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13:20 Appointment With The Butcher

As I park my car outside my apartment I am really looking forward to a quiet night out with my friends – I love the bitchy banter and the wicked things we have to say about our bosses. I am in such a good mood as I enter the hall and Hoover runs to greet me, jumping up at me as I retrieve the mail and sift through the usual depressing pile of bills. Then I spot the envelope…I recognise it at once…the heavy gauge paper and the single word written in Gothic script in faded brown letters…Melanie. Trembling, I slit the envelope but it is empty – I have all the information I need. How the fuck did I get myself into this mess?

It started three years ago and it’s all Stas’s fault ‘cos she went with him the first time – she only did it once and when she said she wanted out – he said he’d kill her unless she gave him another name. I don’t blame her – I’d do the same if I could - but he learned from that mistake. Now he summonses me every six months – which he must calculate gives me enough time to recover. The third time I thought I was really clever and went to Spain for a week. When I returned, there was paint stripper all over my car…but it wasn’t outside my apartment… it was in the frickin’ airport car park…how scary is that! The letter arrived the next day – and so I went to him. He knows where I live – and I don’t know diddly squat about him – so I guess I’m trapped.

I’m trembling as I do my makeup but I know I have to look perfect. My basque and panties must be black under a short black cocktail dress. My stockings must be fully-fashioned and black and my platforms must be black patent. No bracelets or ankle chain, no handbag, no ‘phone. I don’t need to consult his original instructions ‘cos the details are burned on my mind. I’m ready and I swallow a stiff drink and take the letter from my desk and place it in the hall where my friends will find it. It lists everything I know about him – a single sheet of paper with some scraps of black cloth in a plastic bag stapled to it.

The taxi stops and I go to the door of the hotel – the best in town. I slip the doorman twenty pounds and, by the time I’ve walked round the back, the emergency exit is open. I take the staff lift to the sixth floor and walk the deserted corridor to the room. The door is ajar and I push it open. The room is in darkness but I must not turn on the lights. I close the door and wait.

He comes from nowhere – there is a rush of air and I am propelled across the room. I hit the bed and my knees buckle and I collapse onto the covers. He grabs my wrists and I feel cold steel as he handcuffs them behind my back. The first time he did this I kicked him in the groin…he yelled...then he broke one of my fingers. So I lay there as he fastens the ball gag over my mouth - and straps my ankles into the leg spreader – and sits me up and places the blindfold over my eyes.

He turns the lights on and frog-marches me to the bathroom. As I shuffle, restricted by the bar between my legs, I screw up my face and make a little gap under the blindfold – I can’t see much but over the years I have built up the picture. He is tall, around 6 foot one and weighs about 200 pounds. He wears a black rubber long-sleeved top and surgical gloves. His penis protrudes from his rubber pants and he wears black rubber stockings. On his feet he has royal blue patent stilettos, size 10 or 11. His face is covered by a leather hood with slits for the eyes, nose and mouth. His voice is cultured, as far as I can tell – because he only ever says four words to me. Over the top he wears a blue and white striped rubber apron – which is why I call him ‘The Butcher’. The bathroom is sanitized by clear plastic sheets taped to the walls, ceilings and floor. One sheet is not fixed and he slides it aside for us to enter. Then he places the shoe over my face and secures it tightly in place with two ribbons. It is a royal blue patent stiletto – size four or five. It has been recently worn – and there is semen inside it. He loops a slipknot around my neck…bends me over the wash basin unit…hitches up my dress…pulls my panties into the crevice of my butt…and begins to beat me.

He uses a flat plastic strip, maybe a long ruler, with nine steel pins fixed onto it which I think might be map pins. Each pin is two centimetres long – I know because he once left one imbedded in my butt. He thrashes me in groups of four strokes, always the same number of times on each cheek – four to the left – four to the right – ten times. Groups of forty…until he gets to a thousand. Each time he hits me he says:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

He begins and I try to scream but the gag is too tight, his blows rain down and I try to wriggle away – so he pulls the slipknot and I choke. I hyperventilate but I cannot get enough air and all I receive is the musky smell from the shoe. It is too small for him to wear although I’m sure it is his semen – is this some kind of twisted revenge on his cheating wife? The camera has started – it is on a tripod with silver legs and black feet. It takes a picture every fifteen seconds yet I still jump with each flash. He pauses after one hundred and twenty and his breathing is heavy. My butt cheeks are burning like they’ve been branded and I can hear drops of my own blood falling onto the plastic between my feet. He unscrews the top of the bottle - soaks the cotton wool – and fixes it inside the shoe with a piece of tape. I smell the Poppers and try not to inhale - but I need air and soon the Amyl Nitrate is scrambling my brain.

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

He starts again and gives me another forty strokes – then he pushes my panties aside. The butt plug is large, and already lubricated with Vaseline. It hurts when he first inserts it but the Poppers relax the muscles of my ass and it slides in. He places my knickers back to hold it in place, and starts again.

