The Spanish rhythms pounded through Lucy's head as she danced, her slender arms around her new husband as he twirled her gently around the floor. She was in paradise, this wedding feast, in the chateau-turned-hotel on the foothills of the Pyrenees, the perfect finale to a wonderful day. She treasured that vacation, just six months before in St.Jean-de-Luz, a get-away from her failed marriage, where she'd lain on the beach, trying to forget everything.  He'd stood in front of her, his handsome face beaming down, his naked chest muscles rippling as he introduced himself as Marcel. Brazenly, he'd lain down beside her and Lucy had tried to affect disinterest, but her heart had raced as he told her gently, as only the French can, that she was too beautiful to be alone.

She fell in love on the spot. He was a passionate, skilled lover and her lonely vacation became a dream come true. She discovered he was Basque and she was fascinated by the history and traditions of his people. On her return home they exchanged phone calls daily and he paid for her to visit his family. Then he had proposed and she'd accepted on the spot, almost in a trance. He promised her a traditional wedding to remember and he had kept his promise wonderfully.

Suddenly the music stopped. Marcel released his bride and she stood alone and nervous as every guest grinned at her and slowly began to clap in time. The best man, carrying a velvet case, stepped forward, put the case down and opened it. Lucy gasped as she saw the long multi-stranded whip within.  From the corner of her eye she saw eager, grinning guests clearing one of the banquetting tables as Marcel picked up the whip, a gleam in his eye, and advanced toward her.

Before she could comprehend, he clicked his fingers and four ushers stepped forward, each grabbing Lucy by an arm and a leg, then, as she squealed, carried her to the cleared table and put her over it, face down.

Eager hands began to lift her wedding dress and petticoats to her waist as she screamed in horror, her lace panties exposed to everyone before even these last shreds of modesty were hastily pulled down, her bare bottom and genitals exposed to all as her legs were hauled apart.

Then her husband's gentle voice. "Just a little tradition I didn't mention, my love. We believe that a good wedding day whipping cleanses a woman of her past loves and sins - and reminds her who is the master, of course!"

Before she could protest, the martinet whipped down over and over across her bottom, her vulva, her thighs until she was sore and tingling, the laughter and clapping increasing as her bottom writhed across the table.  Desire soon replaced shame as she moistened rapidly under the stimulation of the whip, her cries replaced by sighs as Marcel took her, there across the table, in front of everyone.