“That’s Not Cricket” by Christopher Warner

He finished lighting the last of the candles. The soft, glowing light cast a warm tranquility over
the room, which under different circumstances might almost seem romantic. But not tonight. Not
this time. He realized it was only a minor infraction and could have easily let it slide, but she had
willfully violated their agreement and he wasn’t about to revise the rules of engagement. There
would plenty of time for champagne kisses til the cup runneth over, but tonight was about
discipline. After all, if he didn’t teach her properly, who would?

He calmly approached her, as one might when encountering a wounded but still dangerous

“Ready?” he asked.

She slowly nodded, biting her bottom lip to suppress a mischievous grin. He patiently watched
her crawl into position on all fours despite the wooden stocks on her wrists and ankles. She was
perfect. Even her flaws aroused him. Her smooth, milky-white flesh could not possibly be
ignored — neither could the glistening evidence between her legs and proof of her multi-orgasmic afternoon.

Although she possessed many endearing qualities he adored, self-control wasn’t one of them.
He had given her a simple task: refrain from climax until he arrived home. She failed. Miserably.
To her credit, however, she didn’t try to conceal her deceit. Perhaps she wanted to be caught.

All of her favorite toys laid strewn about the bed in various shapes and sizes as well a few he’d never even seen before. In a twist of cruel irony, he had caned her the previous month for lack of self pleasure while he was away on business in Hong Kong. But life is rarely fair and rules are rules — invaluable lessons she would eventually learn.

He unlocked a large closet, revealing a vast array of neatly organized whips, chains, and
paddles. She craned her head for a peak but bis wide back blocked her view, forcing her to rely
on auditory senses only.

After careful deliberation, he picked up his weapon of choice: a wooden cricket bat. It felt heavy, he mused, taking a few practice swings.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Ian Botham play at Lords?”

She looked up at him with her hungry, ocean blue eyes. He didn’t wait for an answer, regaling
her in his impeccable BBC accent.

“That’s right, Sir Ian himself on the pitch! This was of course at the end of his illustrious
career and no longer the formidable all-rounder that made him the stuff of legend — but
nonetheless there he was in all his glory.”

A relaxed countenance shifted from his face, replaced with a singularly-focused intensity. Her
breathing became heavier, anticipating the blows he would soon unleash. He continued pacing
the floor in an act of gamesmanship they both enjoyed, She dug her well-manicured, French tip
fingernails into the soft carpet.

“Please,” she moaned.

“It’s been said the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. Fortunately for
you, I learned a few other lessons.”

Finally, when anticipation reached it peaked, he stepped into place directly behind her. She
stole a final glance through her long blonde locks; his tall, Olympian frame stood towering over
her. She could barely mask her deepest fears and desires as he initiated the backswing.

She inhaled and arched her back, bracing for impact. He shifted his weight and lunged forward with a powerful strike. Whack. The measure connected supremely. Pure sweet spot. A fresh, pink welt now marked her backside. He gathered himself and repeated the action, delivering a total of six perfectly executed strokes. He then put down the bat. Rules are rules.

Game over.

That’s Not Cricket

An Erotic Short Story

by Christopher Warner

Share with:

More Subversivness