Dice of Pain

The two dice sat between them on the low black table, bone-white and ordinary, the only innocent things in the room. Nadia knelt naked on one cushion, twenty-eight, her dark hair twisted up off her neck so nothing would hide the flush already climbing her chest. Across from her, Cody, thirty-one, sat back on his heels, equally bare, cock half-hard against his thigh and a slow smile already cutting his mouth. They had been doing this for years. The apartment was quiet. The toy rack along the wall was not.

“Ten turns,” he said. His voice was low, the one he used when the scene had already started in his head. “We both roll. Higher number wins. You win, I pick the implement, you pick where it lands. I win, I pick both. Either way you take what I give you for as long as I want to give it. Safeword is still red. Yellow if you need me to ease off the count, not the scene.”

“I know the rules,” Nadia said. Her nipples were tight. Between her thighs she was already slick, and she did not bother hiding it. “I want it. All ten. Don’t go easy because I look pretty.”

“I never do.”

He pushed one die toward her. She wrapped her fingers around it, felt the little pits, and let the want settle deep in her belly. This was theirs. No audience. No secret. Just the two of them and a game they had agreed to down to the last stroke.

“Roll,” he said.

She threw. The die skittered, kissed the edge of a coaster, and stopped on a five. Cody’s landed on a three. He laughed once, short and pleased, and stood to walk the rack while she stayed on her knees and watched the long line of his back.

“Riding crop,” he said, lifting the thin black one with the little leather tongue. He tested it against his palm. The snap made her cunt clench. “Your body. Your call.”

Nadia’s mouth went dry in the good way. She could have been kind to herself. She was not in the mood to be kind.

“Breasts,” she said. “Both. Don’t avoid the nipples.”

“Hands behind your back. Chest out. Eyes on me.”

She obeyed. The position pulled her shoulders open and lifted her tits, full and heavy, the skin already sensitive from anticipation. Cody came around the table and stood over her. He dragged the crop’s tongue down the slope of one breast, circled the nipple until it peaked harder, then drew back.

The first stroke was a bright line under her left breast. She hissed. The second crossed the upper curve. The third kissed the nipple itself, a mean little pop that shot straight to her clit. He did not rush. He painted her. Undersides, the soft inner slopes, the tight buds, a diagonal that made her jerk and then settle back into the pose because she wanted the next one more than she wanted relief. Heat bloomed. Pink rose into red. By the twelfth stroke her breasts were throbbing in time with her pulse, and a thin thread of wet had slid down her inner thigh onto the cushion.

“Enough?” he asked, though his eyes said he already knew.

“No,” she breathed. “A few more. Harder on the right.”

He gave her six more, crisp and mean, finishing with two that snapped directly across both nipples in quick succession. Nadia’s head fell back. A broken sound left her throat. When he lowered the crop, her tits were striped and hot, nipples swollen dark, and she was shaking with the effort of keeping her hands clasped.

“Turn one,” he said. “You took that beautifully. Roll again.”

She had to unclasp her fingers. They tingled. The die felt heavier. She threw a six. His was a four. Cody’s grin widened, wolfish and fond.

“Greedy girl.” He set the crop aside and took down the wooden paddle, pale oak, smooth on one face and drilled with holes on the other. He smacked it once against his thigh. The sound was thicker than the crop. “Where?”

Nadia looked at her inner thighs, already damp, the skin thin and quick to bruise. The thought of that paddle there made her stomach drop and her cunt flood.

“Inner thighs,” she said. “High. Close to my pussy. I want to feel it when I walk.”

“On your back. Knees up. Spread them and hold them.”

She lay on the rug, hooked her hands behind her knees, and opened herself. The air hit her soaked folds. Cody knelt between her feet and ran the paddle’s smooth face up one thigh, stopping just short of her cunt. He looked at her the way he always did before he hurt her on purpose: checking her eyes, her breath, the eager tilt of her hips.

“Color.”

“Green. Please.”

The first blow landed high on her left inner thigh, a deep thud that shoved a gasp out of her. The holes in the wood bit a pattern into the sting. He matched it on the right. Then he worked inward, stroke after stroke, each one a little higher, a little meaner, until the impacts kissed the crease where thigh met cunt and her legs tried to close on instinct. She forced them wider. He rewarded that with a sharper pair that made her cry out and arch, tits bouncing, the fresh crop marks pulling. Arousal slicked her, shining under the lamp. He paused to drag two fingers through it, held them up so she could see, and wiped them on the burning skin of her thigh before he hit her again.

He did not stop when she moaned. He stopped when her thighs were a matched pair of hot, blotched red and her voice had gone hoarse from thanking him between strikes. Twenty, maybe more. She lost the count and did not care. When he set the paddle down, she was dripping onto the rug and her thighs trembled in her own grip.

