Roleplay
There is a sexual context to this, but that’s all. It’s not nice.
…
I walk slowly round the room, crop in hand. Slow is important. The click of my heels on the floor adds to the atmosphere; I know this, partly by practice, partly by instinct. I’d go slower if I could; something of the Chinese water torture about it.
The punter is panting. He’s blindfold, of course. No point letting him see. Again, him not knowing what’s happening is part of what works.
I wish I could say “…is part of the fun”. But I can’t. It’s not fun. At least not for me. I despise this…person. Barely a person. I quite like worms, so I won’t use the term of him, but when I am forced to look at him, my skin crawls with revulsion. And malice.
I am very good at my job.
I had the floor specially installed. By a kitchen shop, actually: best place to get black granite. Cost a fucking fortune. Paid an engineer to work out how best to float the slabs, too, so that my heels could ring as loud as possible. Needless to say the rest of the room – my dungeon – has absolutely no soft furnishings. The echoes are amazing; sometimes I just walk round here in my own time, just to marvel at the sound design.
The thing strapped to the table is groaning. He’s uncomfortable, because of how his back is bent. Serve him right, the fucker. He can stay there.
I come round to his side, and I think about raising my right leg so I can jab my stiletto into his pudgy side. I don’t, in the end: my balance is not what it was when I was younger. Instead I just swish him with the crop. He yelps, as best he can behind the duct tape across his face. I was not careful with the tape, by design, so his nose is partly blocked as well. He can barely breathe. Hee hee.
I swish again, with more elbow. I wasn’t happy with how the first one connected. This one is much more satisfying, and the muffled sound was definitely genuine pain.
I stand still for a bit; half a minute, perhaps, but I know that it will feel like an eternity for fuckface there. All is stillness, apart from his snotty croaking.
I like the duct tape. No voice, so no safe words. I don’t do safe words.
I look at my gloves. They need oiling. I must remember to do that, later. When I’ve got rid of this arsehole.
I’m not going to tell you about me. I have a name, but if you know it, you possibly wish you didn’t. I’m not going to describe what I’m wearing: if you have any imagination at all, you’re probably right. And I’m certainly not going to tell you where I work, or who this spreadeagled lump of shit is. Not because I don’t want to expose him, but because it’s none of your fucking business. I’ll tell you what I want to, and that isn’t it.
Just like I’ll do what I want to, to the mewling scum in front of me.
What I want to do is hurt him. Slowly. Persistently. In crescendo. He thinks he likes it. He might change his mind, at some point tonight.
Possibly not. I have to pace myself. It’s better that way.
I look across to where I hit him earlier, and smile. It’s trickling blood in several places. My crop was also specially designed for me.
I didn’t hide the crop, when he came here. Maybe he thought it was just atmospheric décor. Nope: it’s a working implement.
Which I will now have to sterilise. Serve the fucker right if he loses a bit of his precious bodily fluid.
That gives me an idea, so I hit his limp dick. Several times. It bleeds too. Try getting that up now, you shit. It’s going to be agony just to piss, let alone stroke it upright. If it can even get there.
I hit his face too. He told me not to, but I don’t take orders. I don’t give orders, either. I just do what I want to.
…
A few hours later, his – servant? I don’t fucking know – ladles him into a taxi and settles up. He’s well beaten up. Next time, if he can bear to come back; next time, it’ll probably be an ambulance. Or a hearse. I can pull strings, and they know it. They know the risk too.
I hate this part most of all. Smiling at people. Being polite. Pretending to be happy to have given good service: do me a fucking favour. And – this really sticks in the throat – wishing them well. I don’t wish them well, I want to see them burn.
I always say I look forward to next time. And I do. They think it’s for the money; or, for the exceptionally gullible, the pleasure of their company. But it isn’t.
The only reason I’m…not sad, but disappointed, to see them go is that I have to let them out. My nails scream to be buried in their flesh, my eyes flash round the room to see what other devices I have to hand. And I have lots.
But here I am, dressed in smart receptionist garb, crisp white blouse, neat knee-length skirt, careful bun. Roleplaying as a nice person. I hate it.