Price Tag


by Bn17boy <Bn17boy@yahoo.co.uk>

"He's getting too _c_o_c_k_y. Thinks he's seen it all", said Matthew. Shane agreed vociferously and Darren, as usual, just looked vacant. They tied me in the corner while they went away and deliberated. They'd been at it for an hour or so, the three of them, I was standing there with my trousers and pants round my ankles and my arse felt sore and vulnerable - and probably looked it.

Anyway, the upshot of it was that Shane and Darren were deputed to do the round of the public lavatories and write on the wall inside every cubicle the message "Tonight, 18 May, 9-12, Old Ted's arse, behind the railway waggons, 50p." These were broken-down carriages in a local farmer's field, formerly used by his pigs and still carrying a whiff of them.

They took me down about eight. I was forced to strip, and Darren put my clothes in a bag to take away with them. In that way, even if I escaped, I'd be starkers. Not that escaping was an option. They'd found a trestle belonging to a trestle table, which the farmer had doubtless used for something and seemed to have well-worn blood-stains on it. They tied me over it, a wrist or ankle bound to the bottom of each leg, leaving everything dangling rather conspicuously but with my bottom nicely presented for any punters. Shane had brought the ball-gag with him and he thrust it in my mouth and tied the straps tightly behind my head. The combined smell of pig and pig-blood made me feel a bit nauseous. Then off they went to the side of the field to take the money.

It wasn't till at least half past nine that I heard noises and someone began stroking my cheeks, preparing to spank me in earnest. My arse was soon stinging, bruising a bit at the top of the buttocks and beginning to swell where the buttocks meet the line of the upper thighs. But most of you will know the feeling. I couldn't see faces in my position, but I knew who it was by the trousers and sandals, a local school-master.

I can't say now how many paid their 50p. I lost count about the fifth or sixth, but it must have been a dozen or so in all. Not all the trousers were recognisable, and I suspect some were strangers to our little community, because they seemed to have misinterpreted the offer. I suppose the phrase 'Old Ted's arse' is a little ambiguous. But I do remember the man who, as it turned out, was the last.

This was a road-sweeper, and now my dribble really oozed round the ball of the ball-gag as his strong, musty, dusty smell mingled with the already present stench. His hand wormed its way under my belly to lift my bottom even more and he started slapping and smacking like a wild thing, all round the sides of my cheeks, over the curve, along the thigh-line and back - and then between the legs where it's very, very painful. My arse, already sore and swollen from the treatment received from all the others, began to jump with the agony. Underneath the gag I was imploring him to stop. How much did he think he was entitled to for 50p?

In the end he did stop, out of sheer exhaustion, I think. He went off, leaving me in tears, with an aching arse, through which sharp, irregular jabs of excruciating pain shot back and forth. I tried to relax.

Finally, much later than twelve it seemed, the lads returned. Matthew jingled his coins in front of my face and grinned. I could smell his breath, even through the piggy smell. They had all been drinking. As often, natural characteristics were intensified. Matthew was more jovial, Shane more bitter and aggressive, and Darren maudlin. "Poor old sod", he said, rubbing his hand slowly between my legs.

"OK, let's do the tattooing, it's gettin cold." That was Shane. Well, perhaps, but I didn't feel cold. All the lower parts of my anatomy were still like embers in the grate, hot and glowing.

I had somehow suspected this was coming, and in a way I was glad the suspense was over. They untied one leg and Darren hoisted it up so high I felt like a ballerina, but without a tutu to cover my shame. He held it up to expose the inside of the thigh. Shane wrote in pencil to guide the artist - who of course was Matthew. He did it in the way convicts do in prison, jabbing the punctures with a needle and rubbing blue ink well in. They took an age, but Matthew having stood back and admired his work in a slightly inebriated way, they slapped some tape over it. I had strict instructions to leave it for a week. They then untied the rest of me and allowed me to dress in the now rather stained and crumpled clothes they'd brought back with them.

A wek later. I took off the tape. It had healed nicely. Juggling with a couple of mirrors and with my leg _c_o_c_k_ed like a spaniel's I could see quite a neat tattoo, which said 'Damaged goods, 50p'. It could have been worse.


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