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

“About time, girl.”

Therese gazed down at Emma, who kept perfectly still, bent over the table with her arms and legs outstretched, and her bottom arched up, poised and posed. Therese’s expression was utterly benevolent. She reached down to caress Emma’s shoulder with the right hand that held the dog whip, letting the leather coils rub against Emma’s face.  

Emma’s left thigh began its trembling again. Time was getting back to its normal speed. Therese pressed the whip to Emma’s mouth, holding it for Emma’s kiss, then placed it on the small of her back. She flicked her fingernails down Emma’s underarm, drawing from her a gasp but no movement, then reached under to take her nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

“Do you move when I’m whipping you, Emma?”

“No ma’am! Uh.” Emma’s voice told us that Therese had applied some extra pressure on that captive nipple, just after the word ‘no’.

“That’s right. And do you cry out?”

“Uh! Only – Yuh! Only if you tell me to, ma’am.”

“Good. Now show us how good you can be, dear. Not a peep out of you, now.” 

Therese stepped back, holding the whip in both hands. She stepped to Emma’s left, measured the distance and swung. The stroke seemed slow, almost lazily applied, but the lash smacked firmly across Emma’s buttocks. It bit a little harder on Emma’s right flank, the fleshy part, without wrapping down across her hip. Therese was, after all, a professional. The stroke didn’t seem hard, but the clenching and clawing of Emma’s hands, her only movement, told us that it had reached her. 

Debs, sitting beside me, said, “Christ.” I knew what she meant. I was almost completely hard, which is something I try not to be around people who probably don’t want to have sex with me. And the only reason I was “almost” entirely hard was that  I’d been trying not to have an erection at all. Emma’s arousal was also obvious, visually and by smell, but then she was allowed. It was her show. I knew Therese was excited too, because I would be if I were in her position.

Debs, I supposed, was somewhere between excitement and embarrassment; she wasn’t into girls, and this sequence was very girlie indeed. But whatever Debs felt, or I felt, our presence was part of the heat, for Therese and Emma. I suppose I should have vaguely resented that. 

But a few seconds after the sound of impact, Emma’s first stripe began to declare itself, soft and very slightly raised. That reached me, a sexual fist in the stomach, as much as the whip had reached her. I wanted to fuck Emma. She wasn’t mine but I wanted to watch the rest of her whipping. I’d lost the right to complain that this had been sprung on me without asking. If Therese had asked if Emma should be whipped I’d have said yes. I’d already chosen to stay. You can’t watch something like this without becoming part of it. 

Therese raised the whip again. 

To be continued

[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.