“That’s two for you,” Cody said. He was fully hard now, cock flushed and heavy. “Don’t get used to winning.”

She sat up slowly. The paddle’s heat pulsed with every shift of her legs. She met his eyes and smiled, wrecked and bright. “Then take it from me.”

He rolled a five. She rolled a two.

“Mine,” he said, and the word went through her like a hand. “Flogger. Ass. Over the table. Forehead on your arms. Do not reach back.”

The flogger was deerskin, many tails, the kind that could warm or bruise depending on how he swung. Tonight his swing had weight. Nadia bent over the low table, breasts pressed to the wood so the crop welts flared, ass lifted, feet planted wide. The first dozen strokes were almost kind, a rain that pinked her cheeks and made her sigh. Then he stepped in and the falls landed harder, overlapping, climbing from the curve of her ass onto the tops of her thighs where the paddle had already done its work. She grunted. She pushed back. He found a rhythm that stole her breath: three heavy, one light, three heavy, a cruel little flick that snapped the tips into the sensitive crease under each cheek.

“Look at you,” he said. “Two wins and you’re still shoving your ass at me. You don’t want to choose. You want me to decide how much you can take.”

“Yes,” she said into her arms. “Yes. Harder.”

He gave it to her until the falls sang and her ass was a deep, even red, heat rolling off the skin in waves. When he stopped, he palmed both cheeks, squeezed the sore flesh, and slid one thumb down to press at her soaked entrance without entering. She whimpered and tried to rock onto it. He took the thumb away.

“Not yet. Turn four.”

Her roll was a one. His was a six. He did not even pretend to be surprised.

“Strap,” he said, taking the short leather one, supple and loud. “On your back again. Hold yourself open. I’m hitting your cunt.”

Nadia’s pulse slammed. She lay down, thighs screaming as she spread them, and used her fingers to part her outer lips so the swollen inner flesh and her clit were bare to him. Shame and hunger braided tight in her chest. She wanted him to see how wet the pain had made her. She wanted the strap to find all of it.

“Count them,” he said. “Out loud. If you lose the number, we start that set over. I decide when the set ends.”

The first strike was a flat, wet crack across her pussy. She jolted and yelped. “One.”

“Two.” The leather kissed her clit and she saw white. “Three.” Her hips bucked. He waited until she settled, then gave her four through eight in a steady, merciless cadence, each one splashing a little of her arousal, each one making her voice crack. By ten she was sobbing and dripping and still holding herself open because stopping would have been worse than the strap. He added five more because he wanted to, slower, savoring the way her belly jumped and her cunt clenched around nothing. When he finished, he bent and blew cool air over the blazing skin. She keened.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Soaked through. Turn five.”

She could barely close her hand on the die. It came up three. His came up five. Cody’s sadistic grin had settled into something hungrier, the look he wore when her control started to fray and his cock leaked against his stomach.

“Kneel. Chest to the rug. Ass up. Hands on your ankles if you can reach. I’m using the tawse on the backs of your thighs and the lower curve of your ass. You’ll stay there until I say.”

The tawse was split leather, two tongues that kissed and then bit. Nadia folded herself down, face to the rug, the smell of wool and her own sweat in her nose, and wrapped her fingers around her ankles. The pose opened her. Cool air slid over her hot, strapped cunt. Cody traced the tawse along the paddle marks, then swung.

It was a different pain from the strap: deeper, a split sting that bloomed and kept blooming. He worked the backs of her thighs in overlapping bands, then climbed onto the sit-spot, the place that would ache when she sat tomorrow, and stayed there. She gasped, then moaned, then made a raw throaty sound she did not recognize as hers. Her thighs were slick to the knees. Every impact rocked her forward and her cunt kissed the air, dripping in a thin, shameless string.

“Listen to you,” he said. “Moaning like I’m fucking you. You’re not even close to done.”

He laid on another long set, pausing only to drag the tawse through her wetness and slap it back down so the next stroke landed damp and louder. Nadia’s fingers cramped on her ankles. She did not let go. When he finally stopped, he crouched and licked a slow line up her inner thigh, tasting salt and her, and she shuddered so hard the table leg rattled.

“Turn six.”

Her die showed two. His showed six again. She laughed, breathless and wrecked, and the laugh broke into a moan when she shifted and every mark woke up.

“Wooden hairbrush,” he said, taking the heavy oval one from the rack, the back of it smooth and unforgiving. “Bend over the arm of the chair. Legs straight. I’m painting your ass until it’s the color I want, and then I’m going to make you thank me for every one you can still speak through.”

