Being Masterful

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

Interview with a hard man

I am a hunter.  I have spent my life hunting men and harnessing them.  My obsession with sex above all else has undoubtedly impacted on my careers and advancement in the world of commerce.  Sometimes I feel guilty about this, until I remember some uncommonly wise words from a British politician: “no one on their death bed ever said 'I wish I had spent more time at the office'.”

As I man, it is my place in life to explore, adventure, hunt, track down, plunder, defeat, pillage, and despoil.  None of these things conflict with being a civilised man. You must never feel guilty about what comes naturally.

I'm a good listener. That's how I learn about the true nature of what is meant by being human. Guys like to talk to me once they realise I am interested in the more perverse aspects of their story.  If you are patient people will tell you all kinds of extraordinary secrets about themselves.

I'm genuinely fascinated by the way men think and behave.  The inextricable link between power, violence and sex.  In particular, the way that men become uncontrollably turned on by elation, exertion, stress and violence.  In 'days of yore' the men in the winning army would systematically rape the losers.  This was a violent celebration of success, not about having gay sex.  Furthermore, the losers would count themselves lucky if that was the worst of it.  Emasculation and mounting on wooden stakes was common.  The pole on which they would be placed was deliberately not sharpened to a point so that it would take days for the weight of the man to force it upward through the length of his body.  Being mounted on a pole as a trophy for all to see is the ultimate fuck.

Except in the most fly-blown parts of the world such excessive cruelty no longer exists (or does it - who would ever tell?).

The link I choose to explore is the one between unspecific sexual arousal and ego.  By which I mean the way many heterosexual men react when their self-image or their manliness is challenged.  What am I talking about?  In a nutshell (so to speak) in a chosen situation, if you make it clear that a man's steadfastness is being tested, and then you take hold of his balls, he will stand there and just take it.  To do otherwise would be an admission he did not have confidence in his manliness.  Having established such a rule at the outset, that he would be a wimp if he complained, all things are possible.  Believe me, it's a strategy that works more often than not.

Kevin was - probably still is - a bit of a crook.  He is over six feet tall, wide and muscular. His day job is a builder and he has a real builder's body: broad shoulders, legs like tree trunks and bulging biceps.  I have only ever seen him in a simple white sweatshirt, jeans and boots, no matter what the weather.

He has been to prison at least once, maybe more.  He was not precise on that point when he confided in me.  So, anyway, he got nabbed by the boys in blue and spent a couple of nights in the cells.  On the third day he was loaded into a van for a preliminary hearing at the Magistrates' Court. He was frisked and then handcuffed in the police station before being put in the van, and then at the court, uncuffed and frisked again.  After a short hearing he was frisked again, handcuffed again and put in the van to be sent to the local prison pending his next court appearance.

At the prison he was uncuffed, led to a room and strip searched before being allocated a cell.  No big deal so far.

After a couple of days the process was repeated in reverse as he was, once again, dispatched to the court.  He arrived in the holding cells beneath the court room, was uncuffed and directed to a small cell.  This is where his story gets interesting.

A big, tough, dangerous-looking man in his late thirties, always sporting a face full of stubble, Kevin was an edifice you would not choose to mess with under any circumstances.  He recognised the chap in charge of supervising the handful of small cells at this regional court building.  He had been a taxi driver.  Now he had a job with the private security firm that had won the contract for court security. This was a small, middle-aged and unimpressive man.  In his job as a taxi driver he had been obsequious and always nervous-looking.

“I need to search you properly,” he said the words with a smile.  Even now his manner was apologetic, as though the matter was out of his hands.

Kevin said, “Sure,” and spread his arms as usual.

“There's been a bomb scare,” the little man said.  “I need you to take off your jersey and shirt.”

Kevin sighed and complied, tossing the garments on the graffiti scarred wooden bench. He left his T-shirt on.  It was tight-fitting and so it was obvious nothing could be concealed underneath.

The jailer patted him down anyway - and made a meal of it, so Kevin thought, stroking the palm of his hand all across the front of the fabric.  Then he asked Kevin if he would mind turning round, which he did.  Again his shoulders and back were stroked.  

“Have you anything in your pockets?” Kevin was asked as the turned back.  He said not.

“I really have to search you thoroughly.”  Again it was said as though this was a chore neither of them really wanted.  The diminutive guard  pointed towards Kevin's jeans.

He had already been quickly and expertly strip searched before being put in the van to leave the prison.  It was pointless to repeat the exercise again. There had obviously been no opportunity to acquire weapons  or contraband while locked in the cubicle in the transport wagon. However, by now, Kevin had realised there was no point in arguing with these little people.  They invented all these rules to keep themselves busy and justify their existence, and as there was an army of these morons, it was pointless wasting time arguing.  He unfastened his jeans and let them fall to his knees.  He was a good six inches taller than the man now running his fingers around the waistband of his underpants.  The diminutive chap was bending forward as he assiduously felt at the seams, so Kevin could clearly see the bald patch on the back of his head.

Then the little guy looked up at him - at the exact moment he moved his inquisitive fingers from the leg seam of the fabric to the pouch at the front of his underpants.  

