“You’re not doing us any favors by not whipping us, you know,” said the dark-skinned, pouting, attitude-flush beauty. She looked a more risque version of Beyonce, and was fully aware of the erotic power of this association.
Next to her stood two other young angels – one blonde, cute, and curvy; and the other a slim brunette who was somewhat tomboyish, but exuded a sensual intensity. They were an underworld version of Charlie’s Angels – more like Willie’s Wild Ones. Their skirts were short and tight. Their tops were form-hugging.
My cousin, Willie, had asked me to house-sit for him while he went out of town on, as he put it, “… some business.” I had a long weekend coming and he offered to pay me $200 for my trouble and by me gas, so I had agreed to it. It was only later, when talking to some other family members that I found out he was involved in some “shady” business schemes. No one knew exactly what he was involved in, but they “didn’t think it involved violence” – very reassuring…
Arriving at the house, I was somewhat reassured. It seemed to be in a middle class neighborhood. Children rode bikes and played outside during the afternoon. The house was well-kept as well as the lawn. It was a two-story, fairly spacious home. Once inside, he showed me around the place. It was nice, if a little cheesy in decor. There were three bedrooms upstairs, all neatly kept. But they all looked like different people stayed in them. And the den downstairs was where he said he slept.
“I didn’t know you had a family, Willie,” I said.
He pursed his lips a little and shook his head.
“Roommates?” I ventured.
“Well… It’s more like… Listen, Quai, I run a business out of here,” Willlie explained, “I don’t want to tell you too much. It’s boring and complicated. But anyway, my associates stay upstairs in the bedrooms. It’s Friday, so they’ll be by later tonight.”
“Oh… okay. Fine,” I said. “Is there anything I should tell them?”
“No no. They know what’s going on. I told them I would have you here watching the place while I’m out handling business,” he said.
He placed a couple of folded $100 bills into my hand as he shook it, grabbed his shoulder bag and said, “I’ll catch you later.”
It was that night, after falling asleep in a chair in front of his TV/DVD center, that I met his associates. Brandi (Beyonce), Carla (brunette), and Pamela (blonde) came in the door laughing and talking. I startled awake and looked over at them.
Brandi said, “Shhh… y’all shut up. You done woke the man up.”
The other two came in and Carla shut the door behind them. Pamela pretended, grinning, to zip her lips. Carla winked at me. All three of them seemed to look me up and down as if sizing me up.
“Hey. Good to meet you guys. I’m Quai,” I said.
They walked over and sat down on the sofa and love seat near me.
“It’s good to meet you too,” said Pamela. “You must be Willie’s cousin.”
“I am,” I said.
“I’m Pamela,” she continued. “This is Brandi. And this is Carla.”
I shook their hands and nodded at each one, smiling politely.
We shared a six-pack together, chatted, and watched some TV for about an hour or so, til maybe 10:30 or 11:00 that night. I figured that was going to be our evening and we’d just hang out til we were all sleepy. But they each then started gathering their things as if they were about to go out again.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Are you heading out?”
“Yeah,” Brandi said, “We’ve gotta take care of business. It’s time to go to work.”
Remembering Willie’s reluctance to volunteer details, and considering the lateness of the hour, and the way they were dressed, I elected not to ask follow-up questions. I assumed that if something “went down”, the less I knew, the better.
It was the second time they woke me up, at 7:00 in the morning, that they volunteered more information. As I stretched, sat up, and began rubbing my eyes and dreaming of hot coffee, Pamela enlightened me.
“We need to ask you a favor,” she said. “Would you whip us?”
It was a good thing at that point, that I wasn’t drinking coffee. It would have been spat out summarily. I looked up at her between my fingers. I seemed to be awake.
“Maybe you should explain, Brandi,” Pamela said.
Brandi shook her head and said, “Look. We’re hookers. Your cousin’s a pimp.”
“Okay…” I said slowly.
“We didn’t make our money targets tonight, so he’s going to beat us. He whips so hard… Is there any way you could whip us? That way when he finds out you did it already, he won’t bother,” Brandi continued.
I thought about asking her what made her think I would whip just as hard, but I chose to let her think I had no experience with whipping women. I rubbed my face, thinking it over.
“Let me get some coffee first,” I said.
Okay, so I enjoyed making them wait for my decision. So sue me. I’m a sadist. I made a pot of coffee and some toast. When that was ready, I put the toast on a plate and buttered it, and poured myself a cup of coffee.
From the kitchen area I said, “It just seems cruel. I don’t know if I should be whipping women. I feel like I’d be taking advantage…”
That’s when Brandi said that maybe once-in-a-lifetime sentence, “You’re not doing us any favors by not whipping us, you know. He’s going to whip us anyway and if you don’t do it now, we’ll just have to spend the rest of the weekend waiting for it.”
I cocked my head to one side finally acceding to her logic.
“I guess you’re right. That makes sense. I wouldn’t want you to have to endure the torture of waiting,” I said. “How do we do this?”
In response, they each went up stairs to their rooms and came back down with their own implements. Brandi held a strap. Pamela was carrying a dressage whip. Carla had a cane.
“I’m supposed to get 100 licks with the strap,” said Brandi.
Pamela held her dressage whip out to me, “Can I go first, please? He gives me 25 with this.”
I took the dressage whip from her and sliced it through the air.
“Carla, how many do you get with that cane? That looks painful,” I asked.
It was about 1/2 inch thick and seemed rather whippy and flexible.
She swallowed and looked down, “Thirty-six,” she said.
I was glad I had that coffee. These girls would be a lot of work.
“I guess we’d better get started then,” I said. “Pamela, why don’t you bend over the back of the sofa.”
