I never thought Iīd fall asleep that night, but I did, after having let Angie give me a fantasy head with her tee off and gone through the facts of todayīs lecture a number of times. In the end I felt quite confident I could make it at least through the better part of the whipping. I didnīt care about there being an audience. I only knew a few of them anyway, and Iīd have my backside to them most of the time, probably hardly being able to remember they were around once the show started. The whole thing still felt unreal, but at least I had some _f_u_c_k_ing clue to what was up ahead.
The bell went off at 6 as usual. An ordinary day Iīd have been out of there already, but this morning I allowed myself the luxury of staying in bed, knowing nothing would happen until breakfast was over with around 7.30. As time passed I grew increasingly nervous and kept touching my back and bottom, feeling the smoothness of the skin. Mr Jackson told me I had to think about the punishment as fair and rightly deserved, but knowing myself by now my strategy was rather that it was worth every _f_u_c_k_ing stroke to get out of here those short 34 hours, to be free, listen to Metallica, have a drink and a smoke and some pussy and also meet Angela Featherston as a result of it all. I let her blow me again and then _f_u_c_k_ed her doggy style, her beautiful tits swaying beneath her and her ass like a peach against my belly. I did a lot of wanking these days and never spilled a drop of spunk anywhere, it all went down the washstand afterwards (that, too, is a form of self control, Russell my man). I also used the washstand for pissing, which meant I could reduce the times I had to go through the kneeling routine that was mandatory around here though I actually wasnīt a Primer anymore.
At 7.47, mr Davies and mr Morales were at the door. I was on my knees and waiting for them right inside it and let them put the irons on me like any ordinary day. I went through the whole _f_u_c_k_ing preparation procedure and about a quarter to 9, the barred door slammed shut behind me in the main building basement. I immediately started focusing on the present, telling myself I was strong and in control, breathing calmly. I actually felt quite calm by then. Once again I thought of Angie and then of Jenni, because it made me relax and be aware of the beauty and joy there is to life, no matter what happens. I also let Metallica play in my head, especially Escape, and I mouthed the words "Life is for my own to live my own way" over and over again, thinking so _f_u_c_k_ing what if I die right now, today, I wonīt be around anymore to suffer, Iīve had my moments in the sun and at least Iīll never grow old and bald.
Then I heard footsteps approaching. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was ready to go.
Mr Davies and mr Morales took me as far as the stage door, where the screw who once drove me to Crowmill, mr Knightley, relieved them and escorted me from there. Stage lights were on, darkening the part of the hall where the audience was seated, but I heard the murmur of many voices and the scrapings of feet and all the muffled crowd noices people make in places like that. There were at least ten people on the stage, and I recognized mr Jackson among them, actually feeling relieved he was present. Theyīd surely strained themselves to make this as grand as the Oscars Awards. It almost seemed funny, all these guys gathered there because of me. I was brought up in front, the chief already there, not even glancing at me but giving a short speech on the history of Crowmill and my history, too, and then about what Iīd done and how I was to pay for it. I just stood there, mr Knightley on one side and the old fart on the other, keeping my head high, feeling my heart beat strongly and reassuringly, but faster all the time. When the chief ordered the punishment to be effectuated, someone (Bear?) out of the dark crowd shouted īGood luck on you, TJ, _f_u_c_k_ īem allī, and there was some rummaging following that while I was being freed from the irons and undressed, for maybe a minute standing naked in front of everybody. It didnīt matter right then. I was the same guy, clothes or no clothes, and despite my Crowmill readiness to blush and feel ashamed, nothing of that happened.
Nobody had spoken a word to me that morning, and I had been silent too, just gone through the routine, knowing exactly what to do and how to behave. When mr Knightley turned me around to face the whipping frame he quietly asked me if I was ready, and I nodded and said yes sir, I am, as quietly as him, and then I was positioned on the frame, strapped to it, arms stretched over my head, legs spread, the straps on both sides simultaneously adjusted and fastened by mr Knightley and another screw with a foreign name I never could remember. Then the broad belt on my back and the ones on my knees were fastened. I could move my head, but that was about it. My buns were separated and the butt plug inserted, feeling cold and uncomfortably present. I was beginning to sweat and shiver from the tension and my heart beat even faster. Then I was asked if I wanted the rubber roll, and I said yes sir, thank you sir, and everything was set. Everything had happened exactly as mr Jackson had described it, and I realized heīd done me a great favour by preparing me.
I saw a movement to my left and supposed it was the counting screw positioning himself. He bent backwards to check my face, and I nodded to show I was ready. Shortly after I heard the whip being tried out, and I had to concentrate very hard on staying calm, because the sound made my whole body tense. I bit down on the rubber roll and wished theyīd get on with it.