“The guy took his time feeling each of my balls individually, while watching for any reaction from me,” said Kevin as he recounted the story to me.  “I realised at this point, the whole thing was a piss-take.  This little shit had been put in a uniform and given some power.  In fact lots of power because he was backed by the rest of his team, who of course, had big company backing and ultimately the whole fucking government machine.  There was no point in complaining, and I was not going to give him the satisfaction.  What was I going to say in my official complaint - that this little guy touched my bollocks?  I would just look stupid.”

It was obvious the man was trying to weigh up how far he dare go and what, if anything, Kevin might do.  The big man tried to stare him down as though it was no big deal - just like having a physical examination.  The thing that irritated him was not so much having his balls felt but the sexual element.  It was obvious that this little nobody, who would never have dared do anything like this, now he had acquired some power and a private place under his own control, was getting a perverted sexual thrill by touching up tough straight men, safe in the knowledge they would be in no position to make a fuss.  This was something else that later played on the big guy's mind: that he might have been just another jock to fondle - one of a steady stream of men who passed through.  For some unaccountable reason, that offended him even more.

Kevin continued the story.  “So now he works his way up to my cock and starts to finger it, gets his two fingers and thumb so he can get a proper feel and works his way up my shaft.  I wasn't erect or anything, but I pack a good few inches even when I'm limp.  He's looking me straight in the eye, daring me to complain or back away - difficult to do that with my jeans around my ankles.”  He laughed nervously as he said this to me.

“It's a lose-lose situation: if I complain I look  weak, if I do nothing I look weak. The little shit had this thin smile on his face, so I just looked at the wall straight ahead and let him get his rocks off.  I figured I'd never see him again, so what the hell?  He wouldn't say anything and I sure as hell wouldn't.”

“I admit he took me by surprise when he pulled my undies down then went straight for my balls. He didn't squeeze them or anything.  Just sort of held them in his hand as though he was weighing them.  I thought for a second about punching him in the face, but then, I'm already in the shit with the law.  In the next few minutes I'm going to be hauled up before the bench.  I don't want any more grief.  You have to make a decision sometimes, don't you?  Something bad happens and you just have to write it off to experience.  I thought, he can't mess me about for long.  It's no big deal.  I'm due to be taken upstairs any moment.  So I stood there and took it.”

“He obviously thought the same, that time was limited, I mean, because now he peels my foreskin.  I've been grabbed by men before, obviously, and even kneed in the balls more than once, but no guy has ever touched my dick, let alone peeled back my foreskin.  Not even a doctor.  It was cold in the cell.  I could feel the cool air now round the tip of my exposed cock head.  I started to get hard for some reason and he saw it and wrapped his fist - really took grip - round my dick.  The little twat knew full well he had me in a corner now.  No way was I going to complain to anyone and admit this.  That was the point of no return, for me, I mean - and it felt really odd.  In the pit of my stomach I suddenly felt nervous.”

“He was pumping me with his fist and my balls were banging against my legs.  The splatting sound actually echoed off the brickwork, the cell was so small.  I was thinking 'shit I should put a stop to this right now' and at the same time 'what if someone else should walk in'.  The whole thing was making me a bit panicky.  At first I was angry because he was trying this on with me, then annoyed with myself for letting it go this far, then I was more concerned with someone else seeing me like this. I needed to think of something, do something urgently.   Everything sort of welled-up together.  It all happened in a couple of seconds.  Then I shot my load.  Spurted all over the floor.  Can guilt or embarrassment or anger make you so horny that you cum?  It didn't feel like horny-sex.  It was something else.  You know what they say, 'pain is close to pleasure'.  I suppose I'm saying it pained me to be handled like that.  It hurt me deep down to be humiliated by being kind of turned on against my will - and somehow, being forced to take it, turned me on even more. The guy stepped back and wiped a sliver of my cum off the back of his hand as though nothing was wrong.  As though he did this to some schmuck every day and it was normal.  Then he just walked out like nothing had happened.”

“I grabbed my shirt and quickly wiped my dripping cock on it, then pulled my pants up. Ten minutes later two different guards came in, put the handcuffs on again and took me upstairs to the dock.  I did wonder if they were in on it.  Did they know?  Maybe, even, there was a concealed camera in the cell.  Maybe a bunch of them had been sitting round a CCTV screen watching me get jerked off.  All these things were going through my mind. I hardly heard what sentence they handed me.  All I could think about was the trickle of cum running down my right leg.  In the middle of all this officious pomp some ferret of a guy had sort of raped me and there was nothing I could do or say about it.  It was unbelievable.  I was just numb.”

“Still, worse things happen in prison. Different rules apply in there compared with the outside. Totally straight guys, locked up for years. One way or another they need to have a fuck - and they don't bother asking politely.”

Oh, really?  I leaned forward.  “Tell me more.”

There are advantages to being young and good-looking when you are hunting similar young and horny guys but, equally, there is no substitute for experience and the gravitas that accompanies it. When you are a little older young men look to you for advice and you now have the confident worldliness to handle more mature men as well.  Your targets thus become more diverse and plentiful.  It is also the case that the mightier they are, the harder they fall. I have set up a club of like-minded guys at enslaver.uk where you can see what I mean.

I have to finish telling you about Aaron in episode 4, then I really must give you the low-down on Ricky.  He was a find: a wild farm boy; totally straight, of course.  He once said to me, angrily, "You take advantage of me 'cos I'm over-sexed".  I sure as hell did!