Memories flooded back.

I’d lost, so it was me bent over the table, net repurposed to restrain both ankles, gym skirt hiked up and panties pulled down. Seven swats, we’d agreed. That was my score deficit.

The first couple stung like fuck, table tennis bat bouncing off my rump with a pleasing splat. Then searing heat took over and I was begging for it by the time he discarded the bat and plunged into dripping arousal.

Now we stood red-faced in the security office as the delighted guard ejected and pocketed the tape.

“Next week, lose by ten, or else.”