Discussion:
zzz FLOGMASTER: A Miserable Lesson (****, FF/ffffF, nc caning, blood, edgy)
(too old to reply)
Frank Marsh
2008-01-09 17:10:32 UTC
A series of *extremely* severe canings at a strict educational
instutition. Lots of blood, so don't read if you're the sensitive type.

________________________________________________________________
Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!
Copyright 2007 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free
distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or
electronic B.B.S.) is permitted as long as the text is _not_
modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form
of publication is allowed without written permission. This
document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature.
***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own
problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only,
and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the
author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All
characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people
is purely coincidental.
________________________________________________________________


*** Author's Note: ***
This was inspired by Dedaux's "The Prussian Girls" -- my favorite
spanking novel.

Frank
The Flogmaster
***

A Miserable Lesson

"How long has it been, Miss Brigitte?" asked Headmistress
Frieda suddenly, turning to the school's youngest teacher,
only eighteen.

The pretty blonde flushed slightly at being addressed but
spoke without stammering. "A month, Headmistress."

"I thought as much. Let me see."

Blushing furiously now, the girl stood with a curtsey and
raised her skirt. She bent forward and reached behind to
draw her knickers down, exposing large twin globes of
buttery flesh.

"Such a nice pair," breathed the old woman. She reached out
a gnarled hand to palm the cheeks, gently kneading the bare
flesh. "Smooth and lovely. No trace of your last beating."

"N-no, madam."

"You could do with a good thrashing. Right here, where it's
so fat and tender." Her bony finger traced a line along the
base of Brigitte's underbum.

The tickle produced a bead of sweat on the young teacher's
forehead as she tensed to hold her bent position, dread
overwhelming her. Beatings were bad enough, but those from
the Head were the most vile imaginable, always low, in the
crease.

"I want to thrash you, Miss Brigitte."

"Y-yes, madam."

"Aren't you on whipping duty tonight?"

"No, ma'am. Miss Christa is on duty tonight. I'm for
Monday."

"That won't due. I've a mind to thrash you tonight. Switch
with Miss Christa, will you?"

"Yes madam." Brigitte's eyes rotated to the petite Miss
Christa, who gave the briefest of nods. She looked at the
clock. It was already eight, so the whipping hour was near.
"I should go prepare then, Headmistress."

"Yes, go. Miss Christa, how many tonight?"

"Four. Three sixes and one nine."

"Ah, a poor showing. Still, you'll make the sixes count?"

"Of course, madam," curtseyed Miss Brigitte.

"Think you can make a sixer repeat?"

"I'll try my best, madam."

"You'd better, for you'll be taking whatever strokes don't
lead to a repeat."

Miss Brigitte gasped, the blood draining from her face.
"Madam?"

"You heard me. If it takes you five to earn a repeat,
you'll earn four yourself."

"Yes Headmistress," the young teacher said with bowed head,
her belly twisting miserably inside. Her brain was doing
the dismal math: if she made each repeat at five, about the
best she could hope for, she was in for sixteen! Lord, ten
from the Head was agony. How could she possibly bear
sixteen?

Miss Brigitte curtseyed and departed. She gritted her teeth
with determination to make her charges repeat at three.
That would be only two from each, eight strokes. She might
possibly be able to handle eight without disgracing
herself.

She arrived at the whipping room early, as intended, for
she wanted to be ready. Her own bottom depended on her
performance tonight. She had to make these whippings as
vicious as possible. She couldn't afford the luxury of
mercy.

First she checked the whip-stand, the low wooden platform
where girls were required to bend. She used extra grease on
the footpads and the iron grip bar, rubbing it in
thoroughly, making the surfaces as slippery as possible.
Anything to give herself an edge.

Next, after wiping her hands dry, she went to inspect the
rack of canes. Duty canes were special; these were all
stout rods of the hardest imported hickory. They were all
at least four feet long and devilishly flexible. They'd
been sanded and polished earlier in the evening by the four
students who would feel them on their behinds tonight, the
slender shafts velvety smooth. There were eight rods and
each was in perfect condition. Each cane was well-balanced,
though their weights varied slightly. Brigitte carefully
selected the three she judged the heaviest and longest.

These she brought to a corner and tested, applying practice
strokes to a set of leather pillows designed for the
purpose. After two or three with each cane she decided on
one and put the others aside. She kept the others separate
in case her primary snapped or proved unsatisfactory.

