The Flogging

Rate This Story:

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.

Purchase this story in print form!

Don't like reading on screen? This story is available in print form in Ultimate Archive: Volume 1 at the Flogmaster's Bookstore. Purchase your copy today to encourage the Flogmaster to write more cool stories.

The Flogging

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

A daughter must submit to a severe whipping. (Approximately 2,613 words. Originally published 2004-01.)

"I am afraid, daughter," said the gravely voice of the old man, "that you must prepare yourself for a most severe flogging."

Young Annie's mouth went dry at these words and her limbs felt numb and paralyzed, yet somehow she rose and nodded, meekly responding, "Yes father," and departed.

Her heart thudded loudly as she passed along the corridor to her room. Behind her she heard Graves, the butler, entering her father's office. In minutes he would be ready to escort her to the stables for her flogging, and the thought made her weak with despair.

It was her own fault, of course. No one had forced her to cheat on the examination. She'd been seduced by an easy grade and hadn't properly pondered the consequences.

Her hand went to caress the curve of her buttocks and found the smooth flesh swollen with several crisp lines. Delivered four days ago by the headmistress herself, they still ached. Eight cuts she'd given, and Annie had thought it the worst pain she'd ever endured. But her heart fluttered at what was to come, which undoubtedly would be even worse.

Stripped naked, Annie arched her head over her shoulder to peer at her reflection in the full-length mirror and studied her backside. The finger-thick marks were purplish and black, but much less intense than previously. Under any other circumstance Annie would have said she was healing nicely, but with another whipping about to be delivered, her buttocks felt raw and sore.

Annie's only consolation, and a small one it was, was that her appearance in the mirror pleased her. She'd always been petite, but in the past year her body had finally blossomed into womanhood. Her breasts were womanly, her hips full and curved. Her buttocks, when not distorted by the marks of a school cane, were glossy and smooth as butter, and sexily curvaceous. Forbidden nakedness usually excited her, but today there was only a mild stirring in her loins, for her mind was preoccupied by her upcoming ordeal.

She slipped on a simple cotton shift. Plain white, it covered her naked body down to her knees. This was her punishment gown. The last time she'd worn it it had descended her to her ankles. She could still remember that thrashing and how much it had hurt. Mostly she remembered the shame and humiliation at being beaten by a servant. Graves was not a cruel man but he did handle a rod expertly. Years of experience supervising and disciplining the help, no doubt.

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Miss Slaterly?"

"Come in, Graves. I am ready."

The man opened the door and studied her for a moment. "You are growing into a beautiful young lady," he said mildly.

Annie blushed at the praise, for it only reminded her that her recent actions had been anything but ladylike.

"Let's just get it over with, Graves."

"Certainly, Milady."

She followed him to the stables. A boy was there grooming one of the horses, but he departed at a command from the butler. Graves latched the door behind him so he and the master's daughter were alone.

"Will you require assistance, Miss Annie?" Graves paused. His voice softened. "Your father has specified that this is to be a most severe punishment. There is no loss of honor in being secured."

Annie rose to her tallest and shook her head bravely. It was foolhardy, and it made the punishment ten times more difficult to endure, but her pride would not allow her the indignity of being bound for discipline.

"I will accept my medicine as a Slaterly," she said boldly, and draped herself over a nearby rail. She lifted her gown to expose her lower extremities, her buttocks shivering at the breath of cool air.

Graves nodded and took down a leather strap from a nail on the wall. "We'll begin with the strap, Milady," and Annie shivered at the terrible implications of those words.

For the next ten minutes the young girl bravely endured her flogging. Every ten seconds the leather strap left a brazen mark across her flesh, until she was crimson from the top of her buttocks to the back of her knees. The first thirty were horrible but manageable, but the final thirty were unimaginably difficult. These blows criss-crossed the welts already marking her tender flesh and every strike was like acid poured across naked skin.

When he'd finished, Annie nearly collapsed, and only the sheerest force of will and determination kept her upright and sober. She forced herself to be calm and dignified as she released herself from the rail. Her body throbbed with pain but she nodded grimly at Graves and said, "Thank you, Graves. A thorough and excellent thrashing."

"We are not finished, Milady," said the man apologetically. "Your father gave me specific instructions that you were to be strapped _and_ caned."

