And the winner is...(The game, 3/3)

The real fun begins. Check out my previous post if you haven't done so and be sure to watch Rayne's blog for her accounting of the events.

Round Robin is a game I'd played before with D but the rules were adjusted for our night of double-spanking pleasure. We would each draw two cards to determine the total number of swats. If one of us drew a two from the deck, then we would both get it. The implements to cycle through were: a strap, a leather belt, a wooden hairbrush, a cane-like crop, and D's powerful hand. (When I later drew a wildcard joker, allowing me to choose my poison, D added a wooden paddle to the mix because I hesitated for all of two seconds. Ouch! Indecision hurts when playing with an impatient Dom.) The game would continue until all of the cards had been drawn.

Being already acquainted with D’s lap, I was up first with the hairbrush. My bottom was still warm, and I suspected a glowing pink, as I drew my two cards. A King and a seven, denoting 19 with the first implement -- the dreaded hairbrush, my least favorite on the table. I carried the brush to D, cast a sidelong glance toward Rayne, and maneuvered over his knees. I lay there, suspended, while he smoothed his hands over my panties and began to take them down.

“What’s this? You have a thong on underneath!” D exclaimed. Blushing, I reminded him of Rayne’s and my agreement to keep our girlie bits covered in the interest of modesty. His laugh resonated and I could all but imagine him shaking his head at our naivete. My thong, consisting of mostly blue elastic and a feminine floral, covered virtually nothing and the thin swatch of material only served to hold my wetness close.

Then it began with a “Whack!” and I managed a strong “One!”. That first strike with the hairbrush indicated that this would not be a light game, but something to be remembered every time I sat down for the next few days.

“Whack! Crack!“ The hairbrush connected with my cheeks with a fierce, resonating bite that set my bouncing cheeks on fire. I squirmed but resumed my count, “Two! Three!”

After a dozen strikes of the hairbrush, I was pounding the carpet and curling my legs upward in an involuntary attempt to shield my bottom from D’s punishing blows. This was not allowed, his commanding voice reminded me.

I should say here that I never forgot for an instant Rayne’s quiet presence. I forced myself to look at her while D delivered the spanking, wanting to give her my reactions and further heighten our experience of the evening. After all, we were both here to enjoy the added pleasure of another set of watchful eyes.

The final two blows landed with an intensity that matched, if not exceeded, the first. “Smack! Thud!”, and I remained there, draped over D’s comfortable lap while he caressed and rubbed my bottom. A pat to the battlegrounds indicated it was time to slide off, gather my pride and stand. The moments before and after each spanking were the most vulnerable -- I could fully see Rayne and, standing in front of her as I was, I knew she could fully see me.

And then it was her turn. I may have hugged her in those moments before she drew her two cards, lending her strength as she received her sentence with the strap.

D ordered her jeans down before she draped herself over the couch to receive her dozen (or more) licks with the heavy leather he held menacingly in his hands. I was torn: do I sit in front of her, hold her head in my lap, or should I take up a position behind Rayne to maximize my view? For this first time, I greedily chose to maximize. It was a lovely sight -- watching her flushed cheeks absorb the impact of the strap.

Rayne's jeans remained up between sets, pulled gingerly over her stinging buns, while I trounced around pantsless at D's behest, growing more and more comfortable with my displayed and increasing redness. Her dark denim was of the skinny jean variety, so I could only imagine how hot and tender her cheeks were while covered by the unforgiving, tight fabric.

We must have been quite the delicacy to D's feasting eyes: her in the flirtatious argyle shirt, jeans unbuttoned and partially up; me in my argyle panties and fishnets as we cooled our buns on his marble fireplace hearth.

D called half-time and we huddled on the couch, discussing strategy, while he fed us chocolate eclairs and cream puffs from his freezer. (How many Doms feed their girls chocolate? I am fortunate.)

Rayne and I proved to be good teammates -- sometimes "tagging" in and splitting the strokes when the other had too large a dose with the specified implement (the crop and strap were particularly difficult adversaries). When I was breathless from a hard round of the hairbrush, I would hear her voice, strong and reassuring, take up the count in my stead. As Rayne lay draped over the arm of the couch, taking 19 with the heavy strap, I sat on the cushion next to her, stroking her hair and watching with genuine concern and support. We hugged; we rubbed each other's backs; we each felt guilty pleasure from watching the other receive her licks.

D reminded Rayne several times throughout the evening about her safeword, taking care to ensure her well-being. I whimpered a bit when D told Rayne, while over his knee, that he wasn't being as hard on her as he was on me, because he knew my tolerance and needs better than he knew hers.

And for the grand finale? Rayne and I draped ourselves across the dining room table, bottoms uplifted and waiting for the last strapping. By then we were beyond tender and each stroke was nearly intolerable. The leather bit and stung, and yet we remained, counting together and presenting ourselves obediently to D's hearty ministrations.

We remained in that position, clasping hands, for a few moments before it was time for our cool-down.

Who administered Rayne's last spanking? Maybe it was me.

In the car, she and I sat together, two co-conspirators with warmth spreading beyond our matching red bottoms as she relaxed her head in my lap.

Everyone wins.


(Photos from "House Rules", a firmhandspanking video series featuring Samantha Woodley and Lizzie Madison.)