Old Tom
Copyright 1997-2002 by OldTom, all rights reserved.

As he and she explored their deeper sides, he found a strong connection within. He portrayed the possibility in a story, as was his way. He portrayed them both as different persons, since that was part of his point.

He laid out the story for her to see, and tell him whether or not it was her. Perhaps so; perhaps not... no matter, for his stories were his means of discovery.

Very few people, he found, liked this side of him. He had always kept this side of himself separate from the rest of his story... until now.

His toy bag was pathetic; just some household odds and ends, and a few antique-store finds from his travels. His cane was a dollar-thirty-five piece of plastic pipe.

He had no steely gaze - hurting a woman was always such fun. She had the experience, whereas he did not... but he had power over her, for he knew her need. He took such joy in the aura of pain surrounding them; he understood her fascination with wet, thick, dark, oozing blood.

"Bring me the cuffs," he said.

"Why don't you get them?" she taunted.

He knew what she wanted... that look of steel. But he had decided to run with his instinct, play it his way. He just grinned, and waited. She would cooperate... she wanted it too badly.

She brought him the cuffs, and offered up her wrists. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was ready.

He attached her to the chain, leaving her mostly hanging by her wrists, her toes touching the ground. He slapped her face hard, so she could taste the blood. She liked that.

He smacked her bottom, hard. He liked the sound of the smack, bare skin on bare skin. She was bored. He understood boredom; he himself had been beaten purple without it becoming interesting.

He brought out that old razor strop, two strips of pigskin. She smiled. He told her he would continue as long as she counted.

"Are you ready?"

She smiled, and spoke with her musical lilt, keeping it just a bit disdainful. "Of course."

"When you're ready, say 'Yes, master.'"

She sighed, and spat out, "Yes, master."

He held up the strop by its hook, letting her fix her gaze on its motion. He paused, and then dropped it with a clatter, holding his open hand still at eye level. He waited for her to look at his eyes.

"Try again. Or forget it."

She liked that tone of voice. "Yes, master. I'm ready."

He faltered a bit before he got the swing just right. Before now he had always used it partially folded over, shortening it so it would not hurt so badly. Finally, finally, he need not worry about noise, or how much pain he was causing.

She counted to a hundred three times, but her skin never broke. He allowed her to stop counting, and just enjoy the ride. She soon after began moaning... but in pleasure, not pain.

He paused to switch toys, but he did not bother to take time and be gentle, solicitous. She appreciated that. He was having such fun.

He pulled out his buck-thirty-five cane. It had but one purpose, which was to break the skin at the base of her bottom. A dozen slow strokes were sufficient; the second dozen actually made her hot. The slightest of trickles had finally begun.

He so wanted to make her scream. Thirty-six hours had he promised her, and this was the first. He began to smile.

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