I was the one

"I was the one. The sight of his spurting cock finally pushed me over the edge."

Christina, now fully dressed, steps next to the lounger and looks down at Jane, an ice-cold smile on her lips. "See? There it is. The proud captain, getting herself off in front of the whole crew like a horny animal. And then she loses. What a pathetic sight." Her voice drips with contempt. Jane closes her eyes, tears welling from under her lids and mixing with your dried semen on her cheek. You feel your stomach clench. She had to pleasure herself in front of everyone—just like you. And now she's being humiliated for it. That could just as easily be you. Aren't you just as pathetic deep down? Just as naked and exposed before their eyes?

"Ten. And you count them out loud, Jane. Every single one," Christina hisses as she hands you the belt. You step closer. The smell of her fear, mixed with your own semen on her skin, fills your nostrils.

She points at Jane's spread thighs. "Hit her right where she liked to touch herself so much. On her cunt."

The words hang in the air like a second, invisible whip. You feel all the girls' gazes on your naked body, on your limp cock, which everyone here already knows. And now you're supposed to, completely exposed before them, strike a woman with full **** between her legs. The thought is so humiliating, so degrading, it almost makes you sick. But you have ****. You are the object. Their toy. And you're clear that otherwise, roles would be swapped very quickly.

You swing.

The first blow cracks dry and sharp through the room, right onto her pubis. Jane's whole body flinches, a choked "One!" **** from her throat.

The second lash lands a centimeter lower, again right in her slit, and her flesh quivers under the impact. A red weal appears on her golden skin. "T-Two!"

Your arm moves as if guided by a foreign ****. With each blow, something inside you dissolves. The confusion, the shame, the absurd arousal—they liquefy and flow into every swing of your wrist. The slap of the leather on her naked, moist flesh becomes a rhythmic, shameless song. The fact that you have to do this—naked, watched, striking a woman in her most intimate place—is the ultimate display of your powerlessness.

"Three!"—A whimper.

"Four!"—A deeper moan.

At "Five!" her tone changes. It's no longer a sound of pain. It's something darker, drawn out. Her pelvis presses against the lounger, her body seeks contact, seeks the blow.

Christina watches you with her arms crossed. A fleeting, acknowledging nod. Then she bends down, gathers your clothes—the shirt, the jeans, even the panties—from the floor and stuffs them into her huge sports bag. She leaves your shoes. The last remnant of your dignity disappears into that bag while you, completely naked, continue to swing here.

You swing the belt for the sixth blow. This time you hit the sensitive, already moist fold where her thighs meet—right on the target Christina commanded.

"Six!" Her cry is piercing, pure. Her back arches, her buttocks lift towards you, a mute, shameless invitation.

You give her what she wants. Seven. Eight. Nine. Each blow now lands exactly there, in that swollen, glistening slit. The leather no longer whips against skin; it slaps against soaked labia. The sound is wet, obscene. She screams each number, but her voice breaks, goes hoarse with pleasure. Her hands claw into the cushion, her hips write circles in the air, rubbing against the lounger, seeking any friction at all. And you stand naked over her, performing this spectacle for the gawking girls, your limp cock dangling with every movement—a pounding symbol of your own disgrace.

"T-Ten!" she gasps, just before the final blow lands.

You swing with your last strength. The belt hits her fully, almost disappearing into the soft, greedy moisture. Her whole body convulses into a taut line. A long, trembling moan, culminating in a sharp cry, tears from her throat. You see it, how it shakes her, that wave radiating from the spot you just punished, gripping every muscle in her stomach, her thighs, her face. She twitches and quivers beneath you, a holy, dirty spasm.

Then she collapses. Silence. Only her gasping breath. She slowly turns her head to the side, her cheek stuck to the wet leather. Her eyes, glazed with tears and ecstasy, find you.

"Th... thank you," she whispers, her voice rough and utterly broken.

A cold shiver runs down your spine. This thank you is the most degrading thing of all.

A sharp zipping sound tears you from the sight. Christina stands at the door, her sports bag over her shoulder. She casts one last glance at you—naked, soiled, the belt still in your hand—and then at Jane, who lies destroyed and gasping on the lounger.

"We're meeting at my place," she says, and her voice is cool and clear like the pool at the start of this never-ending day. "Don't take too long."

Then she's gone. The door clicks shut behind her. The click echoes in the sudden, oppressive silence. You stand there. Naked. In a room that smells of sweat, semen, and shamed lust.