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 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."
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..."
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.
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