All seemed to be in order. It was almost nine. She
stretched, touched her toes ten times -- ruefully
reflecting that she'd be in that dreaded position shortly
-- and practiced her breathing. Her heart was hammering
with nerves, which she pushed aside sternly, knowing she
had no time for emotions. Emotions would ruin her.

Opening the door she was pleased to see that all four girls
were already waiting. She carefully checked their names
against her list. Corinna, Flora, and Gwendolin were the
sixers. Liesel, a tall blonde, was there for nine.

Brigitte was disappointed. All the girls were healthy with
stout bottoms able to take stern punishment. Her task was a
formidable one. She'd been hoping for at least one fragile
youngster who would cry when whipped. Crying always
unnerved those waiting, made them jumpy.

Of the four, Flora was the youngest at sixteen. She was a
plump girl, however, with a wide backside. Brigitte had
seen her whipped before and knew that it took a lot of
whipping for her to feel it through all that fat. Lisel was
eighteen, the same age as Brigitte herself, but she'd been
whipped at least once this week and with nine strokes the
teacher was certain she could make the blonde repeat.

So the choice for starting was between Corinna and
Gwendolin, both seventeen, both experienced with
punishment, both slender with round, full bottoms. Of the
two Brigitte decided Corinna might be easier to break so
she signaled to the dark-haired beauty to enter.

With an almost imperceptible sigh but no change in doleful
expression, the girl rose and followed the teacher into the
room. Brigitte shut the door firmly behind them.

"You may prepare."

Corinna calmly began to undress. In a moment she was
completely nude: skirt, top, stockings, shoes, and
underthings all neatly folded and stacked on the small
table. She was a beautiful girl with petite features,
though all Brigitte was concerned with now were the girl's
buttocks. The teacher intended to make them suffer.

Brigitte snapped her fingers and Corinna jumped, startled,
then hurried to the teacher in a submissive, apologetic
posture. She quickly presented her bottom so the woman
could feel her buttocks for bruises.

"No marks," murmured Brigitte. "You haven't been whipped
lately."

"No Miss Brigitte."

"We will see how you handle six, then, won't we?"

"Yes Miss Brigitte."

"In position now. I'm going to make you repeat and repeat
early."

The girl shuddered but didn't respond. Repeating was one of
the things that made the evening duty whippings so awful.
Normally a girl was expected to take her chastisement with
appropriate decorum and if she yelped or stood up she might
expect an extra stroke or two. Not so for duty whippings.
If she so much as moved an inch out of position the entire
beating was repeated, plus whatever strokes she'd failed to
take the first time. So a girl due six who moved on the
fifth would receive another eight: six plus two (the
original fifth stroke not counting, of course).

It was a stiff penalty for a momentary lack of willpower.
Thus duty whippings were a form of game. It was a silent
war between student and teacher. Students tried their
hardest to hold position and suffer their allotted
punishment in silence, while the duty mistress of the
evening would try her hardest to make a girl repeat.
Failure for the teacher meant ridicule from her peers and
the displeasure of the Headmistress. Failure from the
student meant waiting nude while all the other punishments
were finished, then being strapped to a whipping frame for
a severe flogging. For both, failure was not an option.
Yet, daily, one or the other failed.

On this night, duty mistress Brigitte, herself only months
graduated, had an extra incentive to succeed. She already
knew she was going to be whipped by Headmistress Frieda
afterward -- the only question was how severely. She did
not want it to be many. A month ago she'd seen the old
woman whip mistress Magda, a stout veteran who'd been
teaching for a dozen years, a woman who was an expert at
giving and receiving corporal infliction, and she'd had
been reduced to tears from a mere fifteen from the old hag.

Corinna was in position on the whip-stand. Her feet were
well apart on the greased footpads and she bent over the
waist bar and wrapped her fingers around the slippery grip
bar at her ankles. If she cried out or released a hand or a
foot slipped off a pad, she was determined to have faulted
and the punishment would be repeated. The grease meant she
had to be extra careful: the slightest wiggle would
undoubtedly send her flying.

"Six," murmured Brigitte, lining up the fearsome cane with
the bulge of the petite girl's bottom. She took a running
start, putting a lot of her weight behind the blow. The
willow whisked through the air like a knife and sank into
the fatty tissue with a dull thud. The rod sprang back
elastically, a dark furrow in its wake. It darkened as
Brigitte watched, a crimson and then blue band of furious
pain spanning both cheeks.

