Corner Talk

This story by Stranger is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.

Cor­ner Talk

By Stranger

And what does that make you?” I asked, twist­ing her nip­ples and rub­bing the bulge in my pants against the back of her shiny black panties.

A bad, wicked girl,” she answered, her wrists hooked over the top hinge of the closed door as she faced the cor­ner, breath­ing heav­ily and push­ing back against me as my throb­bing cock rubbed into the crack of her ass.

That’s right. A bad, wicked girl,” I said, slid­ing my hands down over her belly and past the waist­band of her high-​​cut panties, spread­ing my fin­gers and pulling back on her hips as I did. “And what hap­pens to bad, wicked girls who don’t behave?” I asked.

She took in a quick breath and hes­i­tated before answering.

Well?” I whis­pered into her ear as I leaned for­ward, press­ing her into the corner.

They get spanked,” she answered in a quiet voice. (more…)

A Real Life Tale

This story by Randi is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.

A Real Life Tale

By Randi

copy­right © 1998 by Randi

Sat­ur­day, around noon, I think, I met some­one. I sup­pose I’d actu­ally met him the evening before — I remem­ber a brief “Oh, you’re so-and-so’s friend, right?” I’d read some of his posts, but never responded, never had any con­tact with him, never chat­ted online. I never liked his posts. I always found them too intense for me. But here he was in per­son — a very quiet man, almost shy. I liked him.

I was sit­ting on the floor of the party suite, hold­ing his razor strop in my hand. It was beau­ti­ful — the fetish embod­ied, smooth and old and flex­i­ble — a dou­ble piece of leather, with gleam­ing hard­ware. I thought of all the peo­ple who had warned me away from strops. I was drawn to it. (more…)


This story by Michelle is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.


by Michelle

“You should never have agreed to be a god for me if you were afraid to assume the duties of a god, and we all know they aren’t as ten­der as all that.” — Pauline Reage

It was March of 1998 that I finally met C, who held the side of me that I called “my sub­mis­sive side”. He stood as “per­fec­tion” in my eyes… eyes that were blind­folded by all that I had cre­ated him to be.

I still learned more about myself in the year that we were “together” than I had pre­vi­ously, but as I found out, he never really did agree to be a god; I had sim­ply appointed him. And it’s easy now to look at the events and under­stand where my head was… and know the dif­fer­ence between what I had with him… and true submission.

True sub­mis­sion can only be found in the light of true Dom­i­nance. The kind of per­son who will take time to make you under­stand Respect, humil­ity, truth, purity, love, and inner peace. Some­one who accepts you for who you are, the way you are, but will help you stay on the path of what is right. (more…)

The Statue

This story by The Flog­mas­ter is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.

The Statue (****, M/​F, Intense, Adult, semi n/​c)

A woman meets a sculp­tor with a unique talent.

At first I assumed he was lying. But his expres­sion was sin­cere. My refusal crushed him, and I felt bad. His accent was for­eign. He was mod­est about his art and with­out smil­ing said his name was Zolton. Gig­gling, I remarked that he sounded like a car­ni­val magi­cian. He glanced at me sharply, his thick eye­brows bunch­ing into a glare.

Do not joke about such things,” he said. “In my coun­try magic and art are not far apart.”

For rea­sons I can­not fathom I fol­lowed him home. Be assured this not my nor­mal habit. I am a mod­est girl with a good rep­u­ta­tion. Per­haps the man’s dark, mys­te­ri­ous eyes cap­ti­vated me. I couldn’t refuse. (more…)


This story by Elsie dePlume is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.


By Elsie dePlume

Copy­right 1997

Dis­claimer: This is fiction.

He watched her as she took up the flask and a woven bas­ket and dis­ap­peared down the path that led to the stream with­out a back­ward glance. She would not risk show­ing him her face; but her body told as much as her vis­age would have. Her pos­ture spoke of resent­ment, her gait of irri­ta­tion. There was no affec­tion in her now.

He shifted care­fully on the pal­let of skins, cradling his injured arm, and tried to find a less uncom­fort­able posi­tion. This resent­ment toward him had been more and more appar­ent as the days had passed and his infir­mity had not abated. There had always been moments of ten­sion between them, of course — only one of them could be dom­i­nant, and in all fam­ily units the leader was tested on occa­sion; but she was no match for his size and strength, and the end of every skir­mish had found her pinned, help­less, while his open hand reaf­firmed his ascen­dancy on her round­est, ten­der­est region. She was for­tu­nate, in his opin­ion, that he had never caused her seri­ous injury. Some of his fel­lows were not so care­ful with their females. This worked to his own advan­tage, of course, for when such an unlucky female was ren­dered unus­able and the for­mer mate went look­ing for a replace­ment, the threat of cap­ture by a more bru­tal male sud­denly enhanced his own desir­abil­ity in her eyes. (more…)

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