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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(****, M/F, Edgy, Whipping, caning)
Erin pays for a mistake. (Approximately 2,688 words. Originally published 1998-02.)
Life had settled into a predictable routine. Heidi was back from her trip to America and our nights were mixed with delicious pleasure and pain. My work at the shoe store was progressing so well I frequently had to fabricate excuses for Miss Swain to paddle me. We'd increased the consequences to ten swats per mistake, yet it was rare for me to receive more than fifty a week. Even my focus on my studies had increased and my grades had improved dramatically. Everything was looking up except for one area: I had no man in my life.
I wasn't sure I needed one. Heidi was pursuing a guy named Steve, but I was content. There were several men who intrigued me, but nothing had happened yet. I decided not to let it concern me.
It was during this time I met M. Porteau, a French businessman. Our meeting was not a pleasant one. I was walking home one evening after work, lost in the clouds of daydreams and still thinking about the delicious stinging in my rear from Miss Swain's paddle, when suddenly I heard the screech of tires followed by a terrible crunching sound. I whirled around to discover a car had crashed into a lightpost not ten feet from me!
The man emerging from vehicle was large and portly, but appeared to be fine other than a bit dazed. To my astonishment, he began waving at me furiously and shouting in rapid French!
It had been years since my French lessons, and the man spoke with such vigor it took me considerable effort to comprehend what he was saying. People were gathering to stare and point when I finally understood that I was being blamed for the crash!
At first I was angry. How dare this man blame his foolish driving on me! But then I came to the sudden realization that I was standing in the middle of the street. I had not moved since the accident, and it dawned on me that I had heard a vague honking sound just before the crash. I had been deep in my thoughts -- was it possible I had wandered into the street without realizing it? It didn't seem likely, but what else was logical? Here I had blundered right into the road and caused this man to wreck his vehicle.
Suddenly I was much nicer to the man, and spoke to him as best I could in my schoolgirl French, haltingly explaining how sorry I was. The man calmed somewhat, and spoke to me in English.
"You stupeed girl! I could 'ave killed you!"
"Oh, I'm terribly, terribly sorry! I was just walking and thinking and I must not have been watching where I was going...." Quite overcome, I burst into tears.
"Oh, madamoiselle! Do not cry. I am not so angry now. See? It is only the headlamp that is broken. It is a rental, anyway. The insurance will take care of it. Do not worry."
The man gathered me into his arms, embracing me tightly.
"Oh, monsieur! You are very kind," I sobbed. Gradually my breathing returned to normal and I stopped crying. I became aware of how closely I was pressed against the man. My breasts had nearly disappeared into his voluminous body. I was also painfully aware of a heavy hand resting in an intimate fashion on my bum. I jerked away.
"You are very foolish girl." His eyes were narrow and sharp, his lips a cold greedy snarl.
"You do not watch where you walk. You do not stop when I press the horn."
"I am sorry."
"Bah! Sorry. What is that? That is nothing! I, too, am sorry. But it does not repair my car."
"Oh! But I thought you said -- "
"No, you do not think. Come, we go. We discuss away from people."
I looked up and saw that a large crowd had gathered. Most were young men from a nearby pub. I hesitated to go with the man, however.
"Come, we go. The police arrive soon. You want police?"
That I certainly did not want, and quickly followed the man to his car. The car was fine except for the broken headlight, but as it wasn't dark, it was safe enough to drive. A moment later we'd left the scene. The man, who introduced himself as M. Porteau, drove me to his hotel. Along the way it quickly became clear what he wanted.
He placed a hand on my knee as he drove, and he did not move it, even when I shifted my legs. Gradually his hand slid up my thigh, and he leaned toward me, speaking softly as he implied all sorts of terrible things that would happen to me should he report the accident. I might go jail, he said. For certain I would be fined. He'd also file a lawsuit. He'd bankrupt my parents, if I didn't have money. Perhaps he'd contact the school and see that I was expelled. Everyone would know. My family, my friends, everyone.
He parked along a darkened sidestreet near his hotel and turned to me. The alternative, he explained, was that he could be discrete. It could be just between us. He placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Please, monsieur," I begged. "I am a good girl from a good family."