"One," said Corinna calmly.

Brigitte ground her teeth at the girl's impassivity and
took an extra step back. She threw herself at the girl,
lashing the rod down low, just above the thighs. The sound
of the strike was so impressively deadly that she almost
let burst a spurt of pee. The swelling weal was already
nearly purple and so thick it was like a fuzzy caterpillar
crawling across the curve of Corinna's arse.

For a moment, Brigitte thought she'd done it. Corinna
wavered, her body swaying. But she didn't panic, the fatal
mistake of the amateur. She was experienced. She remained
calm, gradually slowed her body's movement (a sudden stop
would have caused a slip), and when she spoke "Two" it was
as unemotional as though she was reporting on the weather.

The young teacher was annoyed, but not surprised. Corinna
had endured duty whippings before, probably a high number
during her years at the school. She would not be easy to
break. Somehow Brigitte must draw out the maximum pain and
cause the girl to fault.

She lashed the cane into the same place on the crease,
right into the caterpillar. The purplish weal was livid: it
writhed as though alive. On the right side, where the tip
of the cane impacted most of the cane's momentum, the flesh
was gooey with blood. Brigitte had drawn on the third
stroke.

"Three," said Corinna.

Well, it was a good start. Now she needed to work the weal.
Brigitte laid on the fourth will all her strength. Her aim
was true and the bloody weal swelled. It was oozing now.
Five was in the same place again. The weal looked hideous
now, the skin split open like an overripe melon rind.
Corinna's voice had pain in it when she whispered,
"F-five."

There was only once chance left. Though it was cruel,
Brigitte could not afford mercy. She struck the crease
again. Her cane came away stained crimson. Corinna
staggered, a soft whimper of protest emerging from her
throat. But miraculously she did not slip. She held
position. Brigitte watched her for a full minute, hoping
she'd release, but she did not. Finally the teacher had no
choice but to admit the truth. She had failed.

"You may leave, Corinna. Stop and see Nurse for those cuts.
I hope you learned your lesson."

"Oh yes, Miss Brigitte. It was a... superb flogging.
Excruciating."

But not enough, thought the teacher bitterly. "Send in
Gwendolin."

The blonde girl was also slender, but her wider hips made
her waist seem narrower. She was more voluptuous,
especially up top. Brigitte was delighted to see fresh cane
marks across the plump behind, and when she fondled and
pinched them, the girl writhed most convincingly.

"Who beat you?"

"Mistress Sophie," sighed Gwendolin. "Six for talking in
class when I wasn't."

"Watch your tongue, miss, unless you want another Duty for
insolence."

The girl shook her head almost rebelliously as she got in
position on the greased platform, but she didn't respond.
Her bottom bulged out at Brigitte, the six crimson lines
left by the classroom cane tenderizing her flesh, preparing
it for the teacher. Brigitte grinned confidently: if she
couldn't make this girl writhe and slip, she couldn't make
anyone.

But to Brigitte's astonishment, no matter how hard she
flogged, Gwendolin remained calm. She suffered stoically,
counting out the strokes as required, her voice neutral.
She didn't slip even when Brigitte practically threw her
back out she struck so hard. Gwendolin's buttocks were a
mass of purple and blue, the flesh impossibly tender, yet
fresh strikes seemed to have no effect on the girl.

"Six," Gwendolin muttered, and waited patiently until
Brigitte gave her permission to rise. When she stood, her
knees were trembling and she almost slipped from the grease
on her feet. "Thank you, Miss Brigitte. A splendid
f-flogging."

Brigitte's stomach was twisted into a bitter knot. Twelve,
her mind kept saying. Twelve. She was in for twelve. She
cursed under her breath and ordered Gwendolin to send in
Flora.

A few seconds later and Flora was in the room. She
obediently stripped, folding her clothes. She was heavyset,
though she carried her weight well, most of it in her chest
and ass. Her thighs were massive columns that supported the
rest of her. Her face was round and pretty, with a bright,
friendly, stupid smile would soften any heart.

But not tonight. Brigitte was in no mood for friendship:
she had a battle to win. She was losing dismally already
and she knew she had to break this girl. She was fat, but
she was young, and if whipped hard enough, she'd break.

