SVETLANA, MY RUSSIAN ASSASSIN

By on August 3, 2010

I was a teenage Satanist. In other words, I was a Goth embarrassment, Red was my second favourite colour, particular the shade of soundly beaten bottoms. Cane lines crayoned on white flesh. Red passion flowers. Or perhaps it was the canvas on which they were etched. Artists need a flat easel but those who work on flesh prefer curves. This sort of work should be done as slowly as possible, preferably on chubby buttocks, the sort one must fondle before, during and after a punishment. Just to  ascertain whether the skin can take any more reddening, of course. One wouldn’t want to besmirch the noble art of chastisement with sexuality. At least not until the receiver has been allowed to rub their bottom, perhaps while pouting defiantly, and after they have spread themselves in whatever position in which they like to receive oral sex. Or something a little more invasive…
My teenage hobbies were mooching around and deciding how suicidal I was. Usually while reading Sylvia Plath. I would wonder who would miss me after I was gone.  How much I could hurt them. How they would rue the day they upset me, the centre of the known universe.
Perhaps I just needed someone to thrash some sense into me, fortunately I met a wise older woman. Her name was also Sylvia, although, unlike Plath, there was nothing remotely masochist about her. She taught me the benefits of a sound scourging on a moonlit night. Black clothes, red wine, white moon, red bums, shared sighs. We were the cruel sisters, taking it in turns to whip each other into a frenzy. I was fond of my teacher. She whipped me well. She showed me how to make money from my passion, helping me to become a pro-Domme. She even taught me new words to describe a beating, sometimes over her knee, with one spank for each letter.
“Vapulation” – an obscure word for flogging – how it hurt memorising that one! “Rubious” was another one of Sylvia’s obscure words, one that would drive any Scrabble opponent into a red mist rage.  It took fewer smacks to learn that one, perhaps because ‘the colour of rubies’ was poetic enough to be memorable.
Now I’m on my fourth twenty-ninth birthday I still persevere with men. Heaven knows why, as they’re mostly useless.  But I much prefer spanking women.  And the most recent jewel in my crown was Svetlana, a Russian mafia princess. She came into my life when I was looking for someone to kill my ex-husband. Too much information? Well, it was only a passing phase. I’d rather have him alive these days. That way he’ll suffer much longer.
Geezer Hardnut, my boyfriend, when I can prise him away from the Playstation, finally arranged for me to meet Svetlana, after a mere six months or so of hypnotic suggestion. Or nagging, as he calls it.
Svetlana was my scarlet woman. You could use ‘rubious’ to describe her crimson lipstick and the broken veins in her bloodshot eyes. She kills people for money. So Geezer says. He might be a liar but he’s murdered more people than I have so I have to go with it. Particularly as I have spent at least a year wanting my ex husband dispensed with. I admit I may have lost a little perspective when they took my child away from me.  Relax, I would never have gone through with it. Some film noir heroine I would have made.
Scarlet was the colour of her pert little bum once I had finished paddling it. Svetlana was thin, chic, adorably scatty and most probably insane. Her skin was as white as the paper I write on, her bruises as black as my ink. Like my teenage self Svetlana wore only black and red. Black boots, red leather micro-skirt. Her conversation also had one theme: what she wanted next.  Apart from her blonde hair this was going to be like spanking my teenage self.
“You talk too much! Beat me! I want to be flogged. Flogged hard!”
Typical Svetlana. She can’t even be bothered to wait for a proper introduction. I can hear her husky voice, too loud from vodka and smoky from too many cigarettes. “Linear narrative? Is for pussies! Pull my knickers down and smack my bottom!. Hard!”
Well. If you insist.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them.  As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and  pleasure, the site of pride and shame.  It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible.  I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.

part two coming up tomorrow

You may also like

Leave Comment