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An Experience to Remember
(****, F/f, Severe, nc caning)
A prefect endures punishment. (Approximately 1,308 words. Originally published 2006-09.)
If there is a worse feeling in the world than facing a licking, I don't know what it is. I dread the pain, of course. The pain terrifies me. I know I shall not be able bear it. It will be awful; it's always worse than I imagine.
Of course I endure the pain a dozen times before the actual infliction. Some say the anticipation is worse than the whipping, but I beg to differ. It's only worse until the first real stroke lands, then reality washes out all imagination.
But worse than the pain or the anticipation is the shame and humiliation of deserving punishment. I feel that everyone I pass can see my sin like a brand on my forehead. None of the other girls will look at me, which only reminds me of my dreadful fate. I am ashamed, and I hang my head, but regret will not take away the horror before me.
Then there are my teachers and the Headmistress. All are dressed in grim black. Their eyes glare at me accusingly; I cannot bear to return their looks. I stare at the floor and wish I was dead. I am horrified to be in such a position before them. Their displeasure burns me like acid. I want to run away, but that would be even greater shame.
My greatest worry is that I will not be able to endure my punishment properly. Not only will that merit me additional discipline of the strictest kind, but it will bring yet further shame upon myself and my family. It's one thing to make a mistake; it's quite another to be a coward.
They are waiting in the punishment chamber. Six instructors, the Headmistress, and her assistant. The door closes behind me with the finality of a casket slamming shut. Though the room is crowded, I am alone. Eyes bore through me and I must resist weeping.
The Headmistress is a large woman, tall and broad. She stands near the trestle where I will soon bend and holds an impossibly long shaft of creamy yellow. It's a vicious rod, hard as stone yet horribly springy. Its core stiffness gives it a sharp whip when it rebounds.
The sight of the terrifying weapon turns my spine to ice. Suddenly my limbs no longer function properly. My knees are rubber and I stumble, caught by the rough hand of Madame Grace, whose eyes are cold obsidian. Her stony expression does not change as she steadies me.
My heart flutters out of control and my bowels, recently voided, churn with a frantic desire to do so again. The Headmistress' face is a mask of sternness. She merely points the tip of the rod at the trestle and I quickly descend over the familiar wooden bench. It is hard and uncomfortable against my belly. My head swirls as blood rushes downward as I lean forward. Unknown hands grasp and lift up the gray shift I wear, exposing my naked buttocks and legs.
As always, the air feels cold against my bare skin. It is dreadful. I know I shall not feel cold long, and a part of me wants the punishment to hurry up and be over, but foolish hope always makes me think that by some miracle I might still yet escape.
There is a long pause. This is dreadful. Everyone is staring at my naked haunches. I cannot move. It is humiliation beyond endurance. The only saving grace is that my face is low, my eyes focused on the brown carpet. Time is frozen. I can feel every eye as it studies my bare legs, drifts up the plump curves of my arse, and peers rudely between my cheeks.
Then there's the tap-tap-tap of the cane tip against my rump. The Headmistress always does this. It's the final warning before the thrashing is to begin. I want to weep, but resist. There will be plenty of time for that later.
My heart fills my mouth as I hold completely still, not daring to breath or even allow my blood to pump. This is when she announces the sentence. Until this moment the sentence has been a mystery of utmost agony to me. For hours and hours I wrestled with the puzzle, imagining the worst and the most ridiculously optimistic.
I tried to tell myself that she'll surely be merciful and it will only be four, maybe five. But my mind knows that's foolish. It will be at least six, quite likely a dreadful eight. I am a prefect, after all, supposed to be a leader. If she wishes to make an example of me it could be even worse.
The cane tip taps my bum one last time and there's a slight pause, a moment of silence before the storm.
"Twelve," comes the grave pronouncement.
I gasp, a knife plunged into my back. But even as the horror sets in and my eyes blur with tears, there's a sharp "shhhhhtt" sound as the rod whips through the air. It wallops me full across the bum and an amazing amount of pain floods through me. It is all I can do to not scream, but I'm helped by the sheer shock.
There's another whistle and the cane cracks across my rump again. I lean forward, pressed hard against the wooden platform, struggling not to embarrass myself with screams for mercy. Tears flow quickly, pouring from my eyes. I cannot see, only feel the mounting fever as the rod whips into me again.
Fortunately, I do not remember much from then on. Everything is a blur of sensation. It is awful, I know that, I sense that. There is pain, intense pain, a sharp stinging and burning like hot knives slicing the flesh of my ass leaving my buttocks tortured and cut. I remember weeping, weakly kicking against the pain, and struggling to stay across the trestle. I remember snot and heat and my head wanting to explode. There were sounds, awful sounds. Distant words, like the rumbling thunder of a god. There was the swish of rattan through the air, a warning that pain was to follow. The deafening crack of the rod against my flesh, terrifying in its astonishing loudness: could I really have been struck so hard?
Time, which had been my enemy in the twenty-four hours preceding my thrashing, continued its cruel tricks. In retrospect, the whipping seemed to last only seconds. But during the ordeal the agony was an eternity that would not end. Seconds became hours, minutes days.
Then it was over. It was so sudden, as though there was no warning. I suppose I was vaguely aware of the count but it wasn't a conscious thing. The pain started and then stopped, leaving only agony behind.
In a rush, my senses returned. Time went back to normal. My limbs regained their ability to function. Slowly I got to my feet, my hands clutching at my tender bottoms, gripping the raw and blistered flesh as twin cataracts of tears flowed down my face. Sound returned with a vengeance, a loud roaring in my ears. I heard a strange noise like someone strangling a dog, then realized with embarrassment it was my own choked sobs. I smelled sweat and fear, and again it was my own.
I stumbled out into the corridor, alone in the cool evening. My cheeks felt frozen as the breeze cooled the moisture on my face. Each step was painful, my buttocks swollen, every shudder making me gasp from the pain. I sucked in air as though I hadn't breathed for the last quarter hour, which was probably near the truth.
I gave a great sigh, wiping tears with my sleeve.
The beating was over. Now I merrily had to survive the memory.