The first few lashes seemed to sink into the endless bottom
like drops in a pond. Sure, the weals were thick and
purple, the ridges swollen a few millimeters above the
smooth flesh, but so much of the bottom seemed untouched
that it made the beaten area seem woefully inadequate.

As Flora implacably grunted "Four" Brigitte wanted to
scream. For a moment she wished the cow was due a dozen, or
even two. Really make her squeal. But of course, Brigitte's
own sentence was to take whatever the girls could, so
having more strokes at her disposal did not help her own
bottom. If Flora faulted at ten, that was nine strokes for
Brigitte.

"Five."

Was that was a falter? A wiggle? Oh, perhaps she was
getting to the girl at last! Brigitte waited, hoping, but
the girl was quiet. She was in pain: silent tears trickled
down her face, but she held on through sheer willpower.

The sixth was naturally the hardest yet, whipped in deep in
the underbum, so deep the shaft of the cane disappeared
with the folds of flesh. When it emerged an ooze of crimson
followed, trickling down Flora's stout thighs. For a moment
it seemed that the girl might break. A violent shiver
passed through her, her flesh shuddering as she trembled
violently. She wobbled, then went still. Brigitte waited,
but it was soon obvious the girl had recovered.

"Go!" cried Brigitte furiously, "Get out and send in
Liesel!"

Quickly the fat girl dressed, the back of her knickers
staining red when she pulled them up around her whipped
cheeks. Wiping tears off her face, she hobbled out the
door.

Liesel was tall and skinny with petite breasts and narrow
hips, but her buttocks had a bit meat to them, though they
were vertical instead of wide. When she stripped, Brigitte
was pleased to see the skin was mottled with the damage of
recent discipline.

"Looks like someone's been naughty," Miss Brigitte mused.
"Who gave you those?"

"Mistress Sabine gave me the duty whipping on Monday," said
Liesel calmly. "Six livid cuts. Yesterday Miss Paula gave
me three with her switch for dawdling and this morning I
was a few seconds late to breakfast and Mistress Nina gave
me six with a classroom cane. When I protested she put me
down for another duty whipping."

"As it's your second this week, it's nine this time."

"Yes Miss Brigitte."

"I'm not going to go easy on you either. You've got a
couple tender weals there and I'm going to work on them."

"Yes, Miss. I would be disappointed if you didn't."

"I'm determined to see you repeat."

"That shall not happen, Miss Brigitte."

Brigitte almost smiled at the confidence -- or was it
arrogance? -- of the teen. She went to her pot of grease
and reapplied it to the footpads and handle bar. "Now we
shall see."

The stand was so slippery Liesel almost slipped getting on.
But once in position, her weight balanced on her feet and
her hands determinedly holding the bar, she looked
disgustingly comfortable. Brigitte purposely double-checked
and adjusted the girl's position even though she was fine,
spreading her legs a tiny bit more and making sure she was
bent well over, her buttocks taut as possible.

Brigitte took a long run and let the full weight of the
cane swish into the waiting buttocks. She blow was hard
enough to stagger an upright person, let alone a slender
girl bent over on greased flooring. But Liesel did not
move. The purple line swelling across her spread cheeks
looked excruciating as it traversed already beaten flesh,
yet she had no reaction.

"One," she said nonchalantly.

The cane whistled and cracked down hard on bare flesh. The
thickness of the previous weal was now doubled. Liesel
grunted. "Two," she said thoughtfully.

The third was a scorcher, sizzling into the fat of the
underbum and drawing a trickle of "claret."

Still, Liesel was not moved. She continued the count
calmly, though her face was distressed and her buttocks
livid with thick fresh weals. The blows were so close
together it was like one giant weal, nearly two inches of
swollen, empurpled flesh. Her body shuddered and trembled,
but she did not move her feet or shift her weight. It was
her skin that seemed to vibrate, involuntary spasms of her
flesh.

"Seven," she hissed, her voice weak with suffering.
"Eight."

Brigitte was in a panic. She was failing miserably. She was
not going to make a single girl repeat!

She put all she had into the final stroke. It truly was a
masterful one, low and into existing pain, and she used
every ounce of strength, body twist, and wrist snap she
could to gain all the momentum from her blow.

Liesel's eyes bulged and tears dripped down her face. Every
muscle in her body was achingly tense, frozen in her
determination to endure. A long time passed. Finally a
distant voice said, "You may go." The voice was defeated
and beaten.