"More reason to keep this between us," he hissed, his tiny round eyes darting over my body.
I shuddered. The thought of this man touching me in the manner he so obviously desired was repulsive. I could not bear it.
"Fine, then. Report me to the police. Tell everyone. I don't care! I wouldn't sleep with you for a million pounds!"
The man's lips curled into a deadly grimace. "You think you too good for me, English bitch? I ought to flog you!"
"I'd rather be flogged than sleep with a pig like you!"
The man's greedy eyes went wide and his palm snuck out and smacked my face, hard. "You talk nice, girl, or shall indeed flog you!"
I stared at him in dull comprehension. It was as a door opened in my brain. There was something in the way this man spoke of flogging me -- a seriousness that made me think he wasn't kidding. It gave me a way of escape.
I licked my lips, slowly, as though contemplating his offer. When I spoke my voice was low, seductive, and I smiled shyly at looked at him from the tops of my eyes.
"You -- you wish to punish me, sir?"
The man sat back slightly, his face flushed with excitement and lust.
"In my family, we beat foolish, disobedient girls like you."
I nodded sadly. "I am a foolish girl. I deserve to be punished."
"A beating does a girl much good," said the man, his hand lightly caressing my shoulder.
I looked at him straight in the eyes. This was the critical moment. "If..." -- here I paused dramatically -- "If you were to punish me, my debt would be clear. No police, no trial, no lawsuit." I carefully lifted the man's hand off my shoulder.
The man grunted, moving his hand back. "You are naughty girl. One beating is only beginning."
"Two then. One tonight, the other on Saturday. That's it."
The man smiled greedily, his hand sinking lower to my chest. "I flog you hard, very hard. You will weep."
I shrugged, pretending to not be concerned, casually pushing his hand away from my breast. "We English are tough," I murmured.
"I beat you naked."
"If you want," I said, staring at him boldly. "But when the beating is over, I go home. That's it."
For a moment he wavered, but I'd judged his desires well. His eyes glowed at the thought of punishing me. Girls for sex were plentiful, especially for a wealthy foreigner, but few would submit to a whipping. I knew he'd hurt me, but I had been honest when I'd said I'd rather be whipped than prostituted.
M. Porteau restarted the car, then, and we drove to a different hotel. A short time later we were in a private suite. Immediately the man ordered me to get undressed. Though nervous, I did as he asked. He watched me disrobe, licking his lips and grunting.
When I was naked, he made me lie down across the foot of the bed with my arse in the air behind me. I heard the dreadful sound of a leather belt sliding through belt loops and I waited. My body tingled in anticipation. My earlier paddling from Miss Swain had only been ten strokes, enough to excite me. Now I was eager to feel pain. I closed my eyes and imagined it was lovely Heidi beating me, that I'd left the milk out, or forgotten to feed the cat -- she'd leap at any excuse to punish me.
The first stroke was longer in coming than I had expected, considering M. Porteau's eagerness. But it was well worth the wait. Despite my revulsion of him, he was an excellent flogger. His beating was hard and deliberate. Every stroke was precise and thorough. It was a full hour before his passion overtook his reason and then he became wild, whipping me frantically in a frenzy of mindless lust. He thrashed my buttocks, my legs, even my back. I'd never been whipped there before. If he'd begun there I wouldn't have liked it at all, but by this point I was lost in the fog of pain and welcome everything.
When the whipping finally stopped I saw M. Porteau had collapsed in a slump on the floor, overcome by his own exertions. He was naked, the gross flesh of his belly literally covering his privates, though I could see a fresh white stain on the dark carpet near where he sat. I calmly stood and dressed, thanking him for his discipline, and telling him I'd meet him at this hotel on Saturday at nine o'clock sharp. He nodded, still panting to heavily to speak. I departed quickly, before he regained his strength.
Saturday I kept my word, arriving just before nine. M. Porteau was waiting in the lobby, smoking a large cigar and waving to me eagerly. He was in a jovial mood, and I smelled liquor on his breath. He had obviously been anticipating this for several days. I hoped my bottom would be able to withstand his passion.
