The End, and a Little Bit More

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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.

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The End, and a Little Bit More

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

A father knows just how to punish most effectively -- to the end, and a little bit more. (Approximately 2,340 words. Originally published 1997-11.)

"It's just six," I told my sternly, gulping as I watched Amanda marching up and down the narrow corridor, hands tight fists of terror. From behind the closed door of Mistress Slatter's office we heard the first horrible crack--like a twig snapping in two--followed by a low moan of a girl expressing unendurable agony.

The five of us looked at each other, our eyes wide. None of us said a word. We didn't need to. The fact that Maddy was getting the thrashing of her life was of minimal consequence to us--the fact that we were each waiting for our own turn was a natural priority.

Maddy emerged a mess. Her long dark hair was matted and damp with her tears, her face streaked with dark smudges. She was still crying as she passed us, and she didn't dare look any of us in the eye but raced passed though she was late for a date. One hand clutched at her bottom as though for support, and her gait was indeed unsteady.

I almost felt sorry for her, though I can't say she didn't deserve what she got, since she was the one who got us all involved in the ill-fated practical joke against the nasty Mrs. Grimly, the history teacher. The old fart hadn't been the slightest bit amused at the rotten eggs we'd broken in her desk, nor the water balloons we had ready to drop on her when she ran out of her office in frantic urgency. Who'd have thought the headmistress would have been up on the roof at three in the afternoon?

Linda, the oldest of us six, went in after Maddy. She got eight, being a senior girl. She began to howl after the fourth stroke. I didn't see how any of us could take it.

Jane followed Linda, and then Amanda had to go. Mary and I were the only ones left. Mary was to be last, being the youngest, and therefore assumed to be the least guilty. Her thrashing would take place after Mistress Slatter was exhausted and couldn't strike so hard.

I barely saw Amanda rush out the door, her face red and her howls of pain echoing up and down the corridor--I could only sense my own impending doom as I entered the cold office of the headmistress. The woman was thin and wiry, and fierce as a one-eyed tomcat. She only glared at me and pointed to the desk. She was well aware I knew the procedure.

I bent across the desk and grasped the opposite end with my fingers. I'm short and it was a slight stretch--I had to go up on my tiptoes to reach it. My bottom felt huge all of a sudden. I felt Mistress Slatter lifting my skirt and fastening it to my waist. Only my cotton panties protected my flesh from the bite of the cane now. I dreaded the first blow--it was always the worst.

Mistress Slatter waited a moment before beginning, I think just to torment me. When it came it was like I'd been sliced in two. Pain flooded through my ass and I couldn't stop fidgeting. Tears sprang to my eyes but I didn't say anything. Stroke two was lower, right in the middle of my rump and stung like the devil. I twitched but didn't speak. Stroke three was the worst yet--right in the crease between my thighs and buns and I couldn't help but murmur a slight "Oh!"

"Feeling it, eh?" taunted the old woman. She pulled back and gave me a cracker that crossed the previous strokes, the tip landing heavily on the far right side of my right buttock. That did it. I burst into tears, groaning and wiggling frantically. She scolded me and told me to be still. She didn't wait but gave me number five right away, crossed the other direction so the tip struck the upper part of my right cheek.

But now I knew it was almost over. I could hold out. I bit back my fear and reminded myself that the worst was over; only one measly stroke was left, and how bad could it be? It was bad. Not in the crease but slightly higher, and it sounded so loud I thought for sure the woman had broken her cane on my butt. I gripped the desk with all my strength and moaned loudly, releasing the tension in my muscles. I shook my head back and forth and prayed for release.

"All right. You may go," said the voice, and I sighed with contentment. It was over. I had endured it.

I left the office in a nasty hurry to use the restroom so I could wash my face and recover at least some of my dignity. Fear still thudded inside my heart, however, and I was filled with dread. For I knew that this caning was but the beginning--I still had father to face.

* * * * *

My father is a wonderful man. He cares for me greatly; he loves me. I know that. But he is very strict. He has never given me or my brother or sister a mild spanking--he doesn't believe in such a thing. According to him a spanking must be unendurable or else there is no point. And believe me, all three of us live in fear of his spankings.

My father does not believe in numbers. "There is no magic number," he always says. "When you deserve a spanking you get one. A spanking. That means until the very end and a little bit more. Not a dozen strokes or even three dozen. You get a spanking to the end. When it's done I'll know it. And after a little bit more I'll stop."

Daddy always said school punishments weren't any good because you knew in advance how many strokes you'd get. That's part of the reason a spanking at school earned a spanking at home. "Good punishment gets its power from being unknown. Is it over yet? Almost over? Halfway done? Just beginning? You don't know. You shouldn't know. Not knowing breaks down the spirit of naughtiness!"

I knew. I knew that regardless of the six strokes from Mistress Slatter's cane I'd be getting a spanking from my father tonight. The thought sent terror through me. I couldn't stop shaking as I looked at myself in the mirror and wiped away my tears. It just wasn't fair! That dumb Maddy and her jokes! All she got was a lousy caning. That's all all the other girls had to worry about. Me, I've got a royal thrashing coming that will make my caning seem as boring as a history lesson.

