Golden girl #5

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

Therese seemed less interested in ceremony now that she’d found her range. I’d assumed that the remaining twenty-nine strokes would be delivered with the same deliberation as the first, allowing plenty of time to contemplate the strokes, for Emma who experienced them, Therese inflicting them, and Debs and I the witnesses. But Therese simply whipped Emma, quickly and efficiently. As the leather tail landed across her bottom, Emma rode the table, her hips rising and falling. She always brought her bottom up and presented in time for Therese’s next stroke. They were like dancing partners, who knew the steps and knew each other’s timing.

Most of the strokes were lighter than the first. Therese made each fifth stroke a little harder than the others, so that by tomorrow there would probably be six stripes still showing across Emma’s bottom, amidst a fainter and more generalised pink blush. 

Beside me Debs watched the whip, and Emma’s muted reactions, with her mouth slightly open. Debs was not interested in girls and she certainly wasn’t interested in whips, but she was still fascinated by this.

She’d have run a block (she was a high-heeled sprinter, not a long distance girl) if someone ever suggested using a whip on her. What she liked about bdsm was being bound and helpless, wearing leather corsets and other hard and shiny things, and only thirdly the pleasures of a good spanking.


When we’d discussed the possibility of her crawling towards me with a paddle between her teeth, she’d made it clear that the paddle would have to be leather and smell nice, and I’d have to use it lightly. 

So in bdsm terms Emma was almost the exact opposite of Debs; Emma wasn’t bound but held herself in place, her bunched-up little skirt, all she wore, wasn’t leather, and she could take a whipping and turn it into sex. And Debs watched the lash colouring Emma’s skin like a puppy watches a biscuit. I didn’t know what she was feeling. I’d have to ask her afterwards.   

Therese delivered the last stroke hardest of all; Emma held her breath and her clenched fists pushed against the table. But she kept her body in contact with the tabletop while she took and absorbed the pain. Eventually Emma seemed to relax again, she expelled one fast, thick sigh, and rested her cheek against the tabletop.

     A good girl may weep, but silently. She does not cry out.

Her bottom, brightly and complexly striped, continued to rise and fall., though  the biting of the lash had stopped. The stripes were concentrated in the middle, fleshiest part of her buttocks, though a few had caught her lower, probably not by accident. There was something hypnotic in Emma’s slow dance. She still breathed hard. Her eyes glistened wetly.

But she’d kept her position. She was a good girl. She’d cried no cries.

Therese leaned over and put her hand on Emma’s shoulder again. Emma lifted her head, guessing that she was about to be kissed. But Therese whispered something in Emma’s ear, and although I heard it I’m not going to include it in this account. Therese turned then, and looked at Debs.

To be continued.

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