrust his tongue into my mouth again and again. I couldn't get enough of him. Being handcuffed, I could not resist, but I didn't want to, anyway. I desired him as I'd never desired anyone else before. It seemed that the feeling was mutual. I could smell the smoky whiff of aroused male sexuality on him; probably on both of us.
Bill looked at me intently, almost clinically, like a doctor waiting for an anaesthetic or some other injection to take effect. Unlike a doctor, he was also looking excited and breathing quickly. His eyes were dilated.
"Fuck! I've got it badly," he muttered. "I want..." he paused. "I want to do... well... everything, with you."
"With me or to me?"
"Both! Now let's get back to your training!"
Bill pulled himself together, looked stern once more and pressed the SG2 button. The elevator started to slide smoothly downwards.
SG2 took us, not to the BDSM shop, which was where I had had my lunchtime ordeal with Gary and which was presumably at SG1, but to a lower level, which looked as though it might once have been a very large, up-market World War II bomb shelter. It reminded me a little of Churchill's Cabinet War Rooms under the Treasury. Somewhere I had read about a secret wartime establishment located in Soho. Perhaps this was it? Gary, or someone else, had adapted it as a serious private bodybuilding gym, with a selection of weights and expensive exercise machines. The lighting was dim and easy on the eyes. A faint whooshing noise suggested that it might be air-conditioned. Even so, it was pretty warm. In a few places the original wall covering could still be seen: plain white ceramic tiles, like a public washroom. Mostly the walls were now covered with tinted mirror glass. As you exercised, you could watch yourself from every conceivable angle. There were a number of machines and pieces of equipment which looked as though they had been invented by the Spanish Inquisition rather than Tunturi Exercise Equipment; they were less to my taste. There was a locker room, with showers.
When the lift stopped and opened, Bill picked me up as though I weighed no more than a brace of partridges; slung me over his shoulder and walked with me into the gym.
Not long after that, I was tied up again: I had struggled for a bit, but I had to contend with two very strong men: no contest. Bill was apparently a master of Japanese rope bondage. Once more there was a bit-gag between my teeth. I no longer wore leather cuffs; only rope. This was fairly rough and chafed my skin, as it was intended to. My arms were firmly pinioned; tied behind me and to my sides. Ropes criss-crossed my torso, and bit into my flesh, as they were very tight. One of my legs was bent double and also tied behind me. I was now almost, but not quite, hog-tied: my other leg was still free for the moment. A strong rope was attached to a big knot in the middle of my back, which seemed linked to all my other bonds. This rope was attached in turn to a hook on one of Gary's hoists, which was operated by an electric winch. After surveying his handiwork, Bill had operated the hoist for a few moments, so that the ball and toes of my free foot were now just touching the floor. My foot took a little of my weight, which otherwise was borne by the ropes, which were tight and painful. It was in this position that I would face the next stage of my "training," as Bill called it. Bill chucukled, growled and affectionately savaged my ass-cheeks with his teeth. He tweaked my balls and nipples. Bill also had fun rubbing me with a light coating of baby-oil, which was both supposed to soothe my sore skin where I had been flogged and to make me more fuckable. He carefully massaged the oil into my asshole with his index finger. As he was doing so, Bill remarked to Gary:
"You bastard, you did more than just give him a light fucking! This boy has been seriously sodomised. Now his ass is tightening up, which is what happens when you overdo it. We'll need to open him up again, properly. Have you got a fuck-machine?"
"Well, we may need it later. Meanwhile... this is what I'll do."
He produced a clear glass dildo and pushed it into me. It was cold, long and had solid glass balls at intervals on the stem. It hit my prostate. It really hit the spot. I swore and shouted: "Aaaargh!!!" I was rewarded by a dashing - even affectionate - smile from Bill. He kissed me mischievously. Gary looked annoyed. He gave my rope a push, so that I lost my footing and swung back and forward, out of control.
"Now let's get ready," he said to Bill, tugging his sleeve.
They disappeared through a metal swing-door, leaving me wondering just how much more pain and indignity my body could handle. Plenty, as it turned out. Not that I had much choice.
Presently the door to the locker room swung open again - there was a brief whiff of spicy cologne and soap - and the two muscle gods strode back in. They looked awesome. They now wore only black towelling bathrobes of a vaguely Japanese cut, with wide sleeves, black boxing or wrestling boots that came halfway up their calves, and black leather wrist-bands. I sensed that under their robes they were naked. I knew already what Gary looked like when he was nude: boyishly handsome and physically impressive, albeit a bit too hairless and manicured, in the usual bodybuilder style, for my taste.
Bill was as I had expected, and then some. He was massive. His roughly-tied robe gaped open almost to the waist: his chest and belly were covered with dark curls. Even so, I could see that his stomach was very muscular; a real six-pack. I started lusting after him again and could feel my erection not-so-slowly hardening. There was nothing I could do to hide that. Everything about Bill, from his big grin to his long, muscular legs, was desirable, except for one thing: he was carrying a riding-crop and a pair of boxing gloves. What the blazes did he intend to do with those?
Answer: nothing, immediately. Chuckling, Bill slowly pulled the glass crystal dildo out of my ass-hole, then shoved it back in again. This made me yell. Gary then pulled up a pair of lightweight chairs and they sat facing me, side by side. I felt like a prisoner of the Inquisitors.
"Alex," said Bill, "You will now be told why all this has happened to you today. Gary, shall I start?"
He looked across at Gary, who said nothing but nodded. He was content for Bill to do the talking; for the moment, at any rate.
"Listen," said Bill. "About a quarter-century ago in the Eastern Cape of South Africa a young boy was born. His parents, like many white people in that region, were of purely English descent. Both families had given sons to fight in Britain's wars. Around 1991 everything changed: Black majority rule came at last. I'm not going to be drawn on whether that was a good or a bad thing. I think it was inevitable. The long and short of it was that our boy had his expectations dramatically reduced overnight. All sorts of jobs in government, the armed forces and even the private sector were now reserved for Black Africans. The economy nose-dived, as economies usually do when they are Africanised. Our boy wondered how he could get a decent job and how best he could help his parents, whose income had also declined... so, he decided that the best thing that he could do was to get back to the UK and find a job there. After all, his family had always thought of themselves as English, even though they had lived in South Africa three or four generations."
"What the fuck has that got to do with me?" I asked irritably.
Bill stood up. Once more the crystal dildo was slowly withdrawn and then slowly, lovingly and firmly re-inserted.
"FUCK!!" I shouted.
"That's the correct word for it," chuckled Bill. "This story has everything to do with you! Oh - and, now that you have some relevant experience, how do you feel about being sodomised?"
"I FUCKING HATE IT!!"
"Well, in that case you need more training," said Bill, "because tonight is going to be your big sodomitical adventure. This is just the warm-up!"
He laughed happily.
(To be continued)