Golden girl #3

[Note: the story starts at Golden girl #1.]

So the whip rested snake-like on its cloth. I suppose the cloth allowed Emma to fetch it without being allowed to touch. Therese, seated, let Emma wait, standing. It gave her time to think the thoughts that might occur to a woman who is about to be whipped. With the additional thoughts that might occur to a girl about to be whipped in front of strangers. Obviously, though, we weren’t the first strangers to witness Emma being disciplined. This moment had come too quickly and easily.

But some things are still powerful even if they have been contrived.

Time slowed down, as in the moments before a gunfight in a spaghetti western. Therese watched Emma’s eyes and mouth. I watched Therese, because I understood her pleasure in this moment, though I also enjoyed the pale trembling of Emma’s thighs, so soft and intimate. I don’t know what Debs watched. Emma watched Therese’s hands. Therese reached out at last, took the whip by its handle and shook it free. Emma said, “uh”, and touched her fingertips to the table for a second to steady herself. 

This mortal coil

The whip was smaller than it had looked in its cloth; a little over three feet long, slim and plaited, though thicker at the handle end. It was a lady’s whip, a dog-whip. Therese said, “All right, Emma.”

Emma nodded and turned, pressing her pale yellow patch against the table edge. She stood with her feet perhaps twelve inches apart, and leaned forward to put her palms on the table.

Aside from her near-nudity she looked a little like a barmaid, in the “whaddilyahave” position. 

A second later Emma had cried out, and her right hand slid across the table, wanting to squeeze and comfort the new mark, strawberry on snow, that blossomed on her right flank. Therese had risen and smacked her smartly, using the whip handle. Emma took a breath, hissed it out, and then moved her hand back to its earlier position. “Ma’am?”

“Oh come on, Emma, you know better than that. Go down properly.”

A girl who knows better than that.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Going down properly meant that she spread her legs wide and straight, on tip-toes with her heels out and toes turned in, and lowered herself so that her belly, little breasts and cheek rested on the table top. She reached her arms out over her head, but didn’t hold the far edge of the table. She stopped then, perhaps hoping that Therese would tell her that her posture was abject enough.

But a few seconds of silence later, and perhaps reconsidering that mark on her right flank, she arched her bottom up, into the most primal of all submissive display positions.


To be continued.

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