What I Like About You + Storytelling

Bummer about the period, but it’s probably best to get it out of the way before you’re stuck on an airplane and understandably cranky. I’m mildly afraid that you’re going to think so hard about not getting a yeast infection that you’re going to give yourself one though. Vaginas are weird.

Of course, I love most everything we do together in bed. I hope that by now you believe me when I say it. There is indeed something incredibly hot about pulling the rope through your piercings. I think it’s the face that you make—as if it’s almost unbearable, but completely ecstatic at once. I still don’t know if you enjoy it or hate it, and what’s more, I’m not sure if you know. But watching you suck air through clenched teeth, as you timidly pull the rope through your legs turns me on so much.

Of course, I also like spanking you. Again, it’s your face as you get simultaneously build pain and arousal that makes it extra special. The few times we’ve added it to mild role playing, generic as the scenarios have been, has really added to it. Something about the way we both change to treat the spanking as something you deserve mysteriously adds to the authenticity of the charade.

As for fantasies that I still have that we haven’t done, there’s probably plenty, and I’ll try to share them all in time. You know about the age-play thing, but understandably want to balk. To be honest, I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be too weird to keep up. Again, I assure you (and perhaps myself) that it has nothing to do with fetishcizing children. I love the idea of you as more than submissive, but that you would expect me to take care of you—pick out your clothes, help you dress, help you undress, bathe you in a tub, and tell you what you can and can’t do. And you would test the limits, and I would put you in your place. Perhaps there’s a way to make it just caretaker/takee and not make it age-play related at all—just a hint of helplessness and dependency added to the backdrop of submission.

I suppose I can confess that there’s part of me that would like to play out a rape fantasy. I know you don’t believe that there’s such a thing, as you can’t fantasize about non-consensual sex with someone whom you want to have sex with. But isn’t that the case with any role-play? Perhaps we could add authenticity by adding a weapon. To have you suck me off while I’m wielding a kitchen knife near your neck might add enough terror to create the effect. Or to force you to felate a cocked (unloaded of course) handgun while I fuck you. Perhaps the rape fantasy idea in my mind has more to do with the idea of contriving an atmosphere of terror. Or just the joint taboos of weapons and pseudo-forced sex. Of course, for a milder version, you could just struggle more when I tie you up.

The last fantasy I have is one that’s been with me for a while. I haven’t exactly figured out how to make it work, and it’s sorta weird to bring up, especially in the moment. But the gist of it is to combine sex, punishment, and gambling. For some reason, I’ve always had sexual fantasies about playing games of chance (or skill) with the prize being sex. Do you remember (or perhaps I’m making this up) in the Story of O, when the girls had to draw colored marbles to determined who would be caned and who would have to brandish it. I remember reading it around age fourteen, and now it’s about the only part of the book that I recall.

I’ve never played strip poker before, but some of the best foreplay ever was when my guy friend, the two girls, and I we had over played a game of strip nine-ball. When the person behind you sank balls, you got points (extras for the nine-ball). When you got enough points (weighted by skill... we were very fair), you took off clothes. When you ran out of clothes, you got spankings instead. When we were all naked, we ran out into the snow and dove into the hottub. Good times.

So I guess what I want to do with you a game of chance or skill, in which to the victor go the spoils. This is to say, if you lose it’s your ass.

Perhaps as fun would be a way of determining your sentence by chance. I’m recalling, again from my early/mid teenage years, a short story about kids determining spankings by a dice game. (A little Googling later, and I was able to find it here). There was something about each die determining duration, clothing worn, implement used, position and probably a few other things. The writing style wasn’t anything special, but the idea stuck with me. Didn’t I pick up some dice somewhere?

In a way this seems to combine the earlier two ideas. This idea of helplessness and dependency on that which is completely left out of your control, along with terror of the possibility that you’ll have your bottom lit up for more than you can bear. Hmm, kinda makes me feel like trying to draft some fiction based very losely on the linked story. I haven’t decided if I like it or not yet, so let me know what you think. Enjoy.

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Saturday night, Mabel sat on the edge of the bed in a skirt and tank top. In the candle lit bedroom, she and Dante sat around a small wooden box top that held six old, wooden dice. It was a ritual he invited her to follow every Friday and Saturday night. Each die would determine an aspect of her spanking. She would roll them one at a time into the box top, and each would indifferently determine her fate.

The first die would indicate the position she would take during her spanking. A one would mean Mabel would be in bed on her stomach. A two meant she’d be on her hands and knees. A three meant he would spank her while she stood nose in the corner. With a four she’d have to kneel on the seat of a chair and bend over its back. Tossing a five meant she’d take her spanking standing while grabbing her toes. And finally a six meant he would beat her in the diaper position, with her lying on her back with her butt just off the edge of the bed, holding her own legs up in the air. It was this position she dreaded, as Dante insisted that she keep eye contact with through each swat. Watching his cold gaze as he sized up her butt in methodical fashion before delivering each licking dissolved her determination quicker than normal. Longer sessions usually ended up with her feet bound together and fastened to the ceiling.

She picked up the first die, and paused not at all before chucking it into the box top. They watched together as it came up a four. Without being told, she went to the desk, pulled out the large oak chair, placed it the middle of the room, and returned to her seat on the edge of the bed. They were sucker for ceremony.
The next die determined the implement used on her ass. From lowest to highest on the die, she had her choice of his hand, a small wooden ruler, a light leather flogger, a riding crop, a wooden spoon (named Asterisk), and ping-pong paddle. The game was designed to put them in order of intensity, but Mabel had come to fear, hate, love, and yearn for each of them. And through practice, he had learned to deliver a similar quantity, yet different type, of pain from each.

