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.

He noticed.

He leaned across the cof­fee table, and qui­etly asked if I’d like to try it. I blushed a lit­tle bit, I think, but answered that I would. He smiled at me, pat­ted his thigh, and inquired, “Over my lap ok?”

I was at a bit of a loss, I guess, and I answered him, “I don’t know. I don’t know how this works.”

He took it out of my hands, his shy­ness gone.

Don’t worry,” he grinned, “I do.”


A lit­tle later, I found myself kneel­ing on the couch, face rest­ing against the wall, knees apart, hands stretched out on the back of the couch. A pair of…sticks, both held in one hand… like skew­ers, but a bit longer and heav­ier, played up and down my spine, my calves, the insides of my thighs. It stung just a bit, but made my skin come alive. I was unable to sink down deep with it — had to be alert enough to keep answer­ing that I was fine, that it felt good, yes, please, keep going.

And then a three fin­gered leather some­thing, used the same way, but more intensely. It wasn’t really painful, just stim­u­lat­ing. He used it all over my back, my arms, my hands, my bare feet, my sore bot­tom — he even bent my head to the side, care­fully shield­ing my face and ear with his hand, and lightly whipped the sen­si­tive skin of my shoul­der and neck.

What a sen­sa­tion this was — unlike any­thing I’ve ever felt before. Every inch of me was warm and tingling…I was com­pletely enervated…all the ten­sion had drained away from every mus­cle in my body, and I was float­ing on the high, relaxed beyond measure.

After­wards, he hugged me warmly, and thanked me for the scene. That was the part that amazed me the most. He was thank­ing me.


Later, at a club, I knelt over a spank­ing bench straight out of fan­tasy, sur­rounded by the sounds of blows and cries and voices. He had just learned to use a cane, and wanted to test his knowl­edge. I was aware of the woman who had taught him, sit­ting behind me, keep­ing her eye on her stu­dent, keep­ing me safe. I wasn’t aware of her for long.

I don’t remem­ber this scene very clearly. I remem­ber him ask­ing how I was doing, many times. I remem­ber him ask­ing if I needed a break, and my sug­gest­ing instead that he try a few hard strokes with the cane. I remem­ber the stroke that left a beau­ti­ful pur­ple bruise on my thigh.

I don’t remem­ber when he switched over to the crop, nor when he stopped ask­ing if it was too hard, and started telling me hat it was going to hurt. I know that there came a point when I fought to stay still, when my cries sud­denly sounded loud in my ears, when I thought for an instant that I couldn’t take every­thing that he wanted to give me.

How did he know when that exact moment hap­pened? Maybe he didn’t — maybe it was just a good guess. For what­ever rea­son, though, he began to talk to me. The strokes didn’t lessen — in fact, I think the inten­sity increased — but I heard his voice sooth­ing me, telling me how well I was doing. I felt like I could take anything.

I was lit­er­ally shak­ing when it was over. I man­aged to make it down the stairs and sank into a soft couch in a quiet alcove. A few moments later, he came over to me. I smiled at him, pat­ted the cush­ion, and he slid in next to me, and held me. For a long time.


We had already said good­bye. He had a long drive ahead of him that night.

I had wan­dered into another room to find the oth­ers I had arrived with, still fly­ing so high that I wasn’t sure what I was say­ing. Soon his “goodbye“s brought him to the room. He casu­ally slipped an arm around my shoul­ders as he made con­ver­sa­tion, and his hand slid down my back, to lightly slap my aching bottom.

Abruptly, he took my wrist, and said, “Come over here.” He tugged me across the room, and I just let him, glanc­ing over my shoul­der to smile at my watch­ing pals. I had no idea what he had in mind.

This time, there was no, “Would you like?” or “Do you want?” or “Is this ok?” He sim­ply found a table he liked, arranged me bent over it the way he liked, and took off his belt.

He showed it to me — not to ask for my approval, but so that I would know what was com­ing. I already knew, of course — there’s no mis­tak­ing that sound. I think that I closed my eyes.

I felt his hand tan­gled in my hair, and heard the quiet voice in my ear.

I’m not going to bother to be gen­tle this time.”

Oh my.

He wasn’t. It hurt, and there were no stops to ask if it was too hard, if I wanted a break. He began with the belt quadru­pled, but as soon as I was really squirm­ing, he matter-​​of-​​factly informed me that he was going to switch to using it doubled.

Sharp, hot, per­fect pain, at just the right pace, in just the right places. Soon — far too soon — came the feel of his hands stroking my back.

I have to go,” he said softly, lips close to my ear.

I know,” I mur­mured back.

Again, as if he wasn’t quite ready to believe it.

I have to go…”

I know…”

He leaned closer. “So,” he mur­mured, “twenty-​​four more.”

My mind shrieked “yes, yes, please” and “no, no, too many” at the same time, but I don’t think I got out more than a whimper.

Not that it mat­tered. Not at all.

Per­mis­sion is granted to old​-tom​.com to host the story col­lec­tion. This story is the prop­erty and copy­right 1998 of Randi all rights reserved. Please don’t repost this or make it pub­licly acces­si­ble via FTP, mail server, or archive site with­out explicit per­mis­sion. Per­mis­sion is granted for one hard copy for per­sonal use.



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