Strike Three Novels & Stories

When she grabbed for my hair, I twisted away and raked my nails down her arm, leaving red marks. I was losing, taking more hits than I landed, but I wasn't going down easy. Elena was getting frustrated, this should have been over by now. It should have been simple. Her movements got sloppier. That's when she made her mistake. She charged with a combination meant to finish me, three strikes in rapid succession. I took the first hit to my shoulder, the second glanced off my ribs, but I saw the third coming. I slipped it. Got inside her guard where her longer reach meant nothing.

“Until Miss Lucy wakes up, I have no choice but to issue you a warning strike.” I blinked. “A what” “In the academy,” he explained, his tone clinical, “five strikes mean expulsion. A warning strike is your first.” My mouth went dry. “But I did not….” He cut me off gently but firmly. “There is nothing more to discuss. You may go now. When Miss Lucy wakes, her statement will determine if the strike becomes permanent.” “Okay,” I muttered, as I stood before leaving his office. The moment I stepped out, Ivy rushed toward me.

I can now overwhelm him with point-earning strikes in the next round. Just three clean hits, and I’m going to the finals. I’m almost there, I can taste it…

“Now, the third. This will be different.” The third strike was not a crack, but a slow, deliberate drag of the leather tip down the length of her spine, followed by a swift, sharp tap at the base. The combination, the teasing drag, and the sudden sting, sent a jolt through her that was not purely pain. It was… electric. A strange, tingling warmth began to mix with the burn. “Report.” “It… it changed,” she breathed. “The pain… it’s turning into… something else.”

“I love you both. Now go win the whole damn championship!” Ashton’s POV: My heart was pounding in my chest as I stared down Atlatnta’s closer standing on the mound. We were now in the bottom of the ninth inning. The game had been tied at three runs each for the past two innings. With two outs, I was our last hope of finishing this game without forcing it into extra innings. All I needed was a hard line drive into the outfield for a chance to send my teammate on third home to score, but I was now down to my last strike.

The third strike landed right across both cheeks, harder than the first two, and the pain-pleasure of it made my cock leak even more. "Three," I moaned. "Good boy," he praised, his hand rubbing over the warm skin soothingly. "You took that so well. I'm so proud of you."

A hidden mechanism clicked. The floor trembled. A section of the stone wall slowly slid open. Beyond it lay another chamber. Smaller. Untouched by time. In its center stood a stone pedestal. Upon it rested a single wooden box. Beauty approached cautiously. The moment her fingers touched the lid... It opened by itself. Inside lay three objects. A silver dagger. An old family seal. And another letter. This one bore only three words. For My Granddaughter. Beauty's hands trembled. She unfolded it carefully.

I pulled the magazine out, checked the slide, and looked at him. "What?" he asked, pulling one side of his headphones down. "Three bullets?" I held up the clip. "That's it?" "Think of it as three strikes," he said. "I only need one," I snapped back. I slammed the magazine home and clicked the safety off. I planted my feet, letting my weight settle into my heels. I wrapped my hands around the grip, my muscles locking into place. The target in the distance blurred until it looked like a face I hated.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My father gritted his teeth and took a step toward me. “Consider your performance and your indignation tonight to be strike one,” he said quietly. “You get three strikes; once you pass that point, you’re done. Trust me, I’ve already got someone else lined up for your place.” I felt a knot rise up into my throat. My hands itched to throw a punch straight at my father’s hard jaw, but I controlled myself and walked away without a word. “Two more strikes!” he shouted after me. “Two more, and you’re out of here!”

’ She was so angry that she moved to get off the bed, ‘That’s two strikes.’ He told her softly, smirking, and, just as he knew it would, it inflamed her anger. ‘Don’t you dare fucking patronise me, Maverick.’ She stood up in front of him, poking him in the chest, looking up into his deep navy eyes, and he smiled. ‘Strike three, baby, thank you.’ He saw the confusion in her eyes, and then she gasped as he grabbed her around the waist and flipped her over his knee.