In the room I quickly stripped, letting the man admire my body. If I had desired him, I would have been more cautious, more self-conscious, but I hated this ugly Frenchman and just wanted our agreement finished.
On the bed I saw that this time the man had come prepared. There were several leather whips, a short riding crop, a flat wooden paddle, and a long white cane. I swallowed nervously. I had begged my way out of a caning from Heidi this morning, knowing what I had coming tonight, but she had agreed only when I promised she could give me double tomorrow. This weekend was going to be a challenge.
The Frenchman quickly stripped off his clothes and ordered me across his naked lap. I did this gingerly, the feel of his flabby flesh repulsive to me. He gripped me tightly, his heavy left arm wrapping around my waist. With his right hand he took up the small wooden paddle and began to beat my bum. It was hard and painful. For a long time neither of us made a sound. The room was quiet except for the steady smacking of the paddle, and the occasional grunt from him as he struggled to beat me harder, and the harsh hiss of my agonized breathing. Finally, when I was long done weeping and ready to scream to break the tension, he stopped.
I lay silently, my chest heaving, my bottom still wiggling as though he had never stopped beating it. His hand rested on my rear and fondled it. Instead of being revolted, I welcomed the touch. My flesh was so hot anything felt good. Even when his thick fingers pushed between my thighs I did not resist, letting him soak his hand in my wetness.
"You bad girl," he growled, wiping his damp fingers on my blistered and bruised cheeks. I did not answer. "We try the martinet?"
This was a whip to his liking, long with multiple tails, and he proceeded to lay me out on the bed and whip me all over. I scarcely cared. My fingers had found their way inside me and I was nearly oblivious to his administrations. Fortunately for me, my actions excited him and thus he didn't stop me. I masturbated myself into countless orgasms.
Finally growing bored with this, he had me stand and take whippings while jogging in place, crawling, standing on my head while braced against the wall. It was in this position he used the short riding crop on my pussy and the insides of my thighs. I was upside down, blood flooding my head, making me dizzy and confused, while miles above I could feel hot stings of pain to my tender thighs and sensitive sex.
He did not neglect my breasts, either, but pinched and whipped them in several positions, especially enjoying tormenting my nipples with the tip of the crop. Each time I shuddered and shook with the shock of pain as the tip lashed a nipple, he laughed, a low growl of animal contentment, and he repeated the gesture on another nipple. It took him a very long time to tire of this game, and I was a nervous, mindless wreck when he finally returned his attentions to my ass.
I was already well-beaten, but he had yet to use the cane. Thus I was not surprised when I saw him flexing it, admiring the stiff whippiness of the slender rod. It was a heavy senior cane, designed for brief but severe punishment, but I doubted he knew that. The cane was a new toy for him and I suspected, quite rightly as he soon proved, that he intended to give me a long and serious beating with it.
It was nearly two o'clock before I stumbled home, feverish and nearly incoherent. I had intended to keep my activities private, but Heidi was waiting for me. Her anger at my lateness vanished when she saw my condition. I could scarcely talk, but I managed to briefly explain what had happened, and the complete story, of course, was written all over my body.
Heidi was livid, swearing and weeping and cursing, and threatening to call the police, her new boyfriend, or the French embassy. Somehow I persuaded her to keep quiet. She bathed and dressed my wounds, dripping hot tears on me as she continued to rant, and finally she put me to bed, lying beside me for most of the night, whispering in my ear and gently caressing my hair.
It was two days before I could care for myself, and a week before I returned to work or school. I told no one what had happened, and Heidi kept her promise to keep it a secret. She told everyone I had a horrible case of the flu, and as it was dreadfully contagious, I had no visitors.
On Tuesday Heidi contacted M. Porteau's hotel -- for what reason I don't even want to know -- and discovered he had departed for France on Sunday, the day after our final little session. I didn't care. As far as I was concerned, the affair was over, my wounds would heal, and nothing could erase what had happened. In two weeks I was my normal self again, flirting and teasing Heidi to get her to punish me.
Heidi was reluctant, however, spanking me only with her hand and continually pausing and asking if I was okay. It was nearly three weeks before I managed to get a good caning out of her. I swear it took her longer to recover than me.
More to come next week!