My new accommodation was empty of all furniture except for a small washbasin and a toilet. A single bare lightbulb hung from the high ceiling on an old length of electric cable. I guessed that the room was a cellar of an old Victorian house that had been equipped for the personal toiletry needs of it's new inhabitants. Clearly, the room had been designed for imprisonment. The heavy metal door was obviously impassable. There were no windows in the room, and the only opening in the door was a small locked hatch close to floor level, obviously used for passing food into the cell from the outside. High on one wall was an illuminated clock face; it read:14.36pm on Tuesday 4th November. I had been taken (by force) from my flat on the evening of the 3rd at around 10.30pm and rendered unconscious with an injection while on route to what was now my prison. To my relief, I found that I had suffered no injury at the hands of my captures; my personal belongings had been taken from me, including my watch, my trouser belt, and my wallet, but I had come to no physical harm. I had no restraints of any kind.
Time slowly passed without any appearance from my hosts. All I could do was sit on the floor and contemplate my fate. My mind was frantically trying to find a reason for my imprisonment. I had no enemies of any kind, no unpaid loans, no criminal ties and no jilted lovers with an angry family. I sat down and waited...
It was fourteen hours later when the door to my cell was finally opened. Three well-built men, all wearing masks, entered the room.
"Stand Up!" The command was given in a way that warned against any opposition. I obeyed and stood to my feet. My heart began to beat faster. I was obviously very afraid of what lay ahead.
"You will tell us the identity of the Blue Anchor."
I had no idea what the man was talking about. I knew of no one known as 'The Blue Anchor', and was certain that they had taken the wrong person captive. I tried to tell them, but to no avail.
I was led out of my cell and down a corridor to another room. In the centre of the room was a large table. Two metal rings protruded from the top two corners, and a very solid-looking pair of stocks dominated the foot of the table. I was stood in the centre of the room, a guard to my left and to my right. I knew that something unpleasant was about to happen, but I had nothing to offer them for release from what lay ahead.
The third guard stood directly in front of me and tied a blindfold around my eyes. Slowly, each button running down the front of my shirt was opened, his hands pausing only to enter the shirt and gently caress my still-covered chest while his warm tongue danced around my face. Released, the shirt finally dropped to the floor, exposing my naked chest to the guard's inquisitive hands. He gradually moved his hands down my chest, unbuckled and removed the belt from around my waist and slipped his hands into my crotch to find my now rather expectant cock. The gentle caress of his hands stimulated my cock into an erect position, our lips met and our tongues slowly and beautifully danced together in total oneness. This was not quite what I expected, and I knew that the pleasure would turn to pain unless I could find an answer to the question.
I was not allowed to move my hands from my side, and was not allowed to control any aspect of this immensely enjoyable sexual encounter. I was nothing more than a sex object for the guard that was about to torture me on the table. When he had finished his foreplay and the blindfold removed, I was moved to the table and ordered to lie down with my hands close to the rings and my ankles in the open stocks. I obeyed. The stocks were closed and locked around my ankles and my wrists secured to the metal rings. I was powerless to resist the torture that I knew lay ahead. The head guard stripped to the waist and began a routine of warm-up exercises.
One of the other guards moved alongside the table and began to untie the laces of my trainers. My shoes and socks were slowly and methodically removed and my feet slowly laid open to the attention of the torturer. I lay stripped to the waist, barefoot and vulnerable to the attention of the chief guard, who moved to the foot of the table and began to run his hands around the soft soles, insteps and heels of my bare feet. He enjoyed every minute of his work.
Cord was tied around my toes and tied tightly to small rings in the top of the stocks, pulling my toes backwards and pushing my soles outwards. It was only a short wait before the first explosion of pure pain laced across the soles of my bare feet. The thin bamboo cane accurately found its target each time the guard expelled his energy into whipping it without mercy across the protruding balls of my feet. I screamed out in pain and tried desperately to move my tortured soles away from the pain-inflicting bamboo, but the stocks were resolute in holding my feet in just the right place to receive the cane's fury. After what had to be 30 strokes, the whipping stopped.
"The Blue Anchor? I will wait a while for you to recover your memory."
The sharp stinging pain of the cane stopped to be replaced by the gentle hands of my torturer caressing and massaging my whipped soles. I had never experienced torture of any kind before, and having been told that this was just the start of my first experience - I tried all I could to persuade the three men that I was unable to answer their question. The massaging stopped and the pain returned. The guard was now using electric cables to whip the soles of my exposed feet. My back arched upwards and my wrists cut against the metal cuffs that held them tight against the tabletop. I had never experienced pain like this before. The electric cables lashed across my soles, wrapping themselves around my foot to offer a final sting to the top of my feet. The cables imparted unquenchable fire to my soft, naked vulnerable feet. My screams filled the room and my cries of 'mercy' and 'no more' went unheard by the sadistic bastard who was enjoying every minute of every whiplash.
