If you were to disappear, well, if you were to go away is probably a more appropriate term, would anyone miss you, would anyone care? What would happen if you decided to give up your life, to walk away from everything that you know, everyone you know and love, and become someone else, something else. In the case of Bob Gibson, that is exactly what he had to ask himself. He had six weeks to decide, to put his affairs in order so to speak, making sure that he could make the transition to his new life with little or no suspicions being aroused by anyone. The story he told his coworkers was that he inherited a rather sizeable piece of land and some money from a distant relative in Germany and he was going to retire and move there to get away from the rat race. In reality, he was going to be moving less than 10 miles away and he, well, let's just say that he was not going to be living a life of luxury.
Everything in his life turned upside down when he was sitting at work like any other day and a woman entered his bank branch and asked to speak to someone about investing a large sum of money. As he stood to greet her and shake her hand and escort her to his desk, little did he know that he was about to change the course of his life drastically and forever.
"Yes, Ms. Maxwell, how can I help you today?"
Elaine Maxwell was a Black woman who looked like she could have been in her late 40s. Her form-fitting red suit hugged every curve of her mature, sexy body. Her black, silk stockings caressed her beautiful legs and her tasteful and sophisticated pumps framed her sexy feet to perfection. Her hair was straight and hung just below her shoulders and her face was stern but pretty. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous or anything, she had aged well but she wasn't going to stop traffic by any means. What she did possess in spades, while possibly lacking the looks of a runway model, was an air of confidence that couldn't be denied. It oozed from every pore of her body, she reeked of being in control and even a casual observer could see that she was a ball-buster of the highest order.
"I've just come into a large amount of money and I need to set up several different accounts."
"Well, Ms. Maxwell, I'm sure we can help you with that. Exactly how much money are we talking about and what sort of accounts would you like to set up? We have several products that might be able to help you."
She said casually, "I have a total of $1,250,000 and I'm looking to set up an interest bearing checking account, a savings and business checking account, a money market deposit account, and I need a couple of CDs. Oh, and a personal checking account as well.
The look of astonishment could barely be hidden on Bob's face. In an average month, he wouldn't get one person with anywhere near that amount of money to invest. Sure, there were lots of people with those sorts of balances he had worked with before but they were the result of interest and investments and smaller, incremental deposits, not one large sum of money. He laughed nervously. "Wow, did you win the lottery," trying to think of a way to hide his clear shock and awe? Regretting his choice of words immediately, he shuffled papers on his desk and he felt about an inch tall. He knew it wasn't appropriate or professional to ask and he wished he could eat his words but his mind was searching, scrambling, wondering how she could have come into that much money at one time. There was a part of his brain that couldn't process a Black woman could have that sort of money without thinking there was some sort of criminal enterprise involved: drugs, prostitution, or perhaps larceny. He recovered quickly, saying, "I'm sure we can help you with those things. Have you consulted with anyone about some higher risk investments that might yield you greater returns? I would love to show you some investment options that would..."
Bob felt his words being stifled by her intense stare. He stopped mid-sentence, his words dying off, culminating in a nadir of insecurity and intimidation. Elaine didn't respond to either question, rather she simply gave a sly smile and a look that clearly said, "Just do what the fuck I told you to do and don't ask any dumb questions." She didn't have to say the words rather she communicated them clearly with some sort of telepathic, mind-bending sorcery. Bob was always uncomfortable around women socially and this woman seemed to be staring a hole into his very being, peering into the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul. And Bob had some filthy secrets to hide in those dark, veiled places.
She opened her purse and pulled out a cashier's check made out to her in the amount of $1.25 million exactly. Bob swallowed hard. He felt a pang of jealousy for anyone with that amount of money and his own massive debts made him feel inferior but he pulled himself together called his supervisor and went about the business of fulfilling her requests.
The process of setting up all those accounts with that amount of money takes days not hours and there are tons of terms of agreement forms to be signed, tax forms and tax identification numbers to be filed, signature cards on top of virtual signature cards, approvals, overrides, overnighted packages, PINs programmed, free gifts, and credit and debit cards to be issued. When all was said and done, Elaine and Bob had spent a significant amount of time together. Their conversations were sparse, strictly limited to business, and after each encounter, when he would go home and unwind from his day, Bob would fill in the blanks with his own fantasies of not only how she came into that sort of money but the things she would do to him. Oh, the things she would do.