Brigitte stared at the empty room. She'd never felt so
alone before. Her knees trembled and she wanted to vomit.
Instead she went to the facilities and peed, forcing
herself to get rid of all excess fluid. Yet when she
imagined the Headmistress' rage at her failure, it made her
want to pee again.

She was terrified, but there was nothing for it. She
carefully wrote down the punishments in the logbook and
carried it back to the teacher's lounge. Several were
waiting, including Headmistress Frieda. She snapped her
fingers impatiently for the book as soon a she saw
Brigitte.

"Come, let me see. How many repeated? Two? No? Do you mean
you got three? Surely not a single, that would be a poor
performance indeed."

There was no hiding it. Brigitte stood tall. "None,
Headmistress."

"What?"

"I... I failed."

"Failed? You are disgrace to the teaching profession! Three
sixers and a nine, one girl only sixteen, and yet you
failed to even make one repeat? Did you even try?"

"I drew with three, Madam. But they were big girls and
wouldn't break."

"Pah, what does size have to do with it? It's all in the
technique. You obviously do not know how to thrash a young
lady."

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Hold on! Let me prove it to you. Mistress Sylvia -- would
you mind stepping out into the corridor and returning with
the first senior girl you find?"

"Certainly madam." The teacher quickly departed, Brigitte
watching her go with trepidation. She wondered what the
Headmistress had in mind.

After a few minutes, Mistress Sylvia was back with a big
blonde girl. She was not fat like Flora, but tall and
stout, of hardy Bavarian stock, solid as an oak. Brigitte
recognized her at once. Her name was Ingrid and she'd been
birched on the block not seven weeks earlier. It had been
five dozen for self-abuse but she'd acquitted herself well.
Brigitte had been impressed by her fortitude.

"Ingrid, present your bottom," said the Headmistress
without any preamble. The senior girl didn't hesitate, but
turned and bent, lifting her skirt so everyone could see
the large globes of her buttocks straining against the
confines of her tight knickers.

Headmistress Frieda's switch flicked the ripe cheeks hard.
"Bare, you fool!"

Blushing, Ingrid quickly yanked her underwear down her
legs, exposing a magnificent bottom. There were the
faintest traces of previous work, a stray welt or two that
hadn't completely faded, but it was obvious Ingrid had
managed to avoid a whipping for at least several weeks.

"I'm going to give you six, Ingrid. What do you think about
that?"

"I don't know what I did, Madam Headmistress, but if you
think a thrashing will benefit me I shall take it with
gratitude."

"You shall take it like a duty whipping, with a duty cane.
And like a duty whipping, if you rise up or scream, I'll
repeat the punishment. Is that understood?"

Ingrid was pale and faint, but she nodded. "I shall suffer,
madam."

"I am going to do my damnedest to make you repeat, but you
will not, is that clear? If you earn a repeat, not only
will I repeat the punishment but it will be with a Sjambok
I've imported from South Africa. It's four foot of the
hardest hippopotamus hide. Every stroke leaves a weal the
size of a breakfast sausage. I'll give you six with it
_plus_ your repeat. That's a least a dozen! And you'll take
it dangling from the triangle!"

"Oh Madam Headmistress!" gasped the girl, her face white,
her eyes moons of terror. "Mercy, please have mercy!"

"Will you rise up when I whip you?"

"No Madam!"

"Will you cry out?"

"No Madam!"

"If you fail, you will pay with the Sjambok. Is that
understood."

"Yes Headmistress. I won't repeat, I won't!"

Satisfied, the Headmistress ordered the girl to strip and
grip her calves for a beating. The woman disappeared for a
moment to her office, returning with a standard duty cane,
heavy and long, just like the one Brigitte had used
earlier.

Headmistress Frieda was an older woman, but certainly not
old. She was all vinegar and piss. Her skin was wrinkled,
her flesh bony, but her muscles were as hard as ever and
her attitude and confidence had only grown as she aged.
She'd taught for over thirty years and there was nothing
she didn't know about corporal discipline from either side
of the rod.

She turned to a frightened Brigitte. "If I fail, you may
give _me_ a dozen," she snarled. Then she faced the
upturned buttocks of the nude senior girl.