My feet pulled backwards against the wooden stocks, my back arched upwards, and my hands closed into tight fists as I fought to control the pain. I raised my head and watched as he put his entire body weight and energy into the whipping motion that delivered the cables to my poor tormented feet. I had stopped counting the strokes after the first nine or ten had been delivered. I was fighting to control the pain, fighting to stay conscious, and screaming out for the relentless torture to stop. The accuracy of the lashes was devastating. Each area of my soles were visited by the cables, including my very sensitive insteps and my heels.
After what felt like an eternity, the lashings stopped again and my soles were once again massaged to cause even more discomfort to my hot, bruised whiplashed soles. By now, even the slightest touch to my soles caused a painful reaction. My soles were tender to the touch, and according to my captures, ready for the next phase of the interrogation.
One of the men began to paint my soles with a liquid; other than the touch of the brush, there was no pain. A heat source was positioned close to my soles and turned on. The heat was quite intense and my soles were getting hotter and hotter. It was not long before I discovered that the liquid was, in fact, cooking oil; my soles were being grilled. The heat became intolerable, my screams for the torture to stop became louder, my soles were slowly cooking. I knew that I could not handle much more pain, and I tried with every last bit of energy to break my feet free from the stocks, but of course, all my struggling was in vain. I began pleading for mercy and understanding, but the sight of my three tormentors wanking was enough to tell me that they had no intention of stopping the punishment until they really had to.
Eventually, the pain became too much and I slipped into unconsciousness.
It was the ice cold water that restored me to the pain that was throbbing through my soles. The heat source had been removed but I was still chained firmly to the torture table, my feet still locked in the stocks. A masked man wearing a grey suit stood at the side of the table. He asked me once more about the 'Blue Anchor' and I calmly explained again that I knew nothing that was of any interest to him. He turned to the three masked man and asked them if they thought I was telling the truth. It was then that I noticed the small tattoo on his wrist, it was a small red anchor. He was carefully disguising his voice and making sure that his identity was kept a secret.
"One more try," I heard them say, and I knew that the pain was about to start all over again.
The smallest touch against my soles, and I screamed out in agony. My feet had been prepared well for the final torture. The electric cables once again found their mark across the whole area of my beaten and burnt soles, and once again the room was filled with my screams of pain. The impacting cables never missed their mark, hitting the balls of my feet more than any other area and causing me to react, to the delight of my torturers. Twenty or maybe thirty blows later, the whipping stopped. The man in the grey suit gave instructions for me to be returned to the real world, and I was untied from the table and told to stand.
This was another instruction that I could not obey. My soles just would not bear my body weight; the pain was too much for me to take and I folded into a heap on the stone cold floor. I was taken by my arms and dragged out of the room, down a long corridor and through another door into a large garage. I was bundled into the back of a small van and the journey back home had started. It was not long before the van came to a halt. The doors opened and I was pulled out onto the quite country road. One of the three men searched through my private possessions until he found the telephone number of my father.
"Phone him and give him your location."
I took the mobile telephone and dialled my father's number. I asked him to help and gave him my location off a piece of paper handed to me by my guard. I was told that it would take around 2 hours for him to reach me by car, but he would arrive as soon as possible. I was dragged off the road into a small group of trees. My clothing was taken from me and I was pushed back against the trunk of a large tree.
My hands were lifted above my head, held tightly against the tree by two of the men as the third man hammered two large spikes through each of my wrists. My feet were placed against the side of the tree trunk and once again held tightly in place as they were nailed firmly through my heels into the tree. A gag was tied around my mouth and I was advised to move as little as possible to prevent blood loss. No one could hear my screams as the large metal spikes cut through my flesh and into the wood of the tree.
My sole purpose now was to survive until my father arrived. I closed my eyes and centred my concentration on trying to control the intense pain from the nails and from my badly tortured soles. The sudden impact of a new pain wrenched my body downwards, pulling against the nails that were through my wrists. A large sledgehammer had smashed its way into my kneecaps, breaking my legs and collapsing my body downwards. My situation was suddenly much worse. I hung on the nails and tried hard to control the pain. My soles, heels, wrists and legs were throbbing and I still had 45 minutes to wait before there was any hope of a rescue. I can remember fighting the pain for what seemed like eternity before finally giving way to unconsciousness.
I awoke in a private hospital ward. It was11.27 am according to the clock on the wall of my private room. It appeared to be an army hospital and my father was the first person I saw at my bedside. My treatment had begun. My feet and wrists were bandaged and my legs encased in plaster. My father assured me of my safety and promised to return in the morning, since he had business in London during the afternoon.
He leaned forward hand outstretched for me to shake.
"You are brave young man and I am proud to be your father."
I touched his hand and smiled.
It was then that I noticed the small red anchor tattooed on his wrist.