A pig’s life
Mitchell had no problems with his nakedness. After jumping into the sea to clean up, he and his marines had sat around drying. The sight of their more private parts was nothing to them.
But when that damned handler had ripped his rags away .. Mitch standing stark-naked .. up on a ledge .. head-height above the crew .. it wasn’t the nakedness that got to him. It was the sense of powerlessness.
Already shattered. A morning of relentless hard labour. Hours stuck out in the sun. His strength drained out of him with every drop of sweat. Done-in. Then stripped naked like that. Knowing these bastards were showing he could not do a damn-thing to stop them. Hard to push back a growing feeling of dismay.
It felt like every eye down below had honed in on his dick. He felt awkward. Only a yard of stinking filthy rag .. that was all. But it had made the difference. It had been all Mitchell had to his name. And now .. the cloth demonstratively stripped away .. he felt exposed. Really naked. Stripped of everything. His pride. His integrity. Nothing left to his name. Not even his self-belief.
As if to drive home Mitchell’s nakedness, that damned handler took his stick, stuck it under his cock and lifted it. Drawing all eyes if they weren’t already looking.
“Thinks he’s something special, he does …..”
Mitchell seethed. Made even more angry when he saw the bastard grinning back into his face. Rubbing in the humiliation. Mitchell snarled.
“Captain Rais agrees. Ordered him some very special …..”
The stick let him flop down.
With a swish the stick was struck right back at Mitchell’s crutch. Unthinking, saving himself, Mitchell twisted away. To stop that swishing evil from hitting him on the cock. Instinct.
It never landed. It was a trick. With him twisting away, that stick would only have hit him on the hip. But it stopped short. Mitchell heard laughter, the handlers. He’d been conned. That damned heathen had played him for a fool.
“Damn you,” he swore. They’d pulled his strings, he’d danced.
He was shattered. He could barely stand on his own two feet. Conscious of the weakness in his knees. Having to use the ropes on his arms like crazy not to sway on his feet, He wasn’t thinking straight, he knew. And this bastard had taken advantage of that. Anger came with the realisation. They were toying with him. Shaming him before his shipmates. These bastards had set him a trap. And he was walking straight into it. But could he find the strength of mind to stand up to them? Jesus, he was knackered. This …… after all he’d been put through ….
“See? This dog thinks he’s owed special treatment.”
The handler had Mitchell by the scalp again. Forcing him to look at his crewmates down below. Mitchell saw them .. he had to blink his vision clear. But he did want to see the look on his shipmates’ faces. To communicate with them. Most looked exhausted, some stood their eyes dull and broken. But some he spotted that looked up at him with concern. Done-in themselves .. knackered by pitiless hard work. Baked under this god-damned sun. BUT …. What he saw in those eyes .. here was one of their own being picked-on. One just like them getting singled out. Picked on to break his will. He saw sympathy. Fellow-feeling. For the poor sucker who had just heard that his backside was going to get thrashed every day like this.
But Mitchell knew that grip in his scalp was also a demonstration of power. As if to prove the point, the slaver’s hand shook his head by the hair.
“Captain Rais invites you scum to watch. Special treatment.”
That head-shaking was the handler’s signal to these fresh slaves below .. a reminder of the power these slavers held over them. And showing Mitchell up .. showing that he could do little-or-nothing to stop any of this. They dished it out, he took it. The handlers here ruled. Power over life and death.
“Needs taming …..”
And they’d torture Mitchell to death if they felt like it. This control over the crew’s lives was symbolised in that tight grip in his scalp. Making this stubborn muscle-head do whatever they decided. Dictating his every move .. controlling his every breath. Shaking his head like some rag doll. A sign of what they could do to him .. if the mood took them.
“Stubborn. Glares back at his betters ….”
The fist in Mitchell’s hair forced his head down. Making him look at his feet.
“Told to lower his eyes. Refuses. Defies.”
The grip yanked Mitchell’s head back up. Straight into his handler’s face. He laughed.
“For that .. ten more strokes of the cane.”
“Fuck you. And fuck all your heathen race!”
He spat his fury out. Not bothering to think. Beyond caring. Unworried about the consequences.
The Arab answered back.
“Fuck YOU. American slave.”
The handler sniggered back into Mitchell’s face. He twisted his hand in his scalp. Shaking it from side-to-side. Wildly. Then letting him go .. with a stinging slap to the face.
Then the handler waited .. patiently letting Mitchell get his giddiness back .. so he could take it all in.
Finally the handler sneered.
“For that insolence another ten strokes. On his bare arse. Every day.”
Twisting his hand around, the slaver jabbed the cane up under Mitchell’s chin. Forcing him to look into his sadistic gaze.
The Arab smirked.
“Thirty strokes. On his bare infidel arse. Every FUCKING day.”