A Miserable Lesson

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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A Miserable Lesson

(****, FF/ffffF, Edgy, nc caning, blood)

A series of *extremely* severe canings at a strict educational institution. Lots of blood, so don't read if you're the sensitive type. (Approximately 5,329 words. Originally published 2004-03.)

"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. Liesel 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.


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."


"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.

The End