A Caning for Breakfast

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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A Caning for Breakfast

(*****, M/f, Severe, nc severe schoolgirl caning)

Ouch. A girl learns to obey her father as she earns a dose of discipline for breakfast. (Approximately 1,211 words. Originally published 2003-12.)

It was one of those days for Lindsey. She'd been up late the night before, writing an essay on Sir Francis Bacon she'd stupidly put off until the day before it was due, and as a result she overslept and awoke grumpy with a throbbing headache. When she reread the essay she'd finally finished at two a.m., her heart sank: it was complete crap and Mr. Chelitz would surely reject it, and no doubt he'd eagerly award her a few strokes for poor workmanship.

Lindsey's mother called "Breakfast!" from downstairs, and so Lindsey dashed for the bathroom. The quick shower was shocking, for her siblings had used up all the hot water, and for some reason her hair wouldn't obey her hairbrush, lying in a lifeless tangle that looked hideous. Laundry hadn't been done and of course the only towel left was a small hand towel. Wet and cold, Lindsey trotted down the hallway to her room with only the tiny cloth covering her crotch, blushing furiously when she passed David, her little brother, who giggled at her jiggling bare ass.

In her room she suddenly realized in her worry over the essay she'd forgotten to put her uniform in the wash the previous afternoon. At lunch yesterday she'd stained the skirt with tomato sauce, and with her other skirts in the laundry, there was nothing to do but wear something else and take the three stroke penalty. It didn't make that much difference anyway: if she wore the stained skirt she'd be caned for slovenly appearance.

She chose a pair of tight denim jeans -- she might as well look sexy if she couldn't wear her uniform.

Lindsey heard the clink of silverware against plate and gasped in horror. Surely she wasn't that tardy! She leaped down the stairs three at a time and skidded to a halt in the dining room. The whole family was already seated and eating, and Lindsey's heart sank.

Her father raised a dark eyebrow and said, "Glad you could deign to join us, Lindsey." After an ominous pause, he said, "Let's take care of matters _before_ breakfast, shall we? I'll meet you in the den in one minute."

"Yes sir," said Lindsey weakly. She gulped and headed for the den, her buttocks already tingling with anticipation.

In the den, she stood and stared at the rack of horrible canes on the wall, wondering which her father would use. Missing breakfast couldn't be that bad, could it? Sure, she was too old for the junior cane for serious offenses, but perhaps he wouldn't see this as that significant. Six with the junior wouldn't be that bad. Her bottom itched as she thought of how much the longer, heavier "governess" rod hurt.

Suddenly the door opened and her father entered. He was a very tall man, healthy and strong, and though Lindsey loved him dearly, he was awfully strict. He went straight for the senior cane, taking it down and flexing it.

Stupidly, Lindsey ignored his black expression and decided to beg. "Oh Daddy, I was just a couple minutes late. Couldn't you use the junior cane this once?"

Her father's stern glare was her answer, but she didn't stop. "Six with the junior's plenty -- I've learned my lesson, honest."

"Be quiet and get in position," said her father. "You're getting six of the best."

Lindsey's mouth fell open in dismay at this news, but she was too far in to stop now. "Not with the senior cane, father, please!"

"Stop arguing, child. My breakfast is getting cold!"

"Please, Daddy, I'm to be thrashed at school as I don't have a clean uniform to wear."

"And why is that my problem?" growled the big man. "Come on: it's a dozen now. Get in position and take your medicine."

A dozen! Lindsey's eyes brimmed with tears but her heart steeled against this news and she stubbornly refused to give in. "A dozen with the junior cane, yes," she purred smoothly. "Let me get it for you."

A strong hand grabbed her outstretched wrist, twisting her painfully toward the mahogany desk. "Enough! One more word and it shall be eighteen! Now get your pants down and stay in position."

Miserable and full of despair, Lindsey still didn't want to believe in this reality. "Oh please, Daddy, let me keep my pants on."

"Eighteen then," said the man coldly, and Lindsey shuddered. She bent over the desk, her buttocks exposed for the cane, but made no move to take down her jeans.

"Fine then," said her father. "Keep your jeans on and I'll make it two dozen."

Lindsey shrieked in horror. "No! Please, I'll take them down."

She made to unbutton the jeans, but her father said, "It's twenty-four either way," and so she stopped, resigned to a severe thrashing.

The strokes came then, hard and fast, and Lindsey writhed in misery but obediently (and wisely) kept her position. The stinging strokes flooded her buttocks with pain, at first slightly muted due to the protection of the jeans, but as the thrashing continued, the pain became more and more unbearable.

She survived the first dozen, but the second proved more difficult, the rod crossing the weals from previous strokes. She felt the familiar tramlines swelling, the tightness of her denim jeans making the impression more pronounced than usual.

After the eighteenth stroke, her father paused for a breather, and though glad for respite, the wait for more was torture. Eventually the final six were delivered, harder than the rest, and a dizzy Lindsey was allowed to rise.

Her buttocks throbbed miserably and walking felt stiff, but there was a calmness to her now that hadn't been there before. The thrashing had washed away all her stubbornness and rebellion, and in its place was a meek, subdued young lady.

"No breakfast for you," said her father. "You will stand in the corner while the rest of us finish."

"Yes sir."

"And I think you and I shall talk this evening about your uniform situation."

Lindsey's heart thudded loudly at this: her father usually did his talking with the cane. "Yes sir," she said again. The reminder she had further thrashings at school today depressed her, but the news of more discipline at home in the evening didn't surprise her, considering how this day was going.

She stood in the corner, listening to the family eat their breakfast, and tried not to think of how her buttocks throbbed. She was eager to escape to school, but dreaded the thought of the headmistress' cane. She usually didn't mind school thrashings that much: they usually weren't that severe, just three or four strokes (almost pleasant compared to what she'd just received), but after being caned for breakfast, even a single light stroke would be agonizing.

There was nothing quite like the feeling of attending school with a freshly whacked bottom. It made that part of the anatomy seem incredibly obvious, as though everyone could see the glowing tramlines. Though uncomfortable, it was rather sexy as well. Of course Lindsey much preferred going to school with just a handful of mild weals, not twenty-four juicy, overlapping welts. Indeed, this was going to make her day most interesting.

The End