Bob intentionally tried to make their interactions longer than were necessary. He would say he needed to speak to someone at corporate and then call his personal cell phone from his office phone and pretend to be on hold or mumbling a variety of affirmative responses pretending to talk to someone, filling in the empty space with casual banter. A few times, his computer seemed to freeze up and he had to call the IT department and reboot his terminal, all the while trying to make small talk and lavish her with very subtle compliments. In his mind, the more time he spent with her, making small talk, he could get answers to his questions. He very much wanted to ask her very personal questions.
She didn't wear a wedding ring so one of the many scenarios he created in his head involved her being a divorcee and the money was part of her divorce settlement. In addition to being a drug cartel "queenpin" the lottery scenario played itself out a few times in his head as well. Mostly, he fantasized that she extorted the money from some rich guy whom she was sexually involved with who had secrets to hide and this was her payoff money. Maybe he died and left her the money in his will because he was so devoted to her, angering his conservative family who knew nothing about his sexual proclivities while he was living. That particular fantasy was the most arousing for him as he could have her fit his fantasies of being a cruel dominatrix who inflicted unrelenting pain.
Every day, Elaine would come attired in a severe but sexy suit, makeup and hair done to perfection, and heels. It was her shoes that always held his attention. Bob was captivated by them. They were expensive, he could tell, and they looked like torture devices with pointy stilettos and pointy toes and platforms that looked like only the most experienced acrobat could walk on.
As the last of the red tape had been navigated and it was clear that they had no more need to interact on a daily basis, Bob thought for a moment that he would work up the nerve to ask her for coffee. He rearranged papers and opened and closed drawers and stood at the copy machine and changed the ink cartridge that wasn't nearly empty trying to work up his nerve before he told her that she was cleared for take-off as it were. It wasn't professional and he knew he could get in trouble if he did but just the thought of asking her out to find out her real story was enough to keep him running the scenario over in his head. He fidgeted until he couldn't fidget any more. He did everything but ask her out. Instead he simply said, "Ms. Maxwell, it's been a pleasure working with you and if you need anything further, please feel free to call me. Here's my card." That was the best he could do. He was even too scared to write his own personal cell phone number on the card.
Elaine smiled and placed the card in her billfold and turned to leave without so much as a thank you or goodbye. He slumped in his chair as she walked away and he stared at her ass in that form-fitting suit and with nasty thoughts of what he would do to her, well, what she would do to him more accurately. Just as the door to the bank closed, he looked at his desk and her very expensive Mont Blanc lay there. He grabbed it and sprinted for the parking lot.
"Ms. Maxwell," he shouted, as he saw her opening the door to her big, black truck, "You forgot your pen!"
She turned to see him trotting like an old, fat horse to her vehicle. She opened the door to her SUV and climbed inside as Bob approached her. Then, in the most blatant Sharon Stone/ Basic Instinct move ever made in real life, with her skirt that had "accidentally" been pulled up just enough, she spread her legs ever so slightly so that Bob could see her naked pussy above her thigh high stockings. Right there, practically at eye level, was her mature, hairy, black pussy. Bob was frozen in his tracks. He dropped the pen, sincerely and honestly by accident, but his lingering stare at the heaven between her thighs was anything but accidental. He wanted to ram his face in there and start licking and to hell with the consequences. He didn't of course. He didn't do anything but stare. He knew she saw him staring and he felt ashamed and embarrassed for not being able to look away but he couldn't. The president of the bank could have called his name in that moment and Bob would have said, "Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute."
She extended her hand and he placed the pen gently in her palm. Again, she didn't even make the civil pretense of saying thank you and that fact made Bob's cock stir in his sensible and boring suit pants. She was toying with him but he was too inept and socially immature to respond the way any normal male would so he just stood there, words frozen in his brain, unable to utter a sound. She turned in the seat and pulled her skirt down just a tiny bit. He could still see the tops of her lace top stockings and the straps of her expensive garter belt as he watched her foot press the brake, wishing she would press her perfect foot into his balls in much the same way, as she started the engine.