All afternoon I fought with the butterflies in my stomach. The whole way home I brainstormed clever and bizarre ways to outwit my father. I'd forge his signature on the parental notification form. I'd stow away on a freighter to Canada. I'd beg and plead with him and for once--this once--he'd let me off.

It was not to be. I knew it without admitting it. There was no chance I'd escape my fate. I had to face it. I was going to get a spanking and there was no way out of it.

Father arrived home at six o'clock. I was upstairs in my room, waiting. I couldn't stand the suspense. I wished I was dead. Every sound echoing in that old house made me think it was his foot on the landing outside my door. When it finally happened I cried with relief, leaping from my bed and running to hug him.

"Shhhh," he whispered gently, guiding me to the bed. "I know, I know." He hugged me for a long while and didn't say anything while I just cried. I suppose I told him what happened--how it wasn't fair and all, how it was Maddy who had done it, and I had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time--but daddy didn't say anything but listened and hugged me tightly.

When I'd finished he said quietly, as though I hadn't said a word, "You know what this means, Dani," and I burst into fresh tears. I sobbed as he stood me to my feet and at his command began to undress. When I was naked he gave the order: "Go get the paddle."

Still crying but trying desperately to be brave, I left the room and went down the hall to my parent's room. I heard snickering from the bottom of the stairs as I passed and I knew my brother and sister were watching, but I could not concern myself. I found the paddle in daddy's closet. It was thin and hard and hurt amazingly bad. There were times growing up I hated that paddle as though it was evil personified. Like now. I lifted it gingerly, the weight of it filling me with unspeakable dread. My heart seemed to sink and I felt my whole body was made of lead. I could hardly walk back to my room. I didn't even realize I was naked any more--all I was conscious of was that despicable oak board in my hand.

Daddy's spankings always have two parts. The first is the paddling. I went over his lap and dangled there, my hands on the floor bracing my body. My bottom felt incredibly naked and vulnerable, the white hot lines of pain from the cane tingling and prickling as I thought of them. I prayed daddy would have mercy on me.

The paddling began with a bang and ended with a whimper. Actually, a lot of whimpers. Daddy paddled me so hard and fiercely even I was amazed. The thought went through my mind that this was my first spanking since turning fifteen, so perhaps he was being extra hard on me. I didn't dwell on it much. Mostly I just kicked and howled and moaned and begged him to stop. I shed buckets of tears and sobbed myself hoarse, but that paddle didn't crack down with one iota of force less. It just kept coming and coming and hurting and hurting until I thought for sure I was gonna die.

Suddenly it was over, and I was lying on the bed sobbing and whimpering and moaning, and daddy was standing over me and handing me the paddle and telling me to go exchange it for the strap. I knew the routine. I didn't stop crying as I trotted down the hallway, the movement agony to my poor behind but the change in air feeling cool and nice. I stumbled around in the closet but found the dreadful strap and swapped the paddle for it. Then I went downstairs.

Everyone was sitting at the table for supper. I didn't look at anyone but went to the corner in the kitchen, not three feet from my miserable brother. I pressed my nose into the corner and put my hands behind my back and held the strap there. Everyone could see my paddled ass. All through dinner I stood, miserable and alone, humiliated and ashamed. My stomach flipped and twisted nervously. Dinner smelled good but I was too nervous to eat--not that I was allowed to. At first conversation was short and awkward, but gradually everyone began talking as though I wasn't there. It was horrible to be there but not be there, to know they were watching me, seeing my punished bottom, and knowing that I would soon be receiving a thorough strapping to complete my punishment.

The dinner lasted forever. It was too short. All too soon I was following my father out to the garage. He did not speak but pointed to the wooden workbench where I promptly bent over. Stepping behind me he wasted no time. For my father the only psychology of a whipping is the length--he cares nothing for the anticipation of each blow, the subtlety of varying the strokes. No, he just flogs away like a machine, and eventually, you break apart.

I can't say how long it took--perhaps five minutes, perhaps an hour. It seemed like forever. The leather strap lashed the backs of my legs and bottom with a fury that would have frightened the Devil. All I could do was lie there and take it, weeping and hoping it would someday end.

I went through many stages. I toughed it for a while, then went through an acceptance period, receiving the whipping with almost eagerness, a lustful desire. Then I struggled with terror, then begged for mercy. Then I grew angry and cursed my father, then I told him I loved him. Nothing made a difference. His blows did not vary. One could have set a clock by his ruthless timing.

Finally I broke down. Something inside me snapped--I'd felt it before, during other spankings, every time in fact. I didn't know what it was--despair, disillusionment, reassignment, acceptance--but I felt it overcome me. I broke down into sobs of regret and repentance, swearing unbreakable oaths with my very soul that I'd never need another spanking from my father. I wept and bawled my heart out, until I nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

True to his word, daddy whipped me just a little bit more, as if to seal in the message. "To the end and a little bit more," he always said. When it was over I knew the truth of those words in a way that scared the shit out of me. For I knew that my father was right, that I needed to be pushed that far. The caning from the headmistress only served to make me angry and resentful. The spanking from my father truly humbled me and made me repentant. There was no question in my mind which method I preferred. But there was also no question which method was better.

The End

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