The die she rolled came up a six. Mabel knelt down beside the bed, and pulled the old trunk out from underneath. She opened it up and removed the red leather ping-pong paddle Dante had bought her. He had drilled out from the center the pattern of a little heart shape to add to its charm, velocity, and bite. She sat back on the bed, and handed him the paddle with both hands before returning to the dice.

She picked up the next three, which crucially determined the number of times the ping-pong paddle would impact her ass. The first two dice were added up and multiplied by the last one to determine her fate. And although it was a large range of possibilities, the chance of a serious thrashing was what added the real risk element to the game. Mabel knew from agreement that there were no safe words and knew from experience there would be no lightening up for unfortunate rolls.

The first die came up a three. She took a breath before rolling the next. A six. She swallowed hard, and visualized doing better. She rolled the last one between her hands while gazing into the box for several seconds. She let it go and clasped her hands.

“Fourty-five,” calculated Dante, before she could bring her eyes to focus on the five she rolled. She swallowed hard again.

The last die rolled would determine the time of the spanking. Were she lucky enough to roll a one or two meant total amnesty, and that her bottom would be pardoned for the evening. They were decent odds, but Mabel knew that she could never count on them when she needed them most. A three or four meant that she would get the spanking right away. A five meant that the spanking would come with the next morning’s dawn and would haunt her dreams until then.

A six meant that her spanking would come as a surprise sometime over the forthcoming week. Sometimes it would come right after work - sometimes after dinner. Other times right before bed. Once he had caught her coming out of the bathroom and had made her kneel on the bed to take 25 paddlings before rushing off to work. Once he had abducted her during her lunch break and given her a dozen swats while she stood nose-in-the-corner of the car garage. Whether anyone else ever saw she never knew. Secretly, they both usually wanted the last die to be a six. Although spankings sometimes seasoned the rest of their foreplay, the spankings merited out in this game could come at any time and the perpetual state of fear that preceded the spanking made the rest of Mabel’s week a little brighter; planning the perfect time to take her off guard made Dante’s.

The reason this spanking had weighed so heavily from the beginning was that the night before the game ended (which is to say the foreplay, although not the evening) in a five. This morning she had woken up this morning, with Dante rolling her on to her tummy, pulling her snowflake covered pajama bottoms, and black panties down to her thighs. No sooner were they in place, then he fell into a rhythmic cracking of the crop on her pink bottom. True to form, Dante placed each swat from first to last with a consistent heavy force, and each one struck the palest patch of ass, one second’s pause, and then the next stroke hit – 66 in total.

Not once did he slow or pause. When she tried to jump in shock at the first stroke, he pinned her back. When she tried to kick around stroke ten, he kneeled on her legs. By the time she tried bucking at swat 23, he had to sit on her back, with his left leg pinning both of hers. Immobilized, she turned to alternating between pleading and cursing him. By the time she tasted the fortieth bite of the crop, she had lost the ability to coherently complain, and fell instead into teary insipid pleas for mercy. To her complete lack of surprise, there would be none. Up and down the crop went, again and again. She lost count and ceded struggling long before she reached the last stroke. After she realized it had ended, she blubbered a “thankyou” into the pillow, and wished she could return to her sleep.

Having let her cry herself out for a while, Dante helped her into clothes and into the car and before noon they drove off to a coffee shop. He peppered her with banter about politics, current affairs, nonsense about work and generic trite conversation. She kept pace well, being as pleasant as she could be, but spent a good deal of time shifting uncomfortably in her seat in the crowded coffee house.

“Your ass hurts,” Dante half asked, interrupting her attempts at candid conversation.

“Yes sir,” Mabel responded meekly, annoyed to find herself slipping into a subspace in a public place. But good God did it ever. Although a close contender, it hadn’t been the worst she’d received. She would probably have worse to come too, she figured. She sipped at her latte.

“Maybe you’ll have better luck tonight.”

She realized that his words and tone hadn’t exactly wished it for her.

Eight too-short hours later, here Mabel was, holding her last die and hoping that it contained her salvation. She didn’t want to let go of it. Her bottom still ached bad from this morning. Even without another spanking, she would still feel the last spanking throughout Sunday. She looked at the ping-pong paddle he clutched and thought about the way the top point of the heart cut into her ass when it struck.

“I can’t,” she eventually proclaimed. “There’s no way I can take this spanking. Not with this morning’s. It still hurts so fucking badly. Maybe if I had rolled something better, but there’s just no way.”

Dante was unfazed. “Fine.” He went across the room, picked up the trashcan from the corner, and brought it back to her. “If we’re done with playing games, you can throw the dice away.” He gathered up the other five in his hands.

“Huh? No, I want to play, I just can’t right now. I just cannot take another spanking like the last.”

“Right, no problem. Which means the game is over.” He held up the trashcan to her, and she clutched the antique die tightly.

“No, it’s just—”

“How many spankings did you get last weekend?”

“Huh? Uhm. None.”

“And what did I tell you when you begged me to spank you last Saturday night.”

“Uhm. That you wouldn’t...”

“Couldn’t,” he corrected. “And why?”

“And that it was part of the game we were playing. And that it wouldn’t be fair, even though I needed one really badly.”

“And would it be fair if you rolled a one now, and I didn’t paddle you?”

Mabel clutched the die harder still. She shifted on the bed, and felt the heat and pain still trying to subside. She didn’t answer.

“So, if you want to keep playing you can roll,” Dante said. “But it’s not much of a game to play if you can renege. And I’m not going to play with cheaters.”

She sniffled slightly both in the embarrassment of her tentativeness and in fear of her potential butt-blistering. She resigned herself to carry on. Mabel shook the die in her hand and looked into Dante’s eyes. “Promise you’ll go easy on me,” she plead.

“Nope.”

She closed her welling eyes and rolled the die into the tray.

THE END