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

I think he does this to widen my ass so that when he fucks me he doesn’t hurt himself. I doubt if it’s to stretch me so that he doesn’t hurt me when he fucks me. He is meticulous rather than compassionate. My cock is tucked right back between my legs, inside my panties but in full view of him. His blows rain down, sometimes millimetres from the soft vulnerable tissue, but he never hits me, and never causes me serious injury. He once hit the top of my thigh and I almost fainted – it was a solitary blow on otherwise unmarked flesh – which is why I know there are nine spikes. My head thumps from the Poppers and all I can hear is my racing heart and those same four words:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

I lose all sense of time as he continues thrashing me. Once the ruler snapped and the beating stopped – for a second – until he selected a new one. The blows merge into one and I cannot feel the pain anymore. I cannot see it but I know the floor around my feet is swimming in my congealing blood. I’ve lost count but I know he stops at eight hundred. He refreshes the Poppers and I hardly notice as he withdraws the butt plug and immediately replaces it with his cock. He is big – and long – nine to ten inches - and he stretches me painfully - but the Poppers dull the pain - and suppress my inhibitions. My own cock swells and I sob with self-loathing. He starts again:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

The blows are not as strong - as he cannot take a full swing – but my cheeks are so raw that the spikes still penetrate deeply. I once tried to squeeze the life out of him with my ass muscles – I actually hurt him enough to make him stop – but he just tightened the knot until I blacked out – then continued fucking me. I know roughly how long his cock is because his tip reaches my colon. Every twenty strokes he slowly pushes his tip through the collar of muscles sending a spasm through my lower body that makes my knees buckle. He is like a metronome and I know he will climax on nine hundred and sixty. I try to fight my own body but it always betrays me. The deep penetration and the Poppers inhibit - then sedate my revulsion - and I shoot my load into my panties in the low nine hundreds. His only reaction is raise his voice a tone:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

He orgasms – always at the furthest extent of his reach - and shoots his load deep inside me – where no one else has been. The stream seems endless and nestles around my stomach with a glow that warms me from within. He withdraws – then he wipes himself clean on the hem of my dress. He does not touch my panties again – for they are soaking. He takes another ruler – the spikes are longer – three centimetres – One eventually worked its way from me a month after the fourth beating. These are the worst and I clench my teeth and try to relax my butt cheeks to make my raw flesh pliant. I know there are only forty to go but the first blow always takes me by surprise:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

The agony is so intense, each blow sending pain shooting down my legs as he brackets my sciatic nerves. My knees buckle and he hauls me back up by the rope. The last few strokes is where he plays his ‘breath games’ throttling me so I pass out – letting me recover – and then repeating the process. In all likelihood this is when he will - one day - kill me. At the fortieth stroke I know the worst is over. My senses are so heightened I swear I can actually feel the blood trickling from me. Something scrapes across my butt – I don’t know - but I think he’s collecting my blood to use as ink for the next time he writes to me. He drops in one last dose of Poppers and I lose all sense of perspective again as I drift into that euphoric ‘never never land’. He knows I am subdued again - but he still holds the rope tight - as he starts to dismantle his tableau. He uses a large black grip and in goes the camera and tripod and the other tools of his trade. He pulls the plastic sheets away and stuffs them into a bin liner until he can reach no more. Then he drags me to my feet, removes the shoe from my face and drops it into the bag. He shoves me to my knees and pushes my head into the lavatory without ever letting go of the noose. I kneel there – breathing a combination of stale piss and bleach - while he clears the rest of the plastic. Last of all is the sheet from the floor and his apron – before he removes the leg spreader, gag and blindfold. I blink at the blinding light but all I can see is the water in the bowl right in front of my nose, as he removes the handcuffs and zips the bag shut. His grip on the rope never slackens and I know it is futile to resist. He leans close to me - speaks one last time - and flushes the lavatory:

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

The rope is no longer around my neck and the light has been extinguished and I kneel there with the roaring of the cistern in my ears and water dripping from my face. I hear the faint rustle of paper and the click of the door – and then he is gone. I stagger to my feet yet, despite my injuries, my first reaction is to towel my hair and try to look presentable. My head is still swimming as I wipe the worst of the blood from my butt with a towel. I dare not look at the damage but I know I’ll be calling in sick on Monday and that I won’t be able to sit for a week. I try to think through the options – should I leave the bloodied towel in the room – should I call the police and have them burst in on him next time - but it all returns to the same thing – the letter he made me write saying I was a willing participant in ‘our’ games. So I do what I always do and clean myself up and wrap the towels in a bundle. I walk to the door and there, as always, is a roll of notes on the table. I don’t even bother to count as I know it’s a thousand pounds. I stuff the money down the front of my panties in case I’m stopped by security and leave the room. I know he’s here somewhere – possibly even in the next room - as he can hardly walk down the street in those blue heels – but I’m scared and I head for the emergency exit – let myself out – drop the towels in a bin – and stagger home.

I know I will recover. The bruises and marks fade surprisingly quickly. The HSS pic of me fucking one of my heels was taken only ten days after he did it to me the last time. My shame at filling my panties will take longer to fade – but it always does - eventually. I cut a section off the hem of my dress that I know is impregnated with his DNA, add it to the others and throw the whole outfit away. When he eventually kills me, these scraps will help convict him – if he finds the letter on the table – there are two other letters and samples in safe-keeping! Ultimately he pays me to abuse me in this way – I’ve been to him six times and heard those words twelve thousand and six times– and still I take his money – what does that make me I ask myself – which of these words best describes me?

“Bitch…Tart…Slut…Whore!”

But a thousand pounds does buy a lot of shoes!!!!!!!!




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