Like a cat she stalked forward, the rod drawn behind her.
It lashed forward so suddenly and so quickly that it caught
everyone, Brigitte and poor Ingrid, by surprise. It was
like the bite of adder. One moment Ingrid's fleshy bottom
was smooth and white, unblemished, and the next the cheeks
were covered with a bleeding weal, blue with agony, crimson
fluid bubbling up from within.

Ingrid's mouth snapped shut and tears squeezed out from her
tightly clenched lids. Her body wavered, the buttocks doing
a subtle quivering dance of anguish.

"That's one," laughed the Headmistress gaily, and she
quickly stepped back and prepared for the second. Then she
paused with a significant glance at Brigitte, nodding at
her target.

Ingrid was a squirming picture of terror. The single weal
across her haunches was alive with fire, eating at her, and
no doubt she was wondering how she could endure five more
like that. She looked back, blue eyes huge with fear and
dread.

Again the Headmistress didn't run but glided forward,
gaining subtle momentum, and twirling 300 degrees at just
the proper moment to lash the cane into the quivering mass
of bottomflesh before her. The crack of the stroke was
deafening. The visual result was even more impressive. The
second weal was an inch below the first, right at the base
of the buttocks where the seat is the fleshiest, and the
weal was so thick it made the first look like a pencil
mark.

Ingrid's reaction was equally impressive. She staggered,
her body rocking, her fingers desperately clenching her
calves like a mountain climber holding on to a cliff by his
fingernails. A dull grunt escaped her, settling into a soft
moan of intense suffering. This was followed by the sudden
"blat" of a fart. Then there was a trickling sound and all
eyes traveled with the golden fluid down the creamy thighs
to the growing pool at the blonde girl's feet.

"I-I'm sorry, Madam," moaned the girl, crying. "If I'd
known I was to be beaten I would have gone before--"

"Don't worry, Ingrid. You will be soundly punished for you
incontinence, I assure you."

The girl groaned, her whipped buttocks shivering.

"How many have I given you?" asked the woman quietly.

"Two!" gasped Ingrid.

"Ah, then there are four left. I shall make these a little
tighter. See if we can make you jump out of your skin."

The girl's wail of despair was lost in the devastating snap
of the rod across her buttocks. The tip wrapped well around
her right side, leaving a weal that spanned both cheeks.

The action was so sudden and unexpected, Ingrid thinking
the Headmistress would take another run at her, that the
girl reacted on instinct. She rose up with a scream, her
hands clutching at her bottom. Once she'd started the
action there was no stopping it, and it was too late to
make any difference anyway, so she rubbed and rubbed the
blazing flesh, hopping from foot to foot and howling like a
mad dog.

The assembled teachers watched this performance with jaws
hanging open. Brigitte felt like she'd been punched in the
belly. Ingrid was a big girl and had suffered far worse
than six strokes of the duty cane in the past. How could
she have repeated with a mere three strokes from the
Headmistress?

Yet Brigitte could not deny the woman's technique had been
effective. She'd struck venomously hard, drawing on the
first stroke, terrorizing the girl. Then she'd struck
early, catching Ingrid by surprise, while she was still
wobbling from the previous blow. It was genius.

"Take her away to the punishment room," said Headmistress
Frieda, waving her hand at the blubbering senior girl. "I
shall come alone presently and flog her with Sjambok as I
promised. A dozen plus three. With a good birching first
for her incontinence, of course."

Ingrid screamed as she heard this pronouncement, but as her
cries faded down the corridor, Brigitte felt her belly turn
to ice. She didn't dare look up, but she knew the
Headmistress was looking at her.

"Did you learn anything by that, Miss Brigitte?"

Brigitte nodded. "Yes, Headmistress. It was most
instructive."

"Good. For you will be on Duty next Friday with the same
penalties and we will see how much you have learned." The
woman turned to the other teachers. "And I charge all of
you with ensuring that we have a good turnout for duty
whippings that day. Brigitte obviously needs practice. I
think at least a half dozen floggings will be required."

Brigitte felt her bowels tremble. Next week too! Oh Lord,
she couldn't take two floggings in a row. Not from the
Headmistress. She _must_ learn how to make the girls
repeat, she must!

"Come now, Miss Brigitte. I believe it is your turn?"

"Yes Madam."

"How many strokes?"

Brigitte gulped. "T-tw-twenty-seven, Headmistress."

