Agonizing Decision

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 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.

Agonizing Decision

(****, M/F, Edgy, semi-cons punishment caning)

A female FBI agent chooses punishment over termination. (Approximately 2,011 words. Originally published 2010-03.)

There wasn't much to say. Amanda Collingford stood stiffly before the tall black man. She was dressed in her gray suit -- jacket, skintight slacks, white shirt open at the collar, soft-soled leather shoes, and she still wore her gold special agent FBI badge on her hip -- but she felt nude. The air in the room was stifling and it felt like there wasn't enough of it. She wanted desperately to open her mouth to say something, to plead her case, to beg for mercy. But she didn't move.

Technically there were lots of options. She could take the reprimand on her file. She could change departments, accept a reassignment. She could resign. With the blot on her record she wouldn't even be able to get a job as a mall cop, but she had choices. Not good ones, but they were there.

In reality, of course, there were no choices and they both knew it. Her entire future was dependent upon what happened in this room in the next few minutes. Nearly a decade of her life, years of academic study, ruthless devotion to physical fitness, and endless training in a variety of fields was all about to be washed down the drain.

Unless.

As of right now, only she and the assistant director knew the full details of the situation. It could stay that way, the file sealed, the critical parts carefully omitted or worded in such a way that the blame would not fall on her. Her career would be saved. It was her choice.

He looked at her and there was nothing to say. He knew her decision. The fact that she was here said that much. He removed his jacket and went to the six-foot silk tree in the hand-woven basket in the corner. The rod was set into the base and except for those who knew its true purpose, it looked like nothing more than a support pole for the plant. He slowly withdrew it from the foam base. Sweat trickled down the back of Amanda's neck as she watched. Her heart was so loud she couldn't hear herself think.

Assistant Director Wells carefully flexed the long rod between his two hands. It was nearly four foot long and thumb-thick at the handle end, tapering gracefully to pinky thickness at the business end. It bent easily, being pliable birch, and sprang aggressively back to straightness. It was regularly oiled and highly polished. Both of them knew from experience how much it hurt. The woman's muscular buttocks clenched in grim anticipation.

Amanda looked at him questioningly. "Sir--" she began, then stopped. He waited patiently, eyebrows raised. Was she changing her mind? She swallowed hard.

Finally she whispered: "Do I want to know?"

"Whatever number you're thinking of, double it," he said grimly. "This must be _strict_. I cannot allow subordinates to think they can get away with screwups scot-free."

She nodded, understanding. It was the response she'd expected, though it didn't make her happy.

He gestured toward the desk and she obediently stepped forward. Reaching the wide table, she took off her jacket, folded it, and set it on the mahogany surface.. She was already drenched with sweat, her armpits damp. She took a deep breath and glanced back at him, faint hope etched in her youthful eyes. His dark face was impassive, inscrutable, but she understood. Her wordless plea had been denied. She unbuckled her thin belt and methodically peeled down her pants. She closed her eyes at the hot flush of shame she felt.

Wells watched with dour appreciation. Amanda was slender with a tomboyish body, accentuated by her male-style suit. But naked she clearly was a woman, with curved hips and a feminine bottom. Her butt was petite, the twin mounds closely set together, each cheek a perfect half-sphere. She was athletic and fit and the shapely tush showed that, the flesh as firm as rounds of hard cheese. Her skin was soft and sleek, milk-white, and when she bent forward with her forearms flat on the table, her haunches rounded to present the naked buttocks in a vulnerable fashion. In this posture, the cheeks were slack, the muscles relaxed. For modesty's sake she kept her thighs pressed tightly together, though they both knew that wouldn't last.

The FBI head stepped up behind the agent and leveled the cane horizontally across the peak of her buttocks. He held it there for a minute while Amanda breathed coolly, faint nervous spasms betraying her distress. She thought back to her time at Quantico, the last time she'd faced physical sanctions. It made her sweat with fear. She'd been a raw rookie, young and foolish, enthusiastic in her choice of suffering. Now she was hard and jaded. Her ideals had been shattered. She knew about bureaucracy, office politics, petty infighting, interdepartmental squabble over credit and blame, and work that never ended no matter how successful you were.

Was it worth it? Was a career in the world's most prestigious law enforcement agency really worth this kind of sacrifice? Yet despite everything she knew now, she still wanted it. She wanted to be in the Bureau. She wanted it more than family, life, or anything. Perhaps she wasn't so jaded after all.

The rod hissed in warning like a snake before it kissed her ass. The deafening snap of stick against flesh was alarming in the small chamber. The vivid line of pain was outrageous. The shock was so great Amanda almost stood up, but she fought through it, willing herself to remain stone still. Behind, her body undulated with unconscious shudders of agony. A grayish-white line like a scar crossed both hillocks. As the man waited patiently for fifteen seconds to pass, the line suffused with pink and gradually darkened to crimson.

