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Message-ID: <41884asstr$1050437404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 15 Apr 2003 13:55:53 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Monster (caution)
Date: Tue, 15 Apr 2003 16:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This story was 'inspired', if that's the right word, by Alexis and Souvie.
Both have written stories dealing with the issue of domestic violence. This
is a subject of which I have no personal understanding or experience and it
demands to be treated seriously. What follows is an attempt, on my part, to
highlight the issue. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EXPECTING ROMANCE.

Smilodon

                               Monster



Capricious. That was the word that best described him, he decided. He played
with the sound, drawing out each syllable. Ca-pri-cious. The more he said
it, the more he liked it. It made him feel - powerful, somehow. It felt
good. It felt so good that that lovely tingling sensation began in his
groin. He ordered another beer and a whisky chaser, grinning at the young
barmaid as he paid. She simpered back, the bitch! He could certainly give
her one, for starters. He pictured her, legs spread, begging him for it and
grinned again. If only she could see the vision he could! She'd shit herself
with fright. Probably not, though. He reckoned she was a right little slut
on the quiet. Nice tits, too. She handed him his change and walked away to
serve another customer with a shudder he did not see.

He hadn't meant to stay at the pub so long. Someone had come in and he'd got
talking, you know how it is, the time simply slipped by. It was only the
landlord's call of "last orders in the Bar" that got him moving. Not that he
was drunk. Oh no, he'd had a few, certainly, but he could walk and talk
straight. He wouldn't have fancied driving, though, in that condition. He
was - what was the expression? - Ah, yes. 'Pleasantly mellow,' that was it.
Still, it was a warm night and the rain had stopped earlier. The walk would
do him good.

He strolled indolently, deliberately not hurrying through the sleek, wet
streets. Soft pools of light from curtained windows reflected from the
puddles. It was too nice an evening to waste. He stopped to light a
cigarette under a streetlamp and vaguely remembered a TV commercial from
back in the days before tobacco advertising was banned. He'd always liked
that ad; the mysterious man in the trenchcoat lighting up, his features
mostly hidden by the brim of his hat and the hands that cupped the lighted
match. He was a figure of power, that man, in some loose, inexplicable way.
He had the aura.

His house was in darkness when he got there. He fumbled with the key and
cursed softly under his breath. Why did she do it? She knew he'd be coming
home. OK, he'd said he wouldn't be long but a man's got to have a bit of
leeway sometimes - hasn't he? She could at least have left the outside light
on for him. A knot of anger began to form in his chest. Feeling it there fed
his irritation. Why did she have to wind him up like that? He pushed too
hard at the recalcitrant door and almost fell into the dark hallway. He
tripped over something and did fall this time. His bellowed expletive filled
the silent house. Getting to his feet and rubbing his barked shin, he saw it
was his daughter's doll's pram. He kicked at it in fury.

A light came on at the top at the stairs and she stood there. She looked
down and saw him, his face contorted by rage, suffused with blood. Her heart
fluttered wildly as the familiar terror engulfed her. A low moan barely
escaped her lips. He was charging up the stairs towards her. She could smell
the booze on his breath, and the stale tobacco smoke odour clinging to his
suit, from yards away. Then came the pain as he seized her by the hair and
dragged her back down the staircase.

"Bob!" she wailed, "Please, you promised!"

The sound of her voice only served to inflame him more and he backhanded her
across the face without even turning to look at her.

What horrified her most as such times was the sheer methodical way he went
about the beating. The rage was there, she could read it like a banner
headline, but there was no loss of control. If anything, he seemed too much
in control, too deliberate to be human. It wasn't the act of an angry man
simply lashing out. It was a calculated cruelty. She lost track of time. It
could have taken a minute or an hour, she could never say. Her world was
encompassed by the pain, by the sickening noise of fist hitting tender flesh
and the rasp of his breathing. He didn't say a word throughout.

Finally he grew tired and let her be. She heard him walk through to the
kitchen, heard the sound of the kettle filling and the gas being lit. She
lay still, clasping her knees and sobbing. The kettle began to sing as the
water boiled and she heard the sound of pouring and the soft 'thunk' of the
fridge door closing. He appeared in the doorway carrying two mugs of tea,
his face an inscrutable mask. He placed a mug beside her on the floor and
subsided into an armchair.

She heard him clear his throat and caught the acrid sulphur smell of the
match as he lit another cigarette. She heard him draw and exhale heavily.
For a while, he smoked in silence. She pulled herself painfully to her knees
and, stilled hunched against the agony that gripped her, tottered slowly to
the sofa and sat in silent misery. Now it would come, the self-flagellation,
the tearful apology, the wet, weeping kisses and finally the promise:

"I swear to God, my love, I swear on our daughter's life, I will never do it
again."

Until the next time.


********************

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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