Chapter 24

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) 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.

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Erin's Adventures
Chapter 24
Extra Lessons

(***, F/f, f/F, Severe, Teen cropping, caning, whipping)

Erin sees more of her riding instructor. (Approximately 1,998 words. Originally published 1998-02.)

The next afternoon I dressed in my riding outfit and walked to the stables. It seemed strange to be walking by myself, but in a way I was glad--it wouldn't do for the other girls to see what Miss Arler did to me in private. I had little doubt what my "private lesson" would be about--my bottom was tingling already--and it seemed surreal to think that in just a couple hours I'd be walking home along the same path, but my bum would swollen and sore.

I knocked on the door to Miss Arler's office and waited.

"Come in."

I entered, closing the door behind me. The office was the same as always, including the whips and cane hung behind the door. Miss Arler was seated behind her desk watching me. I could tell nothing from her cold eyes.

"You are late," she finally said. I glanced at the clock and saw it was ten minute to three. Three o'clock was to be the start of my afternoon riding lesson.

"Ma'am? I though the lesson was for three o'clock."

"You are arguing with me. That's an extra half-dozen for cheek." She stood to her full height and took up the long crop that had been lying across her desk. "Get in position or we shall make it two dozen."

I didn't argue but bent over. Eighteen sizzling strokes followed. I bore them well, but I was antsy by the time it was over. My bottom burned and my face was flushed when I was told to stand. "Good. Now follow me."

I followed Miss Arler outside, to her car. "Get in," she said. I did, wincing as I sat on the leather seat. She started the engine and drove off. Of course I was burning with curiosity and wondering about our riding lesson, but I didn't say a word. In fact, I was a little afraid of this strange woman.

We drove to Miss Arler's house. She parked in the driveway and got out, motioning for me to follow. Once inside, I felt my stomach go quivery with the memories of my last time here. I had flashes of my naked red bottom as I writhed across Miss Arler's lap, of Miss Arler's bare bum as I struck it, and the picture of her father.

Miss Arler didn't give me time to relax. She immediately began to undress. "Place your clothes over there," she said pleasantly, and I quickly stripped off my riding outfit. When I was naked I turned and saw Miss Arler laying out an assortment of canes and whips on the small table. She was humming a happy little tune as she worked, sorting them in an order I couldn't understand.

She picked up something I had never seen before. It reminded me of a feather duster, except instead of feathers a dozen thin leather tongues dangled from the short handle. "Have you ever felt the martinet?" asked the woman as she caressed the whip.

"No, Ma'am."

"Ah, you are in for an experience, child. It is exquisite." There was that word again. So strange, and yet, I thought I understood what she meant.

"The key to the martinet," she continued, "at least with this one, because it is so light, is in its subtlty. Have you heard of _Rangish_?" She pronounced the word as "rain-geesh." I shook my head.

"It's an exotic dish. It's made of chicken, lamb, and spices, and it's very, very good, very tender. The meat literally melts in your mouth. But it's very difficult to prepare. The proper procedure requires over two days and the meat must be slowly roasted over a very light flame for seventeen hours. It is a wonderful meal."

Miss Arler was walking around me as she spoke, and now she began to dangle the tails of the martinet across my body. She brushed it across my breasts, my back, my bum, even my sex. I blushed and felt dizzy. This woman made me feel so strange!

"The point of my story," she continued, "is that good things take time. Could you take a hundred strokes of the cane?"

I gasped in horror and my eyes went wide. "Oh, no, Ma'am! Of course not."

She smiled gently, a wicked, knowing smile. "But you shall receive a hundred with the martinet. In fact, after the first hundred you might even ask for another hundred."

I shuddered to imagine that--nothing would make me ask for more punishment. The very concept of a hundred strokes of anything terrified me. Surely she could not be serious.

But she was.

"Stand here," she ordered, pointing to a straight-backed chair with no arms that she had placed in the center of the room. I walked over to it and stood awkwardly, my stomach churning nervously. "Place on left knee on the chair," she said thoughtfully. "I think I will whip each buttock separately so as to prolong the punishment. We'll do a hundred on each cheek and then a hundred across your thighs. That should take a while."

Trembling, I obeyed. The position thrust out my right buttock. I could not imagine what this would be like. The whip in her hand looked awful. Well, if she said this was going to be "exquisite" I knew that meant one thing: this was going to hurt like hell.

Miss Arler went behind me. There was a very soft "whhheet" and I felt a slight burning sting across the right cheek of my bum. It was quite sharp at first, like a dozen needle pricks, and then it cooled. Again came the light sound and the sting. It really was not bad. In fact, it felt rather pleasant, like hands giving your sore back a deep, painful massage.

