Pass It On

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2020 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.

Pass It On

(***, F/f, Severe, non-consensual caning, paddling)

A girl is regularly disciplined by her mother. (Approximately 1,585 words. Originally published 2020-05.)

Megan had this theory that kids who were spanked grew up and passed that same pain on to their own children. At least her mother proved that truth.

Holly was British and was caned as a child, so now she caned Megan. Megan was certain her mother, under the agony of the rod as a teenager, vowed to never treat her own kids that way -- and yet now that she had a teen of her own, here she was, applying those same fiery lines onto the bottom of her first born.

She did it with a grim satisfaction, too, almost enthusiasm. Usually she was quite friendly and nice, but when discipline was due, Holly became a fierce martinet, barking orders and insisting Megan obey her precise instructions.

Canings, you see, had to be done a certain way or they "didn't count."

The first rule was that all strokes were applied to the bare bottom. There was no escaping this awful fate. Megan had tried numerous times and all it earned her was extra strokes.

The second rule was that Megan had to cooperate with her punishment. That meant no arguing, obediently getting into position with her bottom humbly presented for the rod, and no moving or putting her hands back to rub after a stinging cut left her breathless with agony.

The third rule was that a caning always had to be worse than you expected. Megan hated this rule most of all. It meant if she thought she was going to get six, she got eight, which was twice as bad. Or if she'd committed a minor fault that she felt deserved a lighter cane, her mother would use the heavier senior rod and the weals would last for days.

There were plenty of other rules, of course, but those were the main ones. They served to make punishments dreadful and an intense deterrent, not that Megan ever seemed to escape the cane's sharp sting. While she learned to control her itchy tongue's smart-alec responses and did her best to obey her parents, she was a fifteen and that was an age of impulsiveness and mischief, and every few weeks something happened that concluded with her baring her bottom for the rod.

Megan's most common fault was tardiness, quickly followed by poor grades at school. She was a social girl, pretty and popular, and though the terror of the cane loomed large at the back of her mind, she always played tight with her schedule. If she had five minutes to spare she'd wait until there were just two to rush. Often she made it, escaping a beating by just seconds, but two out of five times she was late and there was no mercy.

If she'd been told to be home by five and she arrived a minute late, it was the cane. If she was sluggish in the morning and missed the school bus -- she'd be walking with fresh stripes on her bottom, or wiggling uncomfortably in the car if the weather was poor.

While Megan was motivated enough to earn a solid B average, she did not do well academically because she enjoyed it. It was pure terror of the cane that prompted her to study and do her homework every night. Yet despite those efforts, there were always failures. Sometimes it was truly deserved. She'd blow off a test to be with friends or be distracted by the latest YouTube fad and not finish her assignment or turn in an essay that was 90% fluff.

The result was a sobbing Megan lying naked on her bed, pert bottom thrust up, a series of cherry-red stripes crisscrossing those firm teenage cheeks. She would vow to do better and never make such a mistake again, but within a month she'd find the dreariness of Moby Dick or algebra or history too much to hold her concentration and she'd wind up suffering the cane again.

These weren't the only reasons she was caned, of course. There were a million excuses for her mother to bring out the long thin rod and apply it to her bottom. If Megan failed to do her chores on time, did them poorly, or even did them well but with a "poor attitude," she got the cane. Scarcely a week passed without her being thrashed for something, and occasionally she had the misfortune to earn two punishments in close proximity.

Those were the worst, for while her bottom was still tender from one beating, she received fresh strokes which hurt twice as much.

Another similar circumstance was when Megan got into trouble at school. Her school paddled, so Megan would get swats over her jeans which left her rump red and burning, and then her mother would insist on adding cuts from the cane.

School punishments were relatively mild in comparison, usually just three or five licks with a long flat board, and always over clothes, but Megan's principal was a beefy man and he swung the board hard. Every whack hurt like hell, the pain spreading all across the teen's round buttocks. It was very different from the focused agony of the cane. It was deeper, heavier, and left her ass aching.

But the worst was the knowledge that whatever she got at school would be doubled at home -- so three swats became six cuts, and five was ten. On an already sore bottom, this was most unpleasant, and if she complained, which she tended to do, feeling that being punished twice for the same offense was unfair, her mother would add extra strokes. Once her mother repeated the whole punishment two days later on Saturday morning, a lesson that for several months taught Megan to keep her mouth shut and just take the beating.

The real problem was that the rules at school were many and silly, and the paddle was the first resort for infractions. Something as simple as forgetting a textbook meant a trip to the principal's office for three licks with the board, a price most thought was mild, but Megan regarded with terror. Her friends would giggle and brag about how the paddle hadn't hurt (even though it had), and Megan's stomach would twist into knots as she thought of the fate of her bottom at home should she be in that situation.

While she did her very best to avoid the paddle, it was impossible for a high-spirited teenage girl to go an entire semester without at least one encounter. Any time she was paddled Megan had to take a note home to be signed by her parents, so there was no way to avoid the consequences.

Once she tried to forge her mother's signature. She'd just been caned on Monday for failing to clean her room to her mother's satisfaction, and getting paddled on Tuesday for the trivial flaw of being two seconds late to biology was too much, too soon. Megan took the risk and paid the price. The principal followed up the paddling with a phone call, perhaps suspecting the signature was a forgery, and the girl was doomed.

The principal paddled her again for her crime: ten brutal swats that left her still-sore butt glowing. Then that evening she was given six strokes as her due for the original tardy paddling, followed by ten strokes after supper and another ten just before bed for the home version of her school discipline. Then she was given the ominous news that she'd be getting two more canings.

On the following Saturday it was twelve, only the first half of her punishment for forgery. She spent the day doing tedious chores, forbidden from going out with her friends. Megan didn't dare complain. She'd been told that that for every streak on the windows she washed she'd receive a stroke of the cane, and she didn't doubt her mother would fulfill that promise, and thus cleaned like a maniac.

The next Saturday was identical -- another dozen strokes and a day of scrubbing toilets and tile. Megan vowed to never forge again. She was so paranoid of the rod that she managed to go the next 19 days without so much as a slap to her bottom, but eventually that run had to end and she was caned six strokes for receiving a C on a history exam.

As Megan grew older, the severity of her canings increased, while the frequency went down. She accepted this with bravery and maturity, learning to understand the value of discipline. A few years later in college she actually asked her mother for a caning, enduring two dozen of the best for an unspecified offense.

Megan then married, graduated, and got a job in marketing. She gave birth to twins, whom she spoiled rotten and promised to never cane. She kept her word until the girls were twelve and overly rambunctious and defiant, and then she asked her mother for a junior rod and gave each girl a few light lashes.

The twins thought the punishment awful, an idea that made Megan laugh at their naïveté. You have no concept of what a real thrashing is, she thought. She remembered well her own sufferings and how they'd encouraged her to behave. Gone was the fear and dread; all she recalled now was the effectiveness of the discipline.

Thus, as the girls became teenagers, the cane became an inexorable part of their upbringing. Megan was passing it on just like her mother.

The End