Whip the barista

When the barista finally drags her attention away from the bawling cheerleader, you beckon her closer. She immediately plasters a smile on her face and hurries to comply. At her waist hangs a short riding crop with a narrow tongue rather than a popper. You unhook the implement from a loop on her apron and at once she begins to exhibit increased anxiousness, unable to meet your gaze.

"Do you know why I'm going to punish you?" you ask.

"I was watching that girl getting spanked when I should have been working," she admits contritely.

"And were you imagining yourself in her place, or perhaps the place of the man disciplining her?"

She gasps and looks you in the eye, then back to the ground as a blush of embarrassment reddens her cheeks. "Er, maybe, uh, perhaps I was thinking about being the one to spank her," is her candid reply, her voice little more than a whisper.

You tap the tip of the crop against her crotch. "Then I need to beat these inappropriate ideas out of you, don't I? Women your age need to receive spankings, not give them."

"Yes, sir. Thank-you, sir." She seems genuinely grateful that you are willing to take the time and trouble to discipline her.

"Is there somewhere private we can go," you ask, "or should I whip you here?"

"Oh, please follow me to the staff room."

She quickly leads you through a door marked private into a small rectangular room with lockers for the staff on one wall, a high level window and an external door in another, a table beneath the window and four chairs scattered around. There are no facilities for making refreshments, which you suppose makes sense since you're in a coffee shop.

"Take off your apron, jeans and underwear and hop up on the table," you order.

The pretty redhead pulls off her shoes and socks and completes your instructions without hesitation.

"Lie back and hold your legs apart. I don't want you squirming around or making a fuss. You can cry, but if you start screaming or complaining or asking me to stop, I will add extra lashes. The same if you let go of your legs or move around on the table. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, sir," she says with a gulp and you feast your eyes on her exposed sex with pleasure. She is slim, with neatly defined lips, slightly parted due to the exposed position you have required of her. A small patch of red hair adorns her mound, ending just above the top of her slit. You slide the shaft of the crop between her labia and then inspect it, finding the glistening evidence of her arousal that you suspected.

A shudder runs through her body and you wonder whether it is from the stimulation you have given her pudenda or the shame of knowing that you have noticed her desire. You carefully measure the distance and aim the first blow at the point where her left thigh meets her groin, then bring the crop up, over your shoulder, before slashing down across her delicate, defenceless flesh.

Her legs instantly snap together and she pulls her knees to her chest, wailing in anguish. Well, you're not going to tolerate that sort of behaviour, so you wrap your arm around her ankles and pull her feet up to expose the backs of her thighs and the pink line of her sex peeking out between. You lay on lash after lash until a web of livid weals lies throbbing on her legs and she is sobbing out apologies and promises to be good. Her hands also have their share of welts where she tried to protect herself from your onslaught, but she soon learned to keep them out of the way while you dealt with her lack of control.

After ten lashes, you release her ankles and she returns to her position, breathing hard, her fingers pressing into the flesh of her thighs in an effort to ensure she remains still for her whipping.

You take aim once more and are gratified when the tip of the crop lands in almost exactly the same spot as before. The redhead's face is a rictus of agony as she struggles to cope with the pain without screaming, then she sobs out a "Thank-you, sir," as you prepare for your next blow.

You whip the identical spot on her right thigh, then half way between each thigh and her slit, then right on the edge of her lips, each stroke causing a longer pause as she fights to remain in control and more intense tears while she thanks you for disciplining her. There are six swollen ridges evenly spaced across the whole width of her pudenda, close enough together that any attempt to add more would inevitably impinge upon those already present.

"Now spread your lips," you command.

The barista wails in despair, but nevertheless obeys, her hands shaking as she takes a painful grip of her outer labia and pulls them apart to reveal the tender pink within.

"Further," you order and she adjusts her grip to allow her to pull harder, stretching herself taut. Although her shoulders heave with silent sobs, no more tears are coming from her red-rimmed eyes for the moment, as if she has cried herself out.

"If you let go of your lips, I will repeat the stroke," you warn.

"Yes, sir," she whispers hoarsely, even as you raise the crop once more.

It lands with a crack and is met by a shriek, swiftly suppressed into a **** sob as she remembers your admonition not to scream. You wait to allow her to recover and thank you, then mirror the stroke on the inner surface of her other lip, with much the same result.

Two more lashes, this time on her inner labia, and the redhead is in total hysterics, her entire body shaking from head to toe, gasping for air as she is barely able to draw breath for the pain.

The final two strokes are for her clitoris, but the smaller target demands a different technique. You allow her to release her well-punished labia and pull back her clitoral hood to expose the pink nub in all its helplessness. Placing the tip of the crop upon the sensitive flesh, you bend back the shaft and let it snap down. The result is much less severe than a full lash, which you think is fortunate, as you doubt the suffering redhead could endure such agony on top of the rest of her suffering. Nevertheless, her reaction is ****, a spasm almost sending her off the table onto the floor.

The second flick is to the same target, but with the crop held at right angles, to cross the earlier weal. You watch her clitoris swell up to close on three times its normal size as she shudders uncontrollably, unable to speak for over a minute.

As the barista recovers from her ordeal, you help her to sit up and gave her a hug to show that all is forgiven. Still sobbing profusely, she hangs onto you as if her life depended on it, pouring out her gratitude and assurances that she will never again fantasize about another woman's punishment. You sit beside her on the table for almost a quarter of an hour, holding her and stroking her hair until her calms.

"Thank-you, sir," she says at last, "that was the most effective punishment I've ever received, and also the most caring." Then, she eases herself off the table and goes to her locker for her purse. "I don't have much money on me to tip you," she apologises, showing you the inside of her purse, "but you're welcome to what I have."