Being a Girl by Chloë Thurlow

enormous mouthful of spittle that drooled down into his red beard. He grinned and chucked me tenderly under the chin. ‘That’s what I like to see, Byron. A bit of spunk.’
    As he spoke, he slid the riding crop through the cheeks of my bottom and up, first between my legs, then Binky’s legs, locked against my own. He bowed the crop as if playing a cello, slowly, gently, backwards and forwards, and the breath caught in my throat. I sucked at the air and felt a deep raging shame as the liquids leaked from me, wetting my thighs. He kept sliding the crop back and forth, back and forth, urging little gasps from my throat, the crop so soft and the sawing motion so mesmerising, without thinking, I dragged down on the straps and rolled my pelvis until the wings of my pussy opened.
    When the Laird slid the crop out and showed it to Byron, I saw that it was sticky, slicked and shiny with juice. Why were we wet like this? We should have been dry with shame, but my sister’s naked body pressed tightly to me was intensely erotic, the prurient gaze of the two men so decadent, my embarrassment was submerged by my arousal.
    The Laird ran his finger along the length of the soggy crop, then leaned over me, tickling my bottomplayfully with the tassel. ‘There, you see, lassie,’ he said. ‘You’re going to enjoy this.’
    He was close enough for me to spit again but I didn’t. I’d made my point. I kept my dignity. He gave Byron the riding crop and the two men stood back, one on each side of us, our bodies in profile and, although I knew what was about to happen, it still seemed unreal, unbelievable.
    â€˜Are you ready, lad?’
    â€˜Aye, Hamish, as ready as I’ll ever be.’
    â€˜Together then.’
    There was no pause. Byron brought the crop down on my bottom, a swift, hard slash that cut across my pale skin, and the pain that roared through me was like no pain I had ever felt before, a sting, a burn with acid, a flash of fire. Yet even while I was absorbed by my pain, it was the sound of the Laird’s big hand slapping Binky that resounded in my ears. She screamed so loudly, and was so close, it felt as if the scream came from my own lungs.
    We rolled with the blow and as I watched the Laird draw back his hand, I knew that behind me, Byron McBride was lifting the riding crop. Down it came again, another flash of lightning, just above the first, cutting deep, searing my skin. Tears were gushing from my eyes. My back was drenched and Binky pressed against me felt as if she were on fire.
    The next strike with the crop was lower, making a pattern, the line nearer to my sex. My vagina was shamefully engorged, pouting lasciviously between my thighs. Binky was sobbing against my neck, and I wanted to stroke her hair, comfort her, but our arms were pulled above our heads and the only comfort I could give was to kiss her ear.
    The riding crop came down again like a whiplash,the sound of the Laird’s big hand spanking Binky’s bottom like a clap of thunder that echoed and vibrated around the room. She didn’t scream now. She just sobbed, her body trembling. Each new stroke of the riding crop was as painful as the last, but pain changes in character, and when you are familiar with pain, it doesn’t seem quite so terrible.
    Byron left six strokes on my backside, six red lines of burning agony, the fire in each stripe warming the whole area, up my back to my neck, down my thighs to my feet. My posterior was a furnace, my front was running with the sweat pouring from our two naked bodies and, as I stood there, arms suspended above my head, I felt like a diver at the end of the high-diving board, the void stretched out below me. Something had crossed over in me. I had changed. I had become under the beating a new person, more aware of my senses, more conscious of my own desires.
    The Laird bent to inspect Binky’s bottom. Now that it had become pitch black outside, the