Annie blanched. "But I was already caned at school," she whispered, unable to find her voice.

"That's so, but your father insists. Fifteen strokes, he ordered, and I'm to give them with my full strength. And he wants to see you afterward and inspect the marks, so I dare not disobey."

The trap was complete. Annie nodded. "Ah, well." Her mouth was dry, her tongue a dry sponge. She shrugged in what she hoped came across as nonchalance, but inside her belly was flip-flopping like the sea during a typhoon. "Do your best, Graves."

Once again she was across the rail, her slender body offering up the voluptuous curves of her feminine backside for further agony. The skin of her arse was already crimson, blotched with scarlet and magenta stains from the whipping. The cane across that tender flesh would be murder, she knew.

But even so, she did not expect the violence and agony of that first stroke. The rod whipped through the air with a dreadful swish that chilled her blood. The impact across her buttocks was stupendous: instead of the agonizingly sharp sting she expected, this rod seemed to cut her half. She gasped loudly, hissing in rage and pain, writhing on the rail in a desperate struggle to maintain her composure.

"Lord!" she thought bitterly, "I've never felt such agony. It feels like he's quartered my cheeks." Each half of buttock throbbed horribly and the raised weal crossing the cheeks seemed to swell with the thought. It pulsed miserably with a deep, unyielding ache that told Annie the pain would last for a very long time.

Behind her, Graves moved, and Annie nearly leaped off the rail in a panic. Fortunately, her will regained control of her body in time, and she closed her eyes and grunted as the heavy rod plowed into her soft hind-cheeks once again.

Unbelievably, this stroke was even worse. It was slightly lower, but the tip had curled upward, crossing the tail of the first stroke. The overlap was hell itself, and she could feel that single spot flashing pain as regular as a heartbeat.

The third stroke was almost too much. It was high, and Graves had apparently leaned forward, so the tip wrapped around Ashely's hip and left a deep imprint on the right side of her buttock. The flesh there was merely scalded from the whipping and the massive weal that quickly blossomed brought with it heretofore unknown quantities of agony.

"What the hell is going on?" thought Annie. "How can a mere three strokes devastate me so? I feel weak, like I'll collapse. How can I possibly bear twelve more!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Annie saw Graves flexing the cane and preparing for the next strike. Suddenly everything was clear. Her heart sank to her ankles in despair.

This wasn't the stout stable rod she'd experienced in the past: it wasn't even the senior cane Headmistress had used so efficiently. No, only one cane could be so heavy and so long: the penal cane, used for the most severe thrashings imaginable. It was just like the ones the governor used for judicial punishments. Grown men lost their bowels after just six of that monster. A dozen was considered severe, and two dozen cruel. Three dozen could be fatal it not properly treated afterward.

Annie shuddered at this knowledge. The fifteen she'd thought was a stiff but endurable penalty was now an impossibility. She wished she'd asked to be secured. There was no way she could endure fifteen with the penal cane! But to ask to be bound now, after a mere three strokes, would be humiliating, not to mention earn her extra strokes. No, she'd endure as long as she could.

Fortunately, the pain peaked at the third stroke. Four and five were awful, but it was just more of the same pain. The quantity increased but not the intensity. It felt like her entire arse was screaming with spots of pain, but every fresh stroke awoke silent areas of her flesh.

After six, she sincerely wished with every atom of her being that the thrashing would somehow be over, but of course it was not. Graves was efficient and implacable, and did his duty without hesitation. He waited thirty counts between each stroke to allow the pain to settle and draw out the punishment, but when it was time for the next blow he wasted no time and delivered it heartily and effectively.

By the eighth, Annie was positive she could take no more. Her whole body felt weak and exhausted, and she could barely hold herself in position. Her buttocks had never felt so ravaged. On several occasions the cane had wrapped around, leaving deep purple gouges on her right side. Weals scored and divided her cheeks with their swollen ridges. Surely, even with Annie's newly developed body, there was no more room for further strokes?

Graves made room. He stepped to the other side and began to lay on the strokes from the right. The rod now fell between the previous ones, rudely fitting itself in whether there was room or not. The tip stretched across Annie's left buttock, scoring the outer edge with deep purple gouges.

