This post, which is entirely a fantasy, contains implied non-consensual violence that will offend some people.
In fact, despite having written the post, it offends ME. It offends me because this is/was a fantasy of mine for years and, having written it down, I’m faced with the truth of what my fantasy actually means. That shocked me so I took the post down. But, at risk of opening myself to well deserved abuse, I’m going to put it back up with some thoughts here and at the end.
It had been quite a celebration already. After two months of eighteen hour days and endless frustration; two months of the same lonely bed in the same hotel; he had finally, just that afternoon, handed over the press data centre to the representative of the Rio Olympic Organising Committee and signed all the papers. He knew that a substantial on-time bonus was heading for his bank account. He’d half-heartedly tried to reschedule his flight home and indeed he could have travelled that evening via Miami, had he not turned down the alternative route.
Three days. In Rio De Janeiro. With its beaches and its endless sun. Perhaps, he had mused, with The Girl From Ipanema.
He sat in the overly plush faux-Paris-brothel-circa-1880 lounge of the “Ipanema Gentleman’s Club.” The girl had been perfect, with the mixed race, brown skin/blue eyes combination typical of “Carioca” girls and the cause of their reputation as the world’s most beautiful. She had been a warm and enthusiastic lover, wrapping her long brown limbs around his buttocks and pulling him deep into her. After two months, he had been beyond ready.
Feeling mellow he ordered a third Caipirinha and, slipping a little deeper into the softness of the sofa, let the Cachaça, the raw cane spirit of Brazil, work its magic. As the pretty waitress handed him his new drink, she allowed her hand to brush his, looking into his eyes. He felt himself harden. Perhaps he could go again; the first time had been quick, grasping, hungry; relaxed now, he would take longer, spend more time on foreplay, enjoy the second girl slowly. He asked for the Madam of the house, with her pictures of pretty girls and her menu of activities.
“Would you perhaps like something from our ‘Specials’ menu this time, Sir;” she asked, offering him a card with representations of wide ranging sexual activities. One caught his eye immediately, a cartoon of a naked girl over a spanking bench. Her cheeky, inviting smile said “Spank me! I’ll enjoy it!” To spank a pretty girl had been an unrealised fantasy for as long as he could remember. The Caipirinha seemed to give him permission to indulge himself.
“I’d like to do that,” he said. The Mistress produced a second card a with pictures of implements and prices. He chose a riding crop, the implement of his spanking fantasies, and wrote 10 in the “number of strokes” box. After a moment, he crossed out the 10 and wrote 20, conscious of the thick wad of Brazilian Real’s in his pocket.
“Very well, Sir. You finish your drink. I’ll return when the girl is ready.”
He waited, excitement rising through the blurry mist of the alcohol.
To his surprise, once in the lift the Madam chose the basement level, rather than one of the upper floors where first girl had been, showing him into a small ante room with hanging space for his clothes. On one of the hooks, hanging by a leather loop, was a riding crop. When he’d chosen the implement, he’d imagined the kind of light ‘play’ crop he’d seen in the window of an Ann Summers store but this was not that at all; maybe thirty inches long, it was thick, heavy and worn, with a fold of hard leather at its end. An implement not for play but for punishment. He felt his mouth dry up. Nervous at what he was about to do. He pushed open the inner door.
She could have been the younger sister of the first girl, the same brown skin and soft blue eyes. She was tied to a spanking bench, leather straps binding her calves, her thighs, and her arms, a thicker strap over her waist holding her tight to the bench. It was exactly the scene he had imagined but still, he felt himself shaken out of his alcoholic reverie by what he saw.
Her bottom was a mass of angry purple bruises from a strap or a paddle, the bruises criss-crossed with parallel train tracks from the recent impact of a cane. The same cane, obviously wielded with much force but little care, had landed on her thighs. Her back, angry red all over from a flogger, was further marked with many thin, deep lines, almost cuts, from a single tail whip. She was crying softly.
No. Just No.
This wasn’t his fantasy. Where was the flirty, laughing “spank me” girl of the Madam’s cartoon? He hadn’t asked for this poor creature, presumably dragged to the city from one of Rio’s infamous favelas, her body already beaten by successive men until hardly any of it seemed free of marks. He was horrified at the idea of piling further punishment on her.
He moved his hand to stroke her, to soothe her sobbing, but she flinched away in fear.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he mumbled. “I didn’t want this.” Stumbling slightly, he headed for the door.
“No. Please Sir, No”. Her anguished cry, accent thick with Portuguese, stopped him. “If you don’t want me I will be whipped! Please stay. Please do what you paid for. Don’t let them whip me, Sir, please!” her voice breaking into shaking, terrified sobs.
“But, they can’t. I shall pay them extra money so they will let you free,” he said, barely aware in his alcohol fuddled state that this new-found pompous gallantry might sound ridiculous.
“No, Sir. They will take your money and whip me anyway. You must do what you paid for. Please, Sir, please!”
Sobering fast, he paced up and down between the door and the bench. Each time he decided he must leave and moved towards the door the girl begged him to stay, begged him to beat her.
Finally, with a heavy heart and no enthusiasm, he picked up the vicious whip and positioned it across the centre of her perfect but heavily marked bottom, looking for a patch of clear skin between the cane marks.
At that moment, he hated himself for his dark fantasies and his drunken foolishness.
But most of all he hated himself for his growing erection and the resigned sadness that came to her beautiful blue eyes when she saw it.
So there you have it. Writing this, I was concentrating on how HE was feeling. Marie, in her thoughtful comment below, made me see it from the girl’s point of view and I realised what a hideous, ugly, terrifying position I had designed for her. So what writing this has done is put myself in the position in which I put him: forced myself to come face to face with a dark fantasy and see it for what it is.
I don’t know if I’m a better person for that or not.
But I know myself a little better at least.
For more, though perhaps less regretful, wickedness, click here