The beating proceeded ruthlessly. Precisely four times a minute the stick lashed into the waiting buttocks. Wells kept his eye on the clock above the door, timing his strokes to the ticking second hand. A ladder of grim scarlet streaks decorated the small rump before him. The buttocks were patient and calm on the surface, but he saw hints of tension in the woman's slender body. Her legs were rigid, her back dipped in suffering as her head raised up in suffering. Her fingers were small fists of willpower. Her breathing was choppy, made up of breathless silences and sudden gasps and pants. The punishment was effective.

Four minutes passed in agonizing sedateness. The cane showed no signs of ceasing its endless repetition. Amanda's palms were slick with wetness. Sweat dripped from her brow, trickling down her petite nose. Her moist eyes leaked as she fought against breaking down, gritting her teeth in furious stubbornness. Her thighs separated, her hips twisting in anguish as she endured another fearsome cut. The stinging pain flooded through her, overwhelming her senses. A low groan escaped her clenched lips.

The long rod whipped heavily into the lower curves of her rump. The meaty flesh there was already well-welted with stripes. The skin was swollen thick with rising ridged marks, the surfaces a dark ruby rust surrounded by flaming pink.

After ten long minutes of steady torment, the small round buttocks were scored with pain and the cruel rod sought untouched ground below, striping the sturdy bare thighs of the woman. This stinging assault to fresh flesh drew strange mewling cries from the agent, who spread her legs wider for better support and sank lower against the desk. On and on the whipping continued, the only sounds in the room the steady thunk of long wooden stick against muscular thigh, the grunts of effort from the man as he drove the rod ever harder, and the faint high-pitched whimpers and gasps from the woman.

Amanda shuddered, tears trickling down her face. She was shaking all over, struggling to hold her position bent across the desk. Twenty minutes of this was unendurable. It wasn't uncomfortable. The sturdy furniture supported her easily. But the psychological pressure of remaining in the same position for such a long time haunted and tormented her. Like being told not to think of elephants, that's all you can think about. Since she wasn't allowed to move, that's what she wanted more than anything in the world. She wanted to be allowed up more than she wanted the cane to stop hitting her. The caning was a different kind of pain, a physical trauma she was more capable of fighting. The mental struggle was far different and she was weakening, unable to endure.

The cane moved back to her buttocks now. The stripes were vicious, long streaks that stretched the full width of both cheeks. On the right, they often wrapped around her hip, scoring the pale flesh on her side with cruel digs of pain. The welts were thick and raised, and ranged in color from angry magenta to a sickening purplish black. Several of these thickened black ridges oozed crimson. Wells knew what he was doing, however, and spread the blows, striking the high buttocks one moment, then low, just above the knees. Then he'd catch the underbum, bringing the cane upward in a way that drove Amanda to tiptoe. He might land a few stripes across the broad meat of her thighs, then go back to her buttocks for a lash or two. She was thoroughly beaten all over now, so he worked the most sensitive areas, ensuring every inch was well-welted and blazing with fiery color.

Amanda was nearly senseless. She lay prone across the broad table, panting with exhaustion from her suffering. The rod licked at her rear portions and she scarcely reacted, quivering with little jerks and wiggles. Her entire body was nothing but pure anguish. Every bone ached. Her flesh burned as though she'd bathed in acid. Her dry throat was raw from her ragged breathing, her muscles indescribably sore from tension. Even her eyes throbbed with headache.

When the assistant director put down the rod after thirty minutes of nonstop caning, she failed to even realize the thrashing was over. She lay, sobbing and panting, unsure of anything. She could not have told you which direction was up or down. When the tall black man gently assisted her into a standing position, she staggered against him, grasping at his shoulders in an instinctive search for support. He helped her with her panties, drawing them up around her welted hips and buttocks. Her slacks were next, the pants incomprehensibly tight.

Being dressed seemed to return her to life and she blinked, dazed, and reached back to fondle her bruised and battered ass with astonishment. "It's... it's over?" she croaked, her voice faint and scratchy.

He nodded. "It is done. I will expunge the record. This never happened, and the incident is forgotten. No one will know."

"Thank you, sir."

"If you need a few minutes to compose yourself, you may use my private restroom behind that door over there."

"Yes sir. Thanks."

It was another ten minutes before Amanda Collingford emerged, looking far more like her old self: confident, attractive, and in control. Only an expert would have noticed something odd in the way she moved: a certain stiffness in her posture, subtle twinges and winces on her face as she stepped, or a faint redness to her eyes.

Wells smiled at her.

"Agent Collingford, I'm giving you a seventy-two hour suspension. With pay. This is not punishment, merely recuperation time. I suggest you go home and rest. If you've got skin cream of some kind, it wouldn't hurt to use it."

"Yes sir."

Already Amanda was feeling better. Her body was still on fire and her achingly tight slacks felt several sizes too small, but she had paid her fee and no further payment was due. She was still a special agent and her future was as bright as ever. She vowed to be ten times more vigilant in the future. Never again would she make the mistake of bringing decaffeinated coffee to the director.

The End

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