She bent. The chair arm dug under her ribs. Her breasts hung, crop-marked and tender, swaying when the first crack landed. The hairbrush was mean in a small, concentrated way. It did not spread the pain. It drove it into one oval of flesh and left a bruise-deep ache before the sting even finished arriving. Cody alternated cheeks, patient and exact, talking to her in that low filthy voice while he worked.

“This is what you roll for. Not the wins. The losing. My hand on the implement. My choice of where you hurt. Your cunt getting wetter every time you lose a little more of that pretty control.”

“Yes,” she managed. “God, Cody, yes.”

“Thank me.”

“Thank you.” The brush landed. “Thank you.” Another. She lost the words and found them again, voice climbing, thighs shaking, arousal sliding down one leg in a hot trail. He did not let her rush the thanks. If she mumbled, he repeated the stroke. By the time he set the brush down, her ass was a deep mottled red, hotter than the flogger had left it, and she was gripping the chair cushion with white knuckles, moaning on every breath.

He helped her stand only long enough to drink water, check her eyes, and kiss her mouth hard enough to bruise. She kissed back like she was starving. His cock dragged against her sore belly and she whined into his teeth.

“Still green?”

“Green. Don’t stop at ten. I mean—do the ten. All of them. I can take it. I want to take it.”

“I know you can.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Turns seven through ten are mine if the dice agree. And they will.”

She rolled a three. He rolled a five.

“Belt,” he said.

He pulled the thick leather belt from the chair, the one with the plain buckle he folded into his fist so only the strap would touch her. The weight of it in his hand made her stomach flip. He pointed at the open floor.

“Bent double. Grip your ankles. Do not let go. You count every stroke out loud. I will keep going until I decide you’ve had enough, not until you think you have.”

Nadia folded. The world narrowed to her own calves, the rug, the thunder of blood in her ears. Her ass was already a furnace. Her cunt hung open and shining between her thighs. Cody laid the belt across both cheeks once, measuring, and then he swung.

The sound was a gunshot in the quiet room. Pain detonated, wide and shocking, and she shouted, “One!”

“Two!” The belt wrapped a little, licking her hip. “Three!” Her knees buckled and locked. He found a cadence that let each stroke fully arrive before the next, cruel and clean, striping the meat of her ass and the tops of her thighs. By eight she was crying, not from wanting it to stop but from the size of it, the way the pain stripped the last polite layer off her voice. By twelve she was sobbing the numbers and pushing her ass back for the next one, cunt clenching, drip pattering onto the rug between her feet.

He gave her fifteen. On the last, he held the belt against the burning stripe and leaned down to speak against her spine.

“Look at this ass. Look at this soaked little cunt. You’re shaking and you still haven’t asked me to stop.”

“Don’t,” she gasped. “Don’t stop the game. Please.”

He let her rise. Her face was wet. Her smile was ruined and radiant. She rolled a two. He rolled a four.

“Cane,” he said, and the word landed harder than the belt.

The heavy wooden cane was pale, thick enough to thud, whippy enough to bite. Nadia’s breath hitched. Cody tapped it against his palm and nodded at the rug.

“All fours. Ass up. Cunt up. I want both presented. Head down. Count again. If you drop your hips, that stroke doesn’t count and I add two.”

She went down on her hands and knees and arched until her back was a deep curve and everything he wanted was offered: welted ass, swollen striped pussy, the wet pink of her, thighs trembling. The first cane stroke was a line of fire across both cheeks. “One,” she choked. The second sat just below it. “Two.” He caned her with terrible precision, laying even tracks, letting each welt rise before he placed the next. On five he snapped the tip into the undercurve and she wailed, hips dipping. He waited. She hauled them back up, sobbing, and he said, “That one didn’t count. Two extra.”

She took them. She took all of them, voice breaking on the numbers, ass and the upper thighs a lattice of raised lines that burned and burned. Between strokes he reached under her and rubbed her clit with two rough fingers, not gently, smearing her wetness, making the pain and the pleasure argue until she was babbling. Then the cane came down again and the argument turned into a scream that bent into a moan. He caned the lower curve, the sit-spot, a careful lighter tap that still made her cunt jump, never breaking skin, never rushing, going on until her arms shook and her count was a wet whisper and her thighs were lacquered with arousal.

“Eighteen,” she sobbed at the last. “Eighteen—Cody—”

“I know.” He set the cane down and dragged his tongue from her clit to her ass in one long, filthy lick. She nearly collapsed. He held her hips up and did it again, tongue pushing into her cunt, nose against the fresh welts, while she shook and dripped on his mouth. “Turn nine. On your feet.”

She stood because he told her to, legs unsteady, hands hovering like she did not know where to put the pain. The die left her fingers and showed a one. His showed a six. He looked at her like she was the best thing he had ever decided to hurt.

“Single-tail,” he said.

The whip was braided, vicious, the one they only used when she was already deep and he was already sure of her. Nadia’s eyes went wide and dark. She nodded before he asked.

“Standing. Legs spread. Hands behind your head. Elbows back. You do not cover anything. I’m striping your breasts, your ass, your thighs, and your pussy. You count. You stay up. I decide how many and how long.”

She laced her fingers behind her head. The pose lifted her marked breasts and opened her ribs. Cody shook the whip out, the cracker whispering on the rug, and circled her once, looking at every inch he had already painted. Then he began.

The first lash was a precise burning kiss under her left breast. “One.” The second crossed the right, avoiding the nipple by a breath and still making her cry out. “Two.” He moved around her, a flick to the side of her ass that lit a cane welt, a snap to the front of one thigh, a wicked little cut high on the inner thigh that made her knees soften and lock again. He was methodical. Breast, ass, thigh, breast. He made her turn. He made her stand still while he laid three across the lower curve of her ass and she counted them through her teeth. Sweat ran down her spine. Tears ran down her face. Her cunt was so wet it cooled in the air between lashes.

“Spread wider,” he said. “I’m taking the pussy.”

She did. The single-tail’s tip flicked her mound, a sharp bright pop. “Eleven,” she gasped. Another, lower, kissing the outer lip. “Twelve.” A third that snapped just above her clit and sent a bolt of agony-pleasure up her spine so hard she sobbed and almost came. He gave her three more there, measured, cruel, perfect, and between them he stepped in and shoved two fingers into her soaked cunt, fucking them rough and fast while the burn settled, then pulled out and lashed her again. She was shaking apart. Her voice cracked on sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. He licked the sweat from her throat. He slapped her tit with his palm and then striped it with the whip. She begged without shame.

“Please—please, Cody, I need—I need you to fuck me, I can’t—I’m so close, it hurts, I need your cock, please fuck me raw, please—”

“One more turn,” he said, voice wrecked with how much he wanted her. “Roll.”

Her hands shook so badly he had to steady her wrist. The die tumbled and showed a two. His showed a five. He looked at the dice, then at her ruined, shining, welted body, and he smiled like a man who had won exactly what he came for.

“Tenth and final,” he said. He dropped the dice. They clicked once on the wood and went still. “Whip stays in my hand. You stay standing. Legs spread. I’m going to fuck you from behind while I flick that whip across your tits, and you are going to come on my cock like the desperate thing you are. Color.”

“Green,” she sobbed. “Green, green, fuck me, please.”

He turned her, bent her just enough to line up, and shoved into her in one long, brutal thrust. She was so wet he sank to the root. The welts on her ass met his hips and she screamed, a sound of pure overwhelmed yes. He gripped her hip with one hand and started to pound her, deep and mean, the wet slap of their bodies loud in the room. His other hand shook the single-tail out to the side and flicked it, a lighter snapping stroke across her bouncing left tit. She wailed. He fucked her harder. Another flick, right tit, the cracker kissing a nipple. Her cunt clamped down on him so tight he groaned into her hair.

“Take it,” he snarled. “Take the whip and take my cock. This is what the dice bought me. This soaked, welted cunt. These tits. All of it.”

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—harder—”

He gave her harder. Each thrust jolted the cane marks, the belt stripes, the tawse and the brush and the crop. The whip flicked in time with his hips, bright little lashes over her swinging breasts, not enough to cut, enough to set every nerve on fire. His free hand dropped the whip for three strokes so he could rub her clit, rough and fast, then he picked it up again and snapped it across the top of her breast while his fingers stayed on her. Nadia broke. The orgasm hit like the cane and the fuck and every losing roll at once. She screamed, legs locking, cunt milking him in hard rhythmic pulses, tears and sweat and pleasure pouring through her while he kept pounding, kept flicking, fucked her straight through the peak and into the shaking aftermath of it until his own control snapped.

He buried himself and came with a guttural sound, hips jammed to her sore ass, spilling deep while she was still clenching around him. The whip drooped in his fist. For a few heartbeats there was only their breathing, the wet heat of him inside her, the throb of every mark he had put on her body.

Nadia’s hands were still behind her head because she had not been told to move them. Her thighs trembled. Cody’s forehead rested between her shoulder blades, his cock twitching as the last of it pulsed into her. The dice lay where he had dropped them, ordinary and finished. He lifted his head. He lifted the hand with the whip, as if he might set it down, as if he might lift her next—and the moment held there, bright and wrecked, both of them still joined, still burning, the afterglow just beginning to open.