"Very well. I ought to flog you double for such a poor
performance, but perhaps twenty-seven will make an
impression." She glared at the young teacher. "Aren't you
going to thank me for my generosity?"

"Oh! Yes Headmistress! Your mercy is much appreciated.
Thank you, thank you!"

"Let's get that fine bum of yours over the back of this
sofa. I want you stretched tight. Legs more apart, that's
better. Actually, remove your dress completely. I want you
nude."

Reluctantly, Brigitte obeyed. She felt like anything but a
teacher now, naked and spread for whipping. But she knew it
was a teacher's punishment she was about to receive.
Twenty-seven strokes! Horrors. How would she bear it? She
glanced at the flowery sofa beneath her and prayed she
wouldn't lose her bowels. She could not imagine what the
penalty for that would be.

Brigitte let out a little cry of alarm when she saw that
Headmistress Frieda still carried the long duty cane.

"Is something wrong?"

"Oh please, Madam, have mercy. Not the duty cane. Use your
switch, or a classroom cane, I beg you."

The Headmistress grimaced. "Thirty it is, then. Arrogant
bitch! How dare you question my judgement! You were
assigned to take whatever your charges could, and since
they managed twenty-seven with the duty cane, so shall
you!"

Brigitte fell into sobs as she stretched across the back of
the furniture, her wide buttocks arched obscenely, the
thick pouch of her sex clearly visible between her spread
legs. She had a good meaty bottom that could take a lot of
suffering, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. As
the cuts fell she moaned, gritting her teeth to keep from
screaming, writhing frantically without moving.

With many beatings there's a place in the middle where time
seems to vanish. You're aware of the start of the
punishment and of the end, but the middle is just a painful
memory. Not so with this whipping. Brigitte was fully
conscious of every single stroke. Headmistress Frieda knew
just how to pace the beating to keep Brigitte on edge,
always anticipating, never sure of when the next blow would
come. The strokes covered her bottom from crack to crotch,
leaving her with an artist's palette of blues and purples
and scarlets.

There was bleeding, of course, but it was modest. The
Headmistress was too skilled to cut the skin too badly. She
just opened several wounds to draw out the maximum
intensity of the experience, leaving Brigitte with tender
places to ponder for the next week.

Brigitte, thankfully, did not soil the sofa. How, she did
not know, for she was scarcely able to control anything,
least of all her bowels. The beating was so intense she was
jumpy for days afterward. That night she slept the sleep of
the dead, exhausted by her ordeal.

The next day Brigitte was sore and stiff. The other
teachers playfully teased her, most verbally, a few with a
gentle pat on the rear that made her squeal. But she was
pleased. She had survived. She had learned a stiff lesson.

That afternoon, though her body ached and it was difficult
to move, she cornered three students, accused them of
idleness, and offered them the option of assisting in her
"practice." Faced with the alternative of a real duty
caning, the three reluctantly agreed. She only used a
classroom cane, but by the end of the session all three
were looking at her with respect and alarm, and she was
pleased. She knew she'd be ready by Friday.



- 30 -


------------------------------------------------------------
The Flogmaster Story Archive is over one million words
of free spanking erotica: http://flogmaster.110mb.com
t***@gmail.com
2008-01-10 00:05:29 UTC
Post by Frank Marsh
This was inspired by Dedaux's "The Prussian Girls" -- my favorite
spanking novel.
gmaster Story Archive is over one million words
Post by Frank Marsh
  of free spanking erotica:  http://flogmaster.110mb.com
Good story

I'm also a fan Dedaux fan incl his work under the Martin Pyx name
My favorite is the Tutor's Bride

Tyr
t***@gmail.com
2008-01-10 00:13:15 UTC
Post by Frank Marsh
This was inspired by Dedaux's "The Prussian Girls" -- my favorite
spanking novel.
Frank
The Flogmaster
Great story Frank

I'm a fan of Dedaux too. including his Martin Pyx spanking novels

My favorite is The Tutor's Bride



Tyr

If this appears twice I'm sorry
Had a little trouble w/ Google
CrimsnKid6
2008-01-10 01:00:27 UTC
The Flogmaster with a story of flogmistresses and their feminine
victims:

<story snipped>

The weaker sex? Not here, that's for certain.

Damn, those are some determined dames on both sides of the cane.
"They can dish it out but they can take it too..."
H.I.A.W.B.,
--C.K.