With his hand on the door frame for support, Bob struggled to stand up of his own volition. His knees were weak and about to buckle. And, almost like he was in a dream, he saw her reach for the door and pull it shut, his fingers smashed across the knuckle and the first joint. He didn't scream out or curse like most people would do, instead, he made a groan, a muffled grunt and said, "Thank you, Mistress," automatically. It was so spontaneous, so unplanned he almost didn't hear himself say it. He grabbed his hand and clutched it to his chest with his left hand. She rolled down the window and said, "Grimaldi's. Tonight. 8:30," put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, almost rolling over Bob's foot in the process.
Dazed, confused, and aroused, Bob stood in the parking lot, his hand throbbing and aching, his libido heightened and aroused. Everyone in the bank was outraged and demanded that he press charges but he insisted that it was his fault, that it was totally an accident. His boss made him leave work early and get x-rays to make sure that no bones were broken. He didn't care if they were. He had fallen in love with her assertiveness and her cruelty in that moment. His mind raced trying to figure out how she had identified his fetish so completely in such a short period of time. He had to go to an Emergency Care office and there was a two hour wait. He contemplated just going home and wrapping it in an ace bandage and putting some ice on it so he could get ready to meet her but he stayed, against his first inclination he stayed. He wanted to get home to masturbate before the meeting but if he had broken bones, he didn't want to have to explain to his coworkers why he didn't get everything taken care of then and there.
Nothing was broken but his hand was swollen and purple. That wasn't the only thing that was swollen and purple to say the least. Bob was turned on like never before. What sort of woman would do that? What sort of women would show no remorse, not even an ounce of guilt or empathy after doing something so harsh? The woman of his dreams, that's what sort of woman. All his life he'd fantasized about a woman who was unapologetically cruel and sadistic. She was Black, attractive, not quite rich but if she played her cards right and invested some of that money, she wouldn't have to work again, or not very hard at least, and she seemed warped and twisted enough to fulfill all of his wildest dreams come true. And to top it off, she demanded his presence at dinner tonight. He was not going to be late even if he they had to amputate his entire arm.
By the time he got home, he looked at porn and jerked off for a couple of hours. He had to use his left hand because his right hand was in a brace. He showered and dressed and stopped at the grocery store for a bouquet of cheap flowers because he didn't want to show up empty handed. He had no idea what to expect from her. He knew that she didn't find him attractive. She deserved a real man. He wasn't a real man. Real men are assertive and confident; they aren't warped masochists who get off on extreme pain. Real men are suave alpha males who dominate women not pain pigs who live from paycheck to paycheck just to keep their heads above water.
He was three minutes late and she was already seated when the hostess showed him to her table. "Sit," she ordered, pointing to the chair, the hostess taken aback by the strict tone of her voice.
Bob slithered into the chair and awaited further instruction. She saw the brace on his hand and said, "No cast? I'll have to do it harder next time."
Bob almost came in his pants.
He looked at the menu nervously, not sure what to say. He was out of his element. He'd never been in a situation like this in his life and he wanted to show his reverence but he was terrified beyond belief. Not terrified of her but rather terrified that he would fuck up and ruin whatever was going to happen. The waiter came and she ordered for both of them, but not before making sure to ask him in front of the server if he had a little cock. Both Bob and the server blushed a deep shade of crimson red. Elaine, on the other hand, looked like she had just said, "Pass the salt, please."
Throughout dinner, she asked question after question. She asked questions so intimate and personal that a ton of people who are married never asked each other for that much detail and veracity. By the time Bob answered, she had another question lined up. He answered all of them truthfully, as truthfully as he could. Elaine didn't seem to understand the concept of discretion as she asked more and more sexual questions within earshot of the other diners and she wasn't concerned or moved that she might be offending them. That turned Bob on. Over the course of their meal, she learned everything about Bob that there was to know. She knew about his occasional cross dressing tendencies, his failed relationships, his crazy ex-wife, his drug and alcohol issues, his debt, and most importantly, his love of pain and suffering at the hands of a cruel and sadistic Domme.
