CRACK!

Stella sucked in a gasp and reached out for support, finding Frida's arm. The Nordic goddess took the girl's hand and drew the enthralled teenager close so she could whisper in her ear.

"It is a thing of beauty, is it not?"

"Beyond beauty," Stella answered.

They were standing at the rear of the fetish room, which was larger than Stella had expected. She had it in her mind that it would be something like her old headmaster's study because that's where she'd always been caned in the past, and she wasn't sure what other fetishes were catered for beyond her speciality of spanking. This place was much bigger than a study, however. It had to be to accommodate the viewing area with its tables and chairs, the stage, and the wealth of equipment that lurked behind the curtain at the back of that stage. Like the main room of the club it was stylishly laid out with the same flair for design in evidence, although hardly something that merited the description of 'beyond beauty'.

But it was what was happening on the stage, not the room itself that the women were referring to, and even there they might have had different notions on the exact nature of the beauty on display.

Frida was describing the act in general. A connoisseur of fine art and an expert on the subject, as well as being the club's interior designer, she had the eyes and the gift to see the whole picture; and as a professional slave of the highest quality, she could appreciate every aspect as a treat to the senses. Even the crack she could feel on her rarely struck back despite it having landed elsewhere.

Less refined and infinitely less experienced, Stella missed many of the nuances on offer. But she still felt it was a thing that went way beyond beauty, mainly because of the man.

He stood on the stage almost in a trance, seemingly oblivious to his audience of four - a thing of beauty being one way to describe him, although devilishly handsome, unbelievably hunky and magnificently masculine, would fit the bill as well.

"His name is Paddy... Paddy McGuire, an Irishman from Dublin," Frida whispered, answering one of the many questions that was racing through Stella's mind.

And he looked every bit the typical Celt, with his dark ginger hair that could arguably be termed auburn, emerald green eyes that shone like the jewels, and a splattering of freckles on his otherwise pale-skin. The nose was prominent but not overly large, the lips were pale and not overly generous, and the chin was strong like the rest of the man and covered by a five day stubble. Nothing exceptional in any of that, but the package of features when brought together made for something very special, a degree of handsomeness that was far from classic, but was all the better for it.

Then there was the body that was casually dressed in tight hugging jeans and a plain white tee-shirt which showed off an incredible muscular physique. Standing at six foot three, Paddy McGuire was a hunk and a half, naturally broad and wonderfully proportioned from head to toe. But there was no air of arrogance about the man. He carried his splendour as if ignorant of his worth. He also carried a bullwhip in his hand which added significantly to the interest.

"The crack of the whip," whispered Charles who had sided up to Stella as she gazed at the spectacle now stationary on the stage. "Some men say it's the sweetest sound there is. There are others I prefer, female sounds, but there can be no denying the appeal of a whip crack. It's the epitome of our world here in The Dark Side. I was told by the boss, who enjoys a bit of flowery language, that yielded properly, the whip should explode like lightening from the hand of a god, and snake through the air like a dragon's claw. Can you imagine that! Now watch Mr McGuire who is a master of the art..."

Stella watched with eyes agog as if on cue Paddy awoke from his trance and sprang into action again. He spun the whip in a circle above his head, round and round like a slow turning propeller. Then the motion ceased and Paddy's hand came forward as if he were casting a fishing line. The whip followed and he snapped his wrist.

CRACK!

It was sweet indeed, an orgasmic noise. Stella couldn't help but let out a moan as she imagined the thrill of being on the receiving end, instead of the mannequin dummy that Paddy McGuire had struck. And struck very true from what Stella could see. A little shoe polish on the fall and cracker at the end had left a mark on the mannequin's back: a kiss, not a lash, on the right shoulder blade, matching the one he'd earlier place on the left.

"Very impressive, Paddy," called out Charles with a round of applause. "There are few men that can do that trick with any degree of accuracy. I would have the poor girl's eye out if I tried it myself on some poor slave. But enough of the practice. It's your knowledge of spanking, not whipping that's needed now. Let me introduce you to Stella, our new naughty public schoolgirl who needs some guidance."