Pamela walked around to the back of the sofa and bent herself over it, placing her hands on the cushions. The position caused her skirt to reveal the lower part of her bottom cheeks. While that was cute as can be, I decided to just go ahead and pull the skirt up to reveal her thong-clad bottom. I measured the dressage against and across the middle of her pale bottom. I wanted to make sure the tail didn’t wrap too much, while making sure the stiff part punished her buttocks properly. After establishing a good distance I lashed her. She squealed as her head jerked upwards.
I watched as the red line formed across the center of her bottom. After a few seconds I whipped in again. She sucked in her breath sharply and then let out a moan. After two or three strokes I can use a spankee’s reactions to determine what the pace of spanking should be. I timed hers to allow her to fully feel each stroke and its aftermath, and contemplate that there was more to come. As her backside grew redder with stripes, her face blushed and she frowned. She looked back over her shoulder at me, pouting, as if to say, ‘See how mean you are.’ I love that look.
When her 25 strokes were doled out, I pulled her up by the shoulders and hugged her. I stroked her hair and brushed a tear from her cheek. She smiled, shyly, at me.
Pamela stepped to one side, rubbing her bottom and looking a little dazed. Carla and Brandi looked at each other, seeming to make a silent decision about who should be next. Soon Brandi, shrugged and Carla stepped forward, handing me her cane.
Carla looked at me in almost a challenging manner. It wasn’t so much defiant as it was resigned. She pulled up her own skirt and bent over the back of the sofa. She wore no panties and her stance was such that her legs were slightly apart so that I could see the lips of her pussy between her ass cheeks. Her whole body language seemed to indicate an act of sacrificial heroism. She seemed to be on a mission to take this caning.
I caned her with a slightly faster rhythm than I had with Pamela. I left just enough time for the famed second wave of caning pain to be felt and struck before it fully subsided. She started moaning continuously and slapped her hands down onto the cushions. She was just on the verge of not being able to take it. Here eyes were wide as if she could hardly believe what she was going through.
After about 20 strokes, she began to emit a throaty groan at each stroke as if showing the caning her anger would make it back down. As slender as she was, 36 strokes had her bottom covered and criss-crossed with cane welts. She was one punished young lady.
When I let her up and tried to hug her, she pushed back against me. I could tell she wanted to pound my chest, but resisted the urge. She ended up grasping the material of my shirt and pulling it to her face. Carla was wiping her own tears, while shifting from one foot to the other, still trying to deal with the pain.
Finally, it was Brandi’s turn. When she handed the strap to me, and I tried to take it, she held onto it for a second as if having second thoughts. I looked her in the eyes to question her. She thought better of it and let go.
“Okay, Brandi,” she said to herself, “It’s just a butt-whipping. You can take it. You’ve taken it before.”
I was curious about the ‘before’ remark and hoped there would be an opportunity later, to ask her about her stories. In the mean time I watched her as she walked up to the back of the sofa, swallowed hard, squinted, and bent over it. Just like the others, bending over raised her skirt enough to partially expose her bottom. She had such a womanly hip swell and a firm, but femininely soft bottom. I almost felt like a 100-stroke strapping was too harsh for her. But I had had enough experience to know that some women, even though they have bottoms that seems so soft and vulnerable are able to take a very big dose of strapping. They just take it and cry through it if necessary, but they take it none-the-less. I pulled up her skirt to fully expose her bottom.
As I began strapping Brandi, I began imagining how her parents might have strapped her, assuming they believed in this method of punishment. I held her around the waist and strapped her firmly, punishingly, as she cried out after each stroke. The beautiful brown skin of her bottom showed the wide, reddened stripes as the strap landed over and over and over again across her bottom. Each blow of the heavy strap was deeply satisfying to me, speaking its own language of punishment, pain, and submission.
Even though she knew there were a prescribed number of lashes to come, she couldn’t help herself and started repeating, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. Please don’t spank me any more.”
These are words were unbelievably arousing, even as they tugged on my heart strings. It was clear the strapping was severe enough to make her revert emotionally – putting her in a place where she was just a punished girl, suffering and begging for mercy. There would be no mercy, but there would be an end point. It was the knowledge that there would be an end point and that end point would be under the control of the spanker, that asserted a level of submission that was inescapable and very real.
By about 70 strokes of the strap, she was simply crying steadily and began sucking her thumb. She was in the spankee zone, so I knew I had my level. I would neither back down, nor become more severe. I would be the consistent care-taker of her full strapping. I wanted her to know she could trust me with this level of vulnerability and pain.
When I reached 100 strokes, I stopped. I helped her stand upright. I held her for a few moments while she rubbed her bottom and hopped from foot to foot.
“Gah, that hurt!” she said. She looked at me as if in awe. “You whipped me so severely.”
“I know. Was it more severe than Willie does?” I asked.
She looked down and said, “No.”
I wondered how awkward the rest of the weekend might be, but it wasn’t awkward at all. All three of them were friendly in an almost submissive way that I hadn’t expected. They even made a spaghetti dinner for us on Sunday night as a way of saying ‘farewell’.
I got a strange phone call from Willie on Monday though.
He said, “Quai! I gotta say I’ve got a new level of respect… I had no idea about you.”
“Yes?” I asked, knowing what he was most likely talking about.
“Yeah, man. Did you whip them? All three of them?” he asked.
“Yes… I didn’t mean to step on your toes with that. I was just trying to help,” I said.
“Okay, man. You didn’t step on my toes. I don’t whip them. That’s harsh, man… cold,” he said.
“What do you mean you don’t whip them?” I asked.
“I just don’t. But I guess you would have, huh?” he said.
“I guess so,” I said, dumbfounded.