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THE DISCIPLINED MALE ANTHOLOGY

by W. Arthur


1. The Doctor and Mrs. Tolliver

He had passed by Tolliver Antiques nearly every day in the two weeks he had been in Merritville. He almost had to since the store was only three doors down from his office on Main Street. However, it took a cold and rainy afternoon for him to muster the courage to go inside.

Christopher Tomisini loved antique stores - he had a nearly single-minded reverence for old things that may show a little wear but are still useful. Sometimes this reverence extended to people as well. However, all that considered, Tolliver Antiques far exceeded his wildest expectations. The building itself was actually a magnificently restored three story stone and brick house that dated back before the Civil War. The beautifully appointed rooms on the first and second floors were filled with antique furniture from various periods, well preserved books from the nineteenth century, and assorted bric-a-brac. He was both fascinated and captivated, and after about fifteen minutes found himself standing in what used to be a bedroom on the second floor. In his hand was a well-worn leather strap.

"That used to belong to my grandfather," came a soft but firm voice behind him. He turned and was immediately face to face with one of the most stunning and stately women he had ever seen. She was an older woman - certainly older than his thirty-one years and quite possibly as old as his fifty-five-year-old mother. She had a trim and firm body wrapped in a flowing white dress that stopped just above her knees. She had china blue eyes peering at him through wire-rimmed glasses. Her hair was long and black, streaked lightly with gray, and secured primly behind her head. Her face was unlined and expressive. "Do you know what he used it for?" Her eyes were practically dancing.

He gathered his breath, trying to shake off the initial shock of seeing this exquisite woman standing only a few feet away from him. "It appears to be a razor strop," he offered.

She smiled, showing him the edges of her white teeth. "Well, he may have used it for that purpose, I guess... I really don't know," she said, the laugh lines on her face now beginning to emerge. After an awkward moment, she extended her right hand toward her visitor. "I'm Olivia Tolliver," she proclaimed. "And you are Dr. Tomisini, aren't you?"

Christopher flushed slightly. "Yes," he said, grasping her fingers lightly with his own. They felt warm and moist. "How did you know that?"

"It's impossible to be a stranger in Merritville," she replied, slowly disengaging her fingers from his. "I was wondering when you would stop in. You can't be that busy already."

He shook his head. "No, this seems to be a pretty healthy town," he said.

"In some ways," she returned. "Do you like antiques, Dr. Tomisini?"

Christopher Tomisini wrinkled his brow slightly. "Yes, very much," he said. "Old things intrigue and fascinate me... and you have some very fine pieces here."

Now she practically beamed with delight. "Does that include old women, doctor?" she asked.

He flushed again, this time achieving a deeper shade of red. How could she have known, he wondered. She must be reading my mind. "Well... I..." he stammered.

Mrs. Tolliver laughed at his discomfort. "I'm sorry, doctor," she said, although her eyes suggested that she wasn't sorry, far from it. "Not much new blood comes into this town. I took advantage of you I'm afraid."

"There's... there's no need to apologize," he said graciously. And there wasn't either, as he was gazing at her, trying to imagine what she looked like under the dress.

"The word around town is that you've moved into the old Fraley homestead... and that you live alone," she said.

"Yes," he said. Having grown up in a suburb of Chicago, he understood that it would take him a long time to get used to the people and culture of a small town.

"Well," she continued, "that being the case, might I interest you in some dinner? I'm famous for my pasta."

Once more he gazed at her, noting the way her body moved under the dress, the way her firm breasts pressed against the thin cloth. He hadn't been with a woman, not even a casual date, since before he finished his fellowship eight months ago. He was about to say yes as soon as he found a way to restrain his mounting excitement. Then he saw the plain gold ring on the third finger of her left hand. His excitement ebbed away like a rapidly receding flood. He lowered his eyes. "There's no need to go to any trouble for me, Ms. Tolliver," he said.

She looked at him for a moment. "It's Mrs. Tolliver... or Olivia, doctor," she said. "I never much liked that Ms. business. Anyway, my husband died three years ago."

Dr. Tomisini suddenly felt ashamed of what he had been thinking and started to get a little excited again. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Tolliver," he said.

Olivia laughed again. "I'm not," she said. "He wasn't much of a man, but he did leave me pretty well off." She reached out and took his fingers in hers again. "Well, what about it, doc," she said, smiling. "Care to come with me to the third floor and join me in a glass of wine before dinner?"

"Don't you need to watch the store?" he asked, trying once more to conceal his excitement.

Her smile widened and she began to pull him gently toward the door. "Oh, right... actually, I closed the store about ten minutes ago."

