Day 4: Kailani (The Boathouse)

You’ve never been to the boathouse before. Barely anyone comes here since the college dropped its rowing team for lack of interest. It's off the beaten path, wedged between trees and lake fog, forgotten by all but the handful of students who care about canoes or solitude. It’s quiet. Out of the way. And today, apparently reserved for something else entirely.

You spot Kailani right away. She’s leaning against the door, arms folded, weight balanced like a boxer on break. Her outfit clings just enough to hint it’s no accident—black workout tank, stretch shorts, trainers. Nothing theatrical. But it’s gear meant to move in. Or dominate in.

She’s not winded. Not groggy. Not even slightly hungover from last night. She looks like she woke up ready to take someone apart.

“Right on time,” she says, pulling the door open.

You follow her into the boathouse.

The air inside smells like dust, lake water, and varnish. Wooden racks line the walls, holding aging oars and a few suspended boats. Sunlight filters in through high dusty panes, catching the specks in the air like someone shook up a snow globe of quiet tension.

Kailani drops a gym bag on a bench, unzips it smoothly. You catch sight of rope, a leather strap, a collar, and a short wooden paddle that definitely isn’t for steering anything that floats.

You swallow hard.

“So,” she says, turning toward you, “you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yeah. I just—” You shift your weight nervously. “I was wondering if I could record it. For, um… personal use.”

That makes her pause. Her eyes narrow a little.

“You want to film me domming you?”

You raise your hands quickly.

“Not to post anywhere. Just so I can… revisit it later.”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze sharpens as she watches you. You can damn near hear her mind spinning behind those eyes.

“Wait a second. You’re playing College Spread, aren’t you.”

You freeze.

“How do you even know about that?”

She tilts her head, bemused.

“Because no one asks to get hit on camera by a total stranger for personal use unless there’s a scoreboard behind it. Especially not by someone built like me!” She flexes at that and you wonder if it's too late to back out.

“I was offered a slot. I said no because of the rugby schedule.”

“Wait… so you knew about the game? I didn’t even know it existed until, like, three days ago.”

She smirks.

“Yeah, well. Some of us get better invitations.”

Then her brow lifts.

“Hold on—are you saying they actually turned me into a card?”

You nod, slowly.

“You’re a 9. I chose your card in the first round.”

She laughs—pleased, not surprised.

“Hah. I always knew I had main-deck energy.”

Then, mock-offended:

“A 9, though? C’mon. That’s just lazy scoring. I better hear you say ‘should’ve been a 10’ while you’re tied up. And mean it.”

You laugh nervously, but she’s already moved on, tossing the strap back into the bag.

“So. You want to record it? Fine. But not here.”

She zips the bag up again and slings it over her shoulder.

“My friend, Cassie, and I rent a cam studio off-campus. Soundproof, good lighting, no interruptions. If I’m going to be filmed doing my thing, I want an audience that tips.”

“You're a cam girl?" That's the first thing that comes to mind. You'd been afraid of asking her to let you film it and she's on cam doing this stuff regularly? How the hell did she not get 100 on kinkiness Then the name she dropped hits you. "Wait—Cassie? Cassie Li?”

“Yeah. She's my best friend and partner-in-kink. Not to mention a former champ.”

You blink.

“She’s back in the game. I saw her at the draw.”

Kailani rolls her eyes and laughs.

“And that bitch didn’t tell me?”

“Shit, why couldn’t she have drawn my card? I still owe her for the working over she gave me last time.”

She grins wide.

“She’s the one who taught me everything. Said I had the look—didn’t realize I had the instincts.”

“The working over she gave you...” you ponder. "You mean she played the BDSM challenge on you?"

“Let’s just say I didn’t walk straight for two days, and thanked her for it.”

You stare. This is spinning far faster than you thought possible.

“So… we’re going live?”

“That’s right. Live audience. We split the tips. I get the footage. You get your challenge multiplier. Everyone wins.”

“Okay,” you say, almost before you process it. “Okay, yeah.”

“Tomorrow night. Eight. I’ll text the studio address.”

She turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

“Actually—let’s check if you’re worth the stream time.”

She pulls the strap free again and points at the wall.

“Hands behind your back. Don’t move.”

You obey. Heart hammering.

The first strike snaps across your ass, sharp and sudden. You flinch, but you hold position. The second is harder. Your jaw tightens. Your dick hardens. You feel knot of embarrassment in your throat. Surely you can't be getting turned on by being thrashed with a strap. You clamp your eyes shut and try to hide behind them.

Silence. Then:

“You’ll do.”

She stuffs the strap back into the bag and holds the door open for you.

“Go home. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You step out into the evening light, head spinning.

Behind you, the lock clicks.

She might have rejected being a player in the game, but she seems eager to fill the role of card. And if you survive tomorrow night you’ll have the bruises—and the points—to prove it.