"One!" a voice called. A brief pause, then the whip swished through the air and landed across my shoulders from my left. The pain was immediate and building the following seconds. It was different from anything Iīd known before and yet very much the same. The counter again checked on me, then he called out number two, and I had it partly at the same spot as the first, and again the pain surprised me. The whipper kept working his way down, the lashes overlapping each other, setting my backside on fire, the pain of each lash only slowly subsiding and most of it returning when the new lash hit the already tender skin, extending the burning area a bit further down.. Number eleven was laid close to the waist belt and number twelve on top of my ass, and by then I was biting down very hard on the roll and clenching my fists, fighting not to think ahead but to live through every moment as if it was the only time existing. Every now and then the counter checked on me and apparently he thought I looked allright, for he kept calling out the numbers at a rather speedy pace. When the whipper got down to my legs, he just laid the lashes on the left one, and it was excruciating, the tips of the whip slashing the soft skin inside my thigh. As the first full set was completed, my eyes were watering and my jaws aching, but I hadnīt made a sound except from breathing hard and I had managed to relax between the lashes reasonably well.
The counter held out his hand for the rubber roll, and I let go. I forced myself to breathe calmly and let the pain burn out. I used the break to revive mine and Jenniīs love making, convincing myself this was a cheap price to pay. In my mind, Jenni faded into Angie all the time. I tried tensing my butt a bit and was amazed of the tenderness, almost as if the skin was gone. I decided it wasnīt and told myself this had been a piece of cake, and I only had four sets to go. Then I focused on being right where I was again, and the break was up.
Mr Knightley was the counter this time and he held out the rubber roll for me and I bit down on it. Then he called out the 21st lash. I nearly choked as it fell, from the right side this time, new pain and tenderness reinforcing each other. I started snivelling halfway down, and when the 32d lash hit my ass I whined, barely being able to hold on to the roll anymore. It became increasingly harder to relax between the lashes, and a couple of times I caught myself holding my breath. Tears fell from my eyes and snot from my nose, despite the snivelling, and the roll between my teeth made me drool, although my mouth felt dry. I could see my body fluids forming an irregular pattern on the dark floor beneath me, the wet spots gleaming like distant stars. Whenever I opened my eyes I kept staring at them, wincing and tensing as the lashes were laid on me, suffering through the waves of red hot pain and misery. This caller was as fast as the first one, and he didnīt bother to check on me more than three times.
I was on the verge of screaming out loud when I had the last of the set across my calf, my right leg being the target this time. I spat out the roll and for a while I just hung there sobbing, trying to get my breathing right and make my muscles slacken.
I felt like _s_h_i_t_ already and had to concentrate hard not to let pain get the upper hand of me. I tried to remember what mr Jackson said last night and think about my crimes and the apology tour, trying to feel real sorry for what Iīd done and relieved to make up for it this way, but it just didnīt work, I couldnīt hold on to any thread for very long. Frankly I didnīt give a _s_h_i_t_ about the victims of my crimes. None of them had suffered irreparable damage, and none of them was poor to start with. What had plagued me on the tour was to be forced to face them, together with the humiliation of my failure and of being debunked as a thief, having to submit to being punished, having to _f_u_c_k_ing tell them about it. The only thing I really regretted was screwing it up and getting caught. The thoughts were fluttering around in my head like bats gone insane and I was beginning to feel very sorry for myself, which wouldnīt help me at all right now. I tried to get a grip, to revoke the excitement of breaking out and again thinking of Angie babe, but before Iīd got myself straight time was up and now mr Jackson was holding out the roll for me. If it had been somebody else, I might have told him I wasnīt ready to continue, but seeing him had a freaky effect on me, and I just bit down and braced myself, fragments of thoughts and pics swirling around in my head.
"Forty-one!" he called out, and the whip crashed down on me, again from the left side. The impact was terrible. For a while I didnīt dare to breathe for fear that would make it even worse, and before the new pain even started to subside I heard him calling out the next one, and I knew he was going to give me a real hellride as usual. I tried focusing but couldnīt get hold of myself, and the whip lashed out and made my body instantly tense, like from a cramp seizure. I bit down on the rubber roll so hard I could hear a crunching sound in my head, and he called out again and then I started sobbing and dropped the roll just as the whip fell on me, ripping my back like a stroke of lightning. I yelped helplessly and threw my head back and forth, being burned alive. Focus, goddammit, focus you bastard, this is getting out of your hands like he _f_u_c_k_ing wants it to, donīt give him that and he called the next one and I knew I couldnīt beat him at his own game, no matter how hard I tried. I cried out in pain when the next lash striped my back, and as soon as I could speak I got out a slower, please, sir, loud enough for the world to hear. He instantly bent down and studied my face, smiling slightly. "As you wish", he said lowly, and then he picked up the rubber roll and offered it to me. I gratefully accepted it and he again positioned himself and called for number 45.