I was very conscious of the first dozen or so strokes. Soon, however, all I felt was a dull burning, a deep warmth in my rear. My mind went elsewhere, nowhere, and I stood there groaning and wiggling. I could hear the sound of the whip striking me, but I felt nothing, everything. It was astonishing. The heat in my body simply kept rising, intensifying. Tears dripped down my face but I felt very happy, no content, that's the word. I was aware of very little, aware of everything, at least the important things. I could feel myself breathing and each suck of air felt wonderful. I was alive and healthy, warm and naked. My body quivered and danced and was covered with sweat.

"That's a hundred," boomed the voice from a million miles away. "Now switch legs." I obeyed without thinking, without conscious thought. Then came the light stings, this time on my left side. I was more awake now, feeling each stroke. But soon I was again lost, the whip caressing my cheek with a passion I felt I truly understood.

A long time later, just seconds it seemed, and it was time for my thighs. I spread myself out on the davenport, a pillow under my hips to prop up my bum and the lash began to descend again. This is was harder, more intense, but still slow and long. Indeed, I felt like I'd been in a cooker all afternoon. My body teemed with tension and release, hot and cold, pain and pleasure. I was a quivering mass of controdictions. When Miss Arler said, "One hundred" and screamed, "No, please don't stop!" I couldn't bear to let the fire go out. The burning between my legs was incredibly fierce, very hot, and as the blessed Miss Arler continued to flog me I spread my legs wider so that as the whip struck at the base of my rump a few of the leather strands would catch the bared lips of my sex, stinging them with fire and honey. I swooned several times during this process and each time when Miss Arler was ready to stop I insisted she continue.

Finally she put down the martinet. "That's four hundred, dear. I think you've had enough. Besides, it is getting late."

Slowly the haze lifted and I became aware of an incredible pain in my arse. My entire bum and the backs of my legs felt raw and peeled, and I began to weep in astonishment and pain. Slowly I got to my feet. I could not believe what I had just experienced. It was too amazing for words.

Then Miss Arler was standing near me, holding a long white cane. My throat went dry and fear gripped my heart. "Please, Ma'am," I whispered hoarsely. "I beg you, please. I've had enough."

"I know, Erin, dear," said my teacher gently, kissing my forehead tenderly. She pressed the cane into my hands. "This is for me. Twenty-four of the best."

Again a dizzy feeling of unreality passed through me. I gripped the cane tightly for confidence. It certainly felt real enough. The pain in my bottom felt real enough. The naked Miss Arler bent over the back of the wooden chair, her bare arse waiting my attention looked real enough. I stepped forward.

My first two strokes were weak and hesitant. Miss Arler refused to allow me to count them. "Twenty-four of the _best_," she said firmly. "The _best_."

I started again and quickly got the hang of it. Line by thin line, I began to paint Miss Arler's bum a deep burgandy. She took it well. She moaned almost constantly, and occasionally yelped, but she never stood up or tried to cover her bum. Twenty-four strokes (twenty-six if you count the first two feeble ones)! Such a fierce caning terrified me yet I wondered what it felt like. Did one go numb after the first dozen? Why did a caning produce such a rush of emotions, anyway? I found I liked delivering a caning almost as much as receiving one. There was a sense of power in it that I enjoyed, and it was fascinating to watch and judge how my technique affected Miss Arler.

When I finished I was very tired, and wet with sweat. Miss Arler was also sweaty, her body glistening. She thanked for the caning and guided me into her bathroom where she turned on a cool shower and bade me to enter. I did so, the cold water both wonderfully soothing and wonderfully aching.

Just as I was beginning to get used to the temperature, Miss Arler climbed into the shower with me. It was a narrow shower, about three feet square, and we could not avoid touching each other. Our bodies pressed against one another. My eyes were about even with Miss Arler's beautiful breasts; her sex came to my belly. When she turned her back to me and pressed her raw, wealed buttocks against my stomach I didn't know what to think--the feeling was wonderful, exciting. I wanted to kneel and kiss her bum, lick those tender welts but I dared not--what would she think of me then?

We showered for a long while, soap and everything. We washed each other off, paying especial attention to our sore behinds. Miss Arler did not speak but she giggled a lot, and I suppose I did too.

When we finished she dried me off and told me she'd see me next Wednesday for my next private "lesson." I dressed and left in a daze, completely bewildered by everything I had experienced.

My sessions after that were not nearly so engulfing, though each had its distinct taste. I later got to do more than just cane Miss Arler--I tried out the tawse and paddle and whips as well. She could take much more than me--I was frequently amazed at her ability to endure pain--but she taught me a great deal, and before the end of summer she was routinely giving me two dozen of the best with the cane.

More to come next week!

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