Two women were on the railing.
Literally on the railing — straddling it, their legs hooked over the wooden beam, their skirts hiked up to their waists. They were rubbing. Their pussies — covered by thin panties — grinding against the polished wood, the friction leaving wet streaks. Their faces were flushed, their mouths open, their eyes half-closed.
"Lord Viktor," one moaned. "Please forgive me."
"Forgive me," the other echoed. "I shouldn't have — it's wrong — my husband —"
She was using a whip. A small leather riding crop, the kind used for horses. She slapped it against the other woman's thigh — the sound sharp, the flesh reddening. The other woman cried out. Not in pain. In pleasure.
"Lord Viktor, forgive me — I cheated — it is wrong — my husband was angry — Lord Viktor, please —"