The doctor marveled at her presumption. Then, as he was allowing himself to be pulled along, he realized that he was still holding the strop. He began to set it back down on the table from which he had unconsciously taken it a few minutes before.

But she stopped him. "There's no need to put that back," she said, her eyes bright and alive. "Perhaps I can tell you its history while we're having our wine."

He practically stopped thinking at all as they resumed their advance toward the door. He would have followed her anywhere now, even straight through the gates of Hell. Thus, a moment later, he found himself blindly following her up a private stairway and into the third floor of the old house. As he looked around, he was awed by what he saw. Most of the interior walls had been removed so the space had a very open and airy feel to it. In one corner was an ornate kitchen complete with breakfast bar. In another corner was a magnificent oak four poster double bed with an Amish quilt over the top. The remainder of the furnishings and decorations were carefully restored period antiques.

Except for one piece to which the doctor's eyes were immediately drawn. Directly in the middle of the room, sitting atop a Persian rug, was a plain three foot high stool, painted black with a plush black cushion on the seat. A black silk scarf was attached to each of the four legs. While his hostess was pouring red wine into two glasses, he continued to scan the room with his gaze always coming back to the stool, which looked so out of place. "This is incredible - everything is so personal and functional," he exclaimed. "But I have to ask... what is the black stool for?"

Mrs. Tolliver didn't answer him right away. Instead, she set one of the glasses down on the counter and sipped from the one still in her hand. After a moment, she glanced at the stool, then at her guest. "Oh... that," she began casually. "That is where I secure the naughty boys I'm going to whip."

His eyes bulged and he whirled around to face her, but there was nothing in her expression to suggest that she was kidding. "I... I..." he stammered helplessly. "Uh... perhaps... I should be leaving."

She laughed. "You don't really want to do that, do you?" she said. He didn't answer - indeed, he seemed to be frozen to the spot on which he was standing. "No, you don't want to do that," she continued, her eyes locked onto his. She set her glass down, crossed over to him, and took the strop out of his trembling hand. She held it out for him. "I think you know very well what this is really used for, don't you?" Again, he didn't answer. She persisted. "I think you want some woman to use this on your naughty bottom. What do you think, Christopher?"

The effect she was having on him, especially when she called him by his full first name, was hypnotic. He alternated his gaze between her face and the long, leather razor strop, worn smooth and shiny. "I... I... think..." But somehow he couldn't say the words, even though at that moment he knew that nothing would be better than to yield to this beautiful and powerful woman.

Mrs. Tolliver reached out and loosened his tie. Then she pulled the tails of his button-down shirt out of his pants. "Why don't you get undressed for me," she said. With his brain spinning and eyes glazing over, he slowly nodded. He unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and handed it to her. She took it and set it down on a nearby chair. She appraised his upper physique while he stripped off his undershirt. "Not bad," she said. "Let's see the rest."

Still in his trance, he quickly complied, and an instant later stood naked in the middle of Mrs. Tolliver's third floor living room. His clothes were in a pile. She scanned him approvingly, stopping at his fully erect penis. "Perhaps we can do something about that... later," she said. "But for now... bend over the stool and take what's coming to you - I'll bet you haven't called your mother since you've been in Merritville."

As if in a dream, Dr. Tomisini shuffled over to the stool and bent his upper body over the cushion. It felt cool and soft against his burning chest. He didn't resist or even flinch as she quickly secured his hands and feet to the legs with the silk scarves. When she was finished and satisfied, she moved in front of him, clutching the strop. "I never did tell you the history of this strop, did I?" she said. Then, without waiting for an answer, she proceeded. "As I said, this belonged to my grandfather. But I don't think he ever used it to sharpen a razor. No... he was more likely to use it on my mother's rear end. He probably used it on his wife - my grandmother - too, but I never heard that. He even used it on me a couple of times when I was growing up. Yes, my grandfather was definitely a man who believed in old-fashioned discipline. Christopher, have you ever been whipped with a razor strop?" He shook his head and she continued. "I didn't think so... if you had, you wouldn't be so anxious now to be whipped. But... no matter. I can assure you that it really is quite painful, especially in the hands of a skilled practitioner. And I am such a person, I'm afraid." She looked him in the eye again. He was quivering all over. "Shall I proceed? Shall I cleanse you of all your manly guilt?"

He blinked several times as he beheld the strop. It was looking more menacing by the second. Still, his erection was raging and very uncomfortable. "Yes," he said in a near whisper.

Her smile widened into an evil smirk. "I was hoping you'd say yes," she declared. "But I would have whipped you anyway, even if you'd said no or nothing at all." She stopped talking and suddenly became all business as she moved behind him and out of his sight.



© W. Arthur
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.