She signaled for the check and the waiter was there in seconds, wanting to hear more of their conversation so he could run back to the kitchen and tell people more of the bits and pieces he had gleaned from their taboo banter. "Do you have any questions for me, Bob," she asked sincerely.
"Well," he stammered, "I guess. Actually, just two questions. First, how did you know, today, in the parking lot, that I would like pain, that I would respond the way I did?"
"I consulted my African tarot cards and the voodoo gods told me that you need pain in order to feel arousal."
Bob swallowed hard. This woman was surely some sort of other-world sorceress who had magical and mystical powers that could see into his soul. He inhaled sharply, ready to ask his second question when she finished by saying, "You fucking idiot. I had no idea you liked pain. What makes you think I cared if you liked pain or not? I didn't care then and I really don't care now. I just thought it would be amusing to see if I could break your hand. I could tell you were into feet or shoes or legs or whatever, you aren't very discrete when you stare, but I didn't have the slightest clue about the pain thing. I guess you just lucked out."
OK, Bob was pretty much assured that she was a sociopath because she explained it all without even a hint of repentance. A deranged Black woman with no conscious just explained to him that she was unhinged and unapologetically cruel. She truly was the woman of his dreams. His second question would be his last chance, or so he thought, so he wanted to make it a good one. The entire evening was so arousing he would replay it over and over in his head for years to come adding details and making it end in a flurry of abuse and torture. He took another deep breath and whispered, almost ashamed to ask, "And the money?" He didn't think he needed to explain further.
He just knew for sure that she was going to say, "None of your fucking business," but he had to ask; he wanted to know so he could put his suspicions to bed.
Staring him straight in the eye, not hesitating for a second with her response, she said almost tearfully ... almost, "I got a settlement from The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York." She didn't have to say more. In an instant, 100s of questions were answered. From that tidbit of information he could piece together why she seemed to so blasé about causing a relative stranger such intense pain. Bob wasn't Catholic, he wasn't even religious so he didn't feel any particular guilt or connection to her situation but he imagined that whatever was done to her to earn her such a huge settlement was something that created this beautiful monster before him to his great benefit.
She picked up her bag and pulled out her cell phone. She placed a call and covered it with her hand while mouthing the words, "I'm sure we'll see one another again," and she walked out, leaving Bob to pay the bill.
Every second of every day, Bob fantasized about the mysterious Ms. Maxwell. There wasn't a waking moment when he wasn't obsessed with thoughts about her. Every time the door to the bank opened, he looked to see if it was her. He would have to jerk off at work, unable to concentrate or be productive, because he was in a constant state of arousal. He would go home and spend hours and hours just edging, keeping himself constantly aroused, fantasizing about Mistress Elaine beating the crap out of him, leaving him a bloody, broken mess, exacting revenge for the pain inflicted on her, taking it out on his useless body, transforming his mind, owning his spirit.
He knew she would be back. He knew it because she had to know how much control she had over him and he knew she was the sort of women that would take advantage of that. He waited as patiently as he could but was on constant edge, anxious to see her again.
It was approximately two weeks after their night out that he saw her again. She walked in the bank, looking as stunning and intimidating as ever, and walked up to his desk. He was with another customer at the time and his co-worker Elizabeth was trying her best to get Elaine to come to her desk to see if she assist her in any way. Bob had never been so curt with a customer in his life. He refunded their overdrawn fee and offered them a lollipop as he made sure to escort them out as quickly as possible. By the time he returned, Elaine was seated at his desk and seductively sucking on a blue raspberry flavored lollipop.
"Yes, Ms. Maxwell, how can I help you today?" He wanted to drop to his knees and kiss her feet but he knew better.
"I need a mortgage," she said, "Fifteen-year I'm thinking. I found the most glorious house and I can't let it get away." Normally, Bob didn't handle mortgage products but he was not going to let her leave his desk. He stalled. He asked her all sorts of questions about the house, how many bedrooms, when it was built, if she had it inspected, anything he could think of before he had to come clean and acknowledge that he had to send her to someone else in order to help her.
Elaine understood and then said, "Well, maybe you can come and see it and give me some feedback on what you think about it, if it's a good investment."