I tried, oh how hard I tried to bear it, but my whole backside was raw and aching already and I was in constant pain, the only difference being the intensity of it. I dropped the roll again at 49 and started crying for real, thinking Iīd never break any rule again, ever, and at 52, I was screaming and tugging at the straps to get away from it all, pleading with them over and over again to stop. He did go a bit slower, but it wasnīt slow enough, still faster than the first two sets, and I didnīt want to ask him again because to be honest, I couldnīt, I was too busy staying alive. The whipper was working his way down my body and I was sweating profusely, suffering worse than ever and knowing I barely was through half of it. I screamed out with each lash and bawled in between. I couldnīt move much, being tightly restrained, and I couldnīt con myself into believing I was in control of anything anymore. Eventually, the full set was done Mr Jackson hadnīt checked on me but that once. He went away when the break was announced, but came back right after, carrying the whip.
"TJ, you have to focus", he said. "Come on, get about it. Concentrate and ride it out"
"I canīt, sir", I sobbed, and then I started crying again, and he disappeared. I was waiting for the next caller to start it off, fear of the new torment making my heart race, when he came back, no whip this time.
"Youīre allowed an extra three minute recess", he said. "You want to go through with this? I can call it off and youīll get the remaining sets next week".
"I wa-hant to go through with it, sir", I got out while my body screamed in protest, but I could never bear to spend the next week waiting for another go of this.
"TJ, look at me." I did, still sobbing. "Stop crying. Breathe. Come on, breathe with me." And he started breathing fully audible, and I joined him, feeling my body relaxing a bit with each breath. "Remember when I caught you back home? At your bitchīs flat?" I nodded. Iīd never forget that. "I went back the next day and _f_u_c_k_ed her until she screamed. She thanked me afterwards and said sheīd never had a better _f_u_c_k_. Sheīs been writing to me ever since, and phoning all the time."
I stopped breathing and stared at him. I didnīt believe it, but I couldnt figure out why heīd be lying to me right now either.
"Youīre fu-hucking lying", I said, forgetting our roles for a while.
"Try me."
"Whatīs she got on the small of her back?"
"A tattoo that says GO 4 IT. Come on, TJ, thatīs too easy."
I tried to come up with some cunning question, but my mind was too _f_u_c_k_ed up.
"Whatīs the name of her perfume?"
"Obsession. Sheīs given up the other one, the Dior stuff."
I still didnīt believe him. _f_u_c_k_ Jenni. _f_u_c_k_ that asshole.
"She says youīre too soft in bed. She wants a man, not a cuddly toy boy."
"Get the _f_u_c_k_ away from me!" I got out, remembering to keep my voice down, and he just laughed at me. I had tears in my eyes again, but from anger.
Then he was gone, and I was steaming with rage, pain pulsating distantly. He could do whatever he wanted, to me, to Jenni, to the whole world, and I was stuck here, held back by straps and irons and locks. I knew he was the next whipper, and Iīd fight until I fainted not to make one _f_u_c_k_ing sound, no matter how severely he hit me. I hated that mean mother_f_u_c_k_er. I focused dead hard on the hate, feeling the power of it run through my veins, making me invincible.
The next caller, mr Trent, gave me the roll, positioned himself and called out number sixty-one. This time I knew what to expect, and when the whip cords cut into my back from the right side, I exhaled, imagining the pain going right through me and dissolving. I made it allright for the first seven lashes, then I felt something trickling down my right side and maybe it was blood, not sweat anymore, and that made me go cold with fear. I worked like mad to make my mind focus back on hating mr Jackson, and what the hell if I bled, I would only have another two or three lashes right there, and anyway Iīd been bleeding before and there was nothing to it. I took the next lash well, too, but number 9 of the set hurt like hell and made me groan. Mr Trent checked on me and let some time pass before he called for the next. Again I focused hard, chewed the roll, listened for the whistling and met the pain exactly at impact, going on a rollercoaster ride with it until it stabilized, and then there was the whistling sound again and I did it all over, starting to feel a bit giddy but focusing back on breathing, working it back. I was all pain now, living it, breathing it, chewing it. Iīd never been anywhere but here and Iīd always felt like this, and when the 12th came down on my butt I didnīt even twitch, just let it sink into me, and I think mr Trent checked me out again, carefully studying my eyes. The next one cut through my defense, part of the cords slashing the sensitive skin inside my thigh and the tips stinging my balls, fearfully withdrawn as close to me as possible but not out of danger anyway. I groaned heavily and for a second I nearly panicked, then managed to steady myself, breathe back control, the image of that stupid _f_u_c_k_er laying it on me and not getting any pleasure out of it somewhere inside my mind, and I wished his whole body would ache for days from the exercise. Then the next sent me flying through hell and my bladder let go while I fought to ride it out. I was beginning to shiver badly and ! my legs were weakening. I didnīt want to pass out now.