Annie had to hold her breath to keep from screaming, and even then bizarre sounds emerged from her body. There were groans and grunts, whimpers and high-pitched whines. She struggled to keep her lips shut, but the sounds came unbidden. She had no control over them. At the eleventh stroke, which angled low, the tip digging into the plump lower curve of her left cheek, she gasped and let out a little cry. She half-rose up, everything in her telling her she was mortally wounded and needed to grasp the wealed flesh and protect it from further harm.

But then she thought of her father, of her family's legacy, and somehow she regained the courage and will to submit. She bent forward, arching her back and presenting her buttocks fully for the wrath of the rod. The next blow took her breath away. She gritted her teeth and held on.

"Just a few more," she thought desperately, though in truth she'd completely lost count. But surely there couldn't be many left!

Time ticked slowly, the pause between strokes an eternity of horror. Her buttocks shook and quivered involuntarily, dancing and shivering. A distant part of her brain told her she was revealing everything to Graves, but somehow right now that seemed insignificant. No doubt for the next few days she'd be humiliated and embarrassed every time she saw him, blushing at what he'd seen, but for now she'd didn't care. She only wanted the flogging to end.

Another horrible stroke. How the hell could Graves strike so hard? It felt like her left buttock was bleeding. She could feel the blood oozing down. In a strange way, it almost tickled.

The rod cracked down again, the sound chilling her soul. It was such an awful sound. Even at school when it wasn't her being thrashed, the cracks of the cane disciplining some naughty schoolgirl in the Head's office made her weak at the knees. The sound always echoed up and down the main corridor and into the classrooms, and Annie was positive the school had been designed for that effect. In all the classrooms they could hear when a girl was being thrashed, and it always brought a pause to school life as everyone sobered at thought that in a short while it could be them bending over for the Head's long cane.

The next one cut low, across the base of her buttocks, driving her forward. The tip must have crossed another weal for there was a bright burst of pain from a specific spot. It amazed Annie that after everything she'd endured she could still feel at all. Her brain was numb: why not her body?

Suddenly, dimly, she heard the voice of Graves. She couldn't make out what he was saying. It took her a moment to focus, and then she saw he was bidding her to rise. It was over. A part of her felt it was anti-climactic, ending so abruptly, but she quickly dismissed that feeling as absurd. She was just grateful it was finished.

She rose, her limbs stiff and creaking like an old woman, and she staggered a bit when she got back onto her feet. The cotton gown fell over her buttocks, the faint brush of fabric bringing a gasp to her lips.

"Thank you, Graves. Superbly done."

"Your father will want to see you shortly, Milady," he nodded.

"Yes. I'll see him in a minute. First I'll visit the facilities."

She turned and headed back to the main house. She tried to walk as though her buttocks weren't on fire, but it was impossible. Every movement sent of tremor through her body, jiggling her bottoms painfully. Every step was a reminder of her agony. She took her time, pausing frequently for breath, pretending to admire the view of the garden or checking a potted plant on the steps, and eventually she made it safely to her room.

Immediately the shift was off and she stood naked before the mirror again. She dreaded looking but couldn't bear not to see. She took up a hand mirror and held it so that she could see the mirror behind her. Horror made her gasp. Her buttocks were purple and black with slivers of crimson. Tears moistened her eyes. Oh, it was too cruel, too cruel.

But astonishingly there was no blood. Graves was excellent with the rod: he'd whipped her thoroughly, but he hadn't broken the flesh. No doubt the strapping had helped with that, toughening the skin for the ordeal of the rod.

Annie tentatively placed a palm on her left buttock. It was steaming hot, the weals pulsing like something alive. But surprisingly it didn't hurt especially. She could feel her hand and it felt good. She put down the mirror and grasped both cheeks in her hands and gently squeezed and kneaded. It felt good, though she had no idea why. Her buttocks blazed something awful, but the peak of the pain was diminishing. She felt like she could breath again.

She sighed, eying her thrashed bottom in the mirror. It was time to show her bum to her father. She certainly didn't want to delay and irritate him further. Hopefully he'd be pleased by her endurance of the punishment. Perhaps Graves would tell him she'd taken it well.

As soon as he'd seen it, she'd run an ice bath and cool her bottom. Then have the maid put cream on it. She could hardly wait.

The End

Rate This Story: