Fuck Baseball, Part One
Craftsmate and I had determined that for every three times he had threatened to do something, he maybe carried the threat to completion once. This was, of course, in reference to whenever I was a brat while we were playing around.
And, naturally, we were having this conversation while I was tied up beside him on my bed, lying on my stomach and resting my head on my pillow.
Seemingly out of nowhere, he started laughing. I blinked and craned my neck to look up at him. “What’s so funny?” He shook his head, but I persisted. “Come on, tell me. Come on.”
“I’m just thinking,” he finally said, “about all the stuff I want to do to you when you say I don’t do what I threaten to.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He reached down and stroked my shoulder. I cannot remember the entire list or even begin to do it justice when I tell you it was some of the hottest stuff just sort of casually spelled out in a list.
Maybe if he’s really nice he’ll write it out and I can reproduce it here.