Mr Trent was back, checking the pulse with two fingers on my throat, asking me if I was OK, and I nodded, closed my eyes, thinking how the hell do you suppose Iīm feeling right now, you moron, OK is nowhere near it but thatīs what you want me to say, so thatīs what youīre getting. Then I heard the call for seventy-five and wondered at the fact that I was there already, and the whip lashed out again and I chewed frantically on the roll, body tense as a bow string, pissing some again and focusing on breathing, breathing, not giving up the struggle. Only five to go and this set was done, I could take another five, and then I had the next one and started sobbing, losing grip of the roll. I was getting really tired, my head was spinning and no matter how hard I tried to focus, the thoughts just seemed to slip away and the pain was unbearable by now. Number 77 made me scream out, and mr Trent picked up the roll and gave it back to me and I nearly bit him but was very grateful to get it back. I braced myself for the last three, rounding up the remnants of resistance, and I had them, one above the knee straps, the other two below exactly like on the other sets, and I managed to master them all.
I let my arms bear some of my weight, trying to stabilize the shaking of my legs. I was feeling proud of myself for a short while right then, but weariness overwhelmed me and I could hardly keep my eyes open even though I was being burnt alive, even though I was being skinned alive, and I let go of the roll and bit down on my lip, trying to stay conscious. I was sweating like hell, big drops rolling down my face and sides, falling to the floor, running inside my legs, my tattered skin smarting from the salt.
Mr Jacksonīs face appeared below me. He was actually smiling, the mean asshole.
"Piss off", I got out. I was past caring for the risk of an additional punishment right now.
"Well done this far, TJ", he said.
"Piss off", I said again and he was still smiling when he did.
The last caller, mr Donovan, held a wet sponge to my mouth, and I tried to get as much moisture out of it as possible. I was longing for a drink of cold water. I tensed my ass again and winced from the raw pain. One set to go. The doctor hadnīt been near me yet, so it couldnīt be that bad. I wanted to control my breathing and rebuild the armour of hate around my mind, but all I was aware of was the pain.
The last set was hell from beginning to end. I was exhausted and my mind kept drifting away. Each lash felt like when salt is rubbed into an open wound, and I was too far away to handle them the way Iīd done before, not registering the calls until the whip struck, and by then I had already lost control. I managed to just endure the first, but the next ones sent me screaming wildly. The caller gave me back the roll twice but when I dropped it the third time he left it on the floor. Somewhere around the middle my voice broke and the rest was just agony, I was tense as a steel rod, crying hoarsely, wishing I was dead. But I got through the whole _f_u_c_k_ing business, and then I blacked out.
I was still strapped to the frame when I came about, but it had been lowered and mr Donovan was checking my pulse. I could smell my own sweat and it made me want to puke. Someone asked if I could stand by myself and I shook my head. My backside was aching severely and felt skinless, and my jaws were hurting badly, too.
"Please unstrap me", I whispered, having no voice left whatsoever. I wanted to move my arms. They were numb and my hands felt icy cold.
"Youīll have to wait for the doctor", mr Donovan said.
"Please sir", I tried again. "Iīll stay on the frame. Please."
"You deaf? I said no. Now shut up and wait for the doctor."
It felt like ages before she finally arrived. She told mr Donovan to unstrap me and have me down on the floor and then did the usual checkup. Every movement was painful. Just lying there, breathing, was painful. I actually longed for the happy days when only my ass was skinned, not half of me. Most of all I longed to be alone.
"Blood pressure seems normal", she told mr Donovan. "A bit low concerning the circumstances, but this one is always low. He doesnīt look too bad. Does he need an analgesic?"
"Do you, Jennings?" mr Donovan asked.
"Yes, please, sir", I whispered, and the doctor gave me a shot of that and another, too, she didnīt tell what was in it. At the time I didnīt care if it was rat poison.
"Check on him every second hour the first 10 hours", she said. "Nurse will take care of that." Then she left, and I was moved to a stretcher. When I was carried back to my cell I saw that the audience had left. I couldnīt remember hearing them leaving and thought that maybe there hadnīt been anyone at all, maybe Iīd just dreamed the whole thing up.