"Don't Scream Too Loudly..."

She's older now. Probably mid to late fifties. But she still looks great: tanned, slim and very good looking.

She still looks like she could be trouble - nasty if you cross her. Maybe nasty even if you don't cross her. Which was why I was so attracted to her, obsessed with her, because that kind of female fevers out the barely suppressed submission and masochism in me -- the urge to throw myself at her feet, to beg her to hurt me, to humiliate me, to bankrupt me...

About fifteen years ago she started working in a café close to my work, though I'd seen her about town on occasion prior to that. I got chatting to her, and she told me things. Things that would make a normal guy run a mile. But the one thing you could never call me is normal.

After that I fantasized about her.

This is one of those fantasies:

***

She is not a nice woman, not nice at all - she hurts people, seriously hurts people, especially males, and I, trembling with fear, am awaiting her arrival, her imminent arrival.

Yet, I need her, crave her, because without her I would be worthless, totally worthless, and with her I am not quite nothing. And that, like it or not, is the way it is -- understand?

I am naked, by the door (I mustn't delay her in any way for her time is precious) and quivering with the sweet and sour tang of rising terror waiting for her to buzz, the buzz that signals metaphorically the advent of my near destruction.

Or maybe, just maybe, she will elect, as is her wont, today, to totally destroy me, and I would allow that, for I surrender my unworthy self to her absolutely, absolutely.

She could be violent when angry, no doubt about that, as she had recounted, once to me, almost salivating, how she had smashed her husband's nose with her bony fist, watched the blood gush and smear across his face then kneed him hard in the testicles, and had then spat upon him as he writhed and groaned upon the ground: "I taught the dirty fucker not to shag another woman, to lie to me. After, I took the fucker for every penny I could."

Delicious. Delicious.

Money and violence....

The buzzer sounds in my hallway as an unpleasant tingle momentarily grips my freshly shaved balls...

She is here, to hurt me, to inflict severe pain on me.

I press the button on the intercom to let her in...

I open the front door of my flat ever so slightly and listen to her footfalls become louder as she ascends the double flight of stairs to my flat -- I must be there to let her in. I must not fail her or displease her in any way.

Suddenly she is in front of me: shoulder length straight flaxen hair; tanned face; slight frame; faded denim jacket; jeans.

And those cruel blue-green eyes, soul-less, sadistic.

I swing open the door for her, let her in, then close it behind her.

"Get me the money, you pathetic and perverted prick."

I quickly rush into the lounge and pick up the brown envelope containing a hundred pounds and hand it over to her.

She says nothing and, without counting it, slips it into the top pocket of her denim jacket -- she is a mercenary bitch, and I worship her all the more for it.

"Right, let's get on with it. Crawl into that shithole you call your bedroom whilst I get the cane from the bathroom - you have been soaking it in salt water as I instructed?"

"Yes, y-yes," I stutter out.

Naked and on all fours, I drag myself, scuffing my knees as I do, into the bedroom before prostrating myself on the carpet.

A couple of seconds later I hear her enter the room -- I dare not glance up without her permission, dare not.

"Okay, you pathetic worm with your tiny cock, big nose, and flabby body you can turn round now and kneel in front of me - I want you to see what I am going to beat you, beat you to a pulp with."

I do as she says and as I do, she slips her jacket off and lays it across the back of a chair. Underneath, she is wearing a simple sleeveless white top and her uncovered arms, unblemished apart from a couple of small black moles on her right forearm, are deeply tanned and smooth.

Shortly, very shortly, she will be employing those very arms to visit severe pain upon me.

She picks up the cane, about eighteen inches long and whippy, and swishes it in front of me.

For the first time since her arrival, I detect the first trace of a smile run along her glossed thin lips.

I gulp.

"Get on the bed and lie face down. Don't scream too loudly and remain in position till I tell you it's over."

I immediately comply.

Tense, extremely tense, I wait for the first agonizing stroke, and then I discern a swish just prior to a searing line of fire igniting across the vulnerable flesh of my buttocks.

I cry out and twist with the pain, and over my shoulder I can hear her laugh, laugh out loud.

Again, and again, without respite, without mercy she brings the cane down across my buttocks, the pain, the pain, the hell.

And, yet I take it, take it because 'taking it' is all I'm good for.

My senses dull, blur, and it is though the thrashing is happening to someone else, distant, far away, detached.

I hear someone guffawing, I think it might be me - why?

"Get up," she snarls into my ear. "Think it's funny, do you?"

I remember who I am; who she is; why she is here; collect myself.

"No... no... I would never laugh at you... never."

"Get up," she repeats with increasing venom.

I drag myself to my knees, put my hands to my bottom - they are sore, very sore, and sticky, then clamber off the bed.

"Bend over the bed, legs apart, I'll teach you to mock me!"

"I didn't, honest, honest....."

The pain detonates between my legs, and I am dimly aware of sinking to the floor, grasping my groin. I again make out laughter, almost manic, but this time there is no doubting whose it is...

*

I slowly, tentatively, rise to my feet, my genitals ache and my buttocks still smoulder.

She has gone now and I never noticed her leave.

There is a hint, just a hint of a fragrance hanging in the air, and already I miss her, miss her... terribly...