Your view is rudely obstructed

"Scusi…scusi…scusi," Flo's (definitely not Italian) blonde friend weaves her way through the packed spectators, ending up just in front of your right shoulder, jostling you slightly in the process. Then, she holds a smartphone up in the air at arm's length, right in your eyeline and starts recording the race, or at least her pal's part in it. However, she seems not to be too concerned about the quality of her footage, gripping the device quite lazily at a wonky angle and allowing it to shake and judder without even attempting to keep it steady. You move your head to one side so you can see better, but after a few moments, her arm starts to wave about even more. You look down, intending to say something, but see that she's not even looking at the 'phone she's using to record, instead interacting with a second, apparently identical screen with her other hand.

"Young lady…young lady!" You finally manage to get her attention over the hubbub of the crowd and the moans of the contestants. She glances towards you enquiringly and you continue: "Please watch what you're doing with that 'phone. You're obstructing peoples' view."

"Oh, sorry," she shouts back, letting the object in question dangle even more loosely, so that the camera must be capturing more of the sky than the race, "I promised Flo I'd get some clips for her feed. She thinks it's going to boost her numbers."

From the thinly disguised sneer in her voice, you take it the blonde disagrees and she'll probably turn out to be right, if only because the shots she's getting are so poor. Something about her attitude is really starting to annoy you.

"Don't you think you ought to pay more attention, if it's so important to your friend?"

"Oh, she's not a friend; she just hangs around, hoping I'll tag her in one of my posts."

This is quite a relaxed event, where a little more leeway is granted than usual regarding the behaviour considered appropriate from young women. You weren't expecting any disciplinary spankings to take place, only ceremonial ones, but this girl's smug little smile as she belittles her companion goes just too far. You glance around, seeing the chap called Devon standing behind you, tall enough to see the stage over your head without straining. He's clearly been listening to the exchange, but kept one eye on the competition.

"Excuse me," you say to him, "would you mind taking over the recording?"

"Sure thing, man," he replies, beep baritone effortlessly carrying over the din all around. He takes the smartphone out of the woman's hand, turns it on its side and holds it rock steady, image centred on the brunette in the plum dress, teeth clenched, eyes closed, her whole body vibrating with the effort of avoiding climax.

For your part, you grab the blonde by her nose and start dragging her unceremoniously towards the back of the crowd, much to the amusement (and approval) of the spectators nearby. She gives a yelp, more of surprise than pain, but has little choice other than to follow. When the pack begins to thin, you release her and tell her she's getting half a dozen for being inconsiderate. You leave it to her to work out whether the problem was being inconsiderate of your wish to watch the race unimpeded or Flo's request to record her, or both, ordering her to take off her top and hand you her implement.

She gapes at you in surprise, rubbing her nose, but then quickly hooks her thumbs into the bottom of her T-shirt and pulls it over her head without bashfulness, revealing a pair of very nice (and almost certainly enhanced) round boobs. She shoves the second smartphone in her bag, which she drops to the ground, laying the removed garment and her broken sunglasses on top, then unhooks a wide rubber strap with a wooden handle from her belt and offers it to you.

As you test the implement in your hands, noting the large round holes along the length, she puts her shoulders back, thrusting her chest out. Obviously, there could be other targets that would necessitate removing her top, but in this case she's right and without waiting you begin to administer the six lashes, going from side to side, setting her pert round boobies smashing into one another.

Although you imagine she must be familiar with this particular form of chastisement, she reacts strongly from the first blow, with a cry of pain and shock. The return stroke makes her yelp and tears glisten in the corner of her eyes. The third and fourth have her gasping and whimpering, her hands clenched into fists.

"Stop that," you admonish, gesturing to the offending fists when she looks at you blankly. "Hold them out."

Uncertainly, she extends her palms and you flick the strap down once on each, causing her to react strongly, sobs wracking her shoulders as forearms quiver like jelly. She looks pleadingly into your eyes, as if uncertain what she did wrong, but you just use the end of the strap to guide her hands back to her sides. There are two more lashes to go on her boobs and she wails in anguish, nearly screaming in agony at the last as tears flood down her flushed cheeks. Purple bruising is spreading inwards from the sides of her breasts, almost as far as her stiff pink nipples, whilst more has formed in the cleft between where they swung together from the momentum of the strapping. You nod, satisfied that she's been appropriately chastised.