Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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

A sweet young thing is profoundly thrashed. (Approximately 2,985 words. Originally published 2004-01.)

The old man looked at her balefully, one eye traveling up and down her body in rapid jerky movements like those of a wild bird. "Aye there," he squealed. "How old might you be, miss?"

Katie trembled. Her voice, when it came, after a mysterious delay, was faint and hoarse. It belonged to someone else. "Furrffurr... fourteeeen, sir."

"Ah! Ole enough for a real stripin, then," he grunted. He arose, his gaunt frame stretching. Katie heard joints pop and bones creak and for a freak moment wondered if he would fall apart. But of course not: the old man was infamously tough, "held together by spite and bile" was the phrase that circulated around the school when the Head's back was turned.

Standing, the Head made for the bin of canes by the door. There were nearly a dozen, old and new, long and short, fat and lean. Katie watched, heart thudding, her belly slithering wildly like a weasel trapped in a greased barrel, as he carefully sorted through the rods.

"Fourteen, eh?" murmured the man. He selected a cane, eying it doubtfully. Suddenly he motioned for Katie to step forward. "Let us see your bum," he ordered.

Katie didn't move. She was struck dumb and motionless with terror. The sight of the actual cane in his hand, the cane that in mere moments would be cutting into her tender flesh, took all the strength from her limbs.

"Let us see your bum!"

The shout unbolted Katie's feet from the floor and she stumbled forward awkwardly. It was like she'd already been moving but a chain held her back and when it was suddenly released she plowed forward wildly. She nearly fell at his feet. Her face was hot as she scrambled to catch herself, and as she turned away from him, her eyes filled with liquid fear. She could feel his beady eye caress her nether regions. "Oh Lord," she thought, "this can't be happening!"

Though she was dressed, the pajamas were paper thin, and she felt naked. She wished she still had her robe, but it lay on the chair by the door where she'd placed it when ordered. Now her bum cheeks quivered like jellies. The pajama bottoms were too tight. Her bottom swelled to stretch the material like a sausage in its skin. She'd really been needing a new pair for months now, but hadn't bothered. Oh, on heaven and earth why hadn't she bothered?

The Head grunted, his eye studiously assessing the curved anatomy before him. A veteran of these matters, he was an expert, and his senses told him this was an admirable bottom indeed. The girl was perfect, a sweet little angel. Too old to be a child, but not yet a woman. Her body morphed between the two states constantly, in one pose looking girl-like, in another womanly. That was the charm of her age. She already had the promise of hips, swelling width below her slender belly, but her bottom was still chubby with youth. Puppy fat, was what the old man called it, and the thought made him smile. He could visualize the cane cutting into those buttery globes and vision made him swell with pleasure.

He tossed the cane back and found another. He held it up to the light, apparently comparing it to the bottom he was to thrash, and dismissed it. His final selection was an old rod, gnarled and yellow, thin and wiry and yet tough, like his own ancient body. He swished it through the air several times, the first hiss drawing a startled gasp from the nearby girl.

"On your knees," he breathed, watching the girl's bottom as she stepped out of her slippers and knelt.

"Please, sir," moaned Katie desperately.

"Lean forward," came the implacable command.

Groaning, Katie obeyed. She placed her forearms on the carpet in front of her, putting her head down. The position thrust her backside up, presenting it for the cane. She knew this and hated it more than anything, yet what could she do? Her bottom felt massive, the flesh straining against the pajama pants. She felt vulgar, thrusting her bum up and out so impudently.

Unknown to the girl, the Head was pleased. Extremely pleased. He was pleased for several reasons.

First, the splendid shape of the girl's arse aroused him intensely. It was a petite bum, per her stature and age, yet already it was big on her, swelling with the promise of femininity. Even with the pajama slacks covering the flesh, the shape was unmistakable, the crease distinctive and deep.

Second, the Head was pleased because he'd just spotted something wonderful. It was a gift. A gift he would enjoy most thoroughly. At the base of the girl's thin legs were her tiny feet, splayed out to support her in her prone position. The soles of her feet were black with dust.

"What's this, child!" he cried, his voice artificially enhanced with fury. "Your feet are filthy!"

"Sir?" moaned the girl, her head whirling to peer over her shoulder.

"That's three extra for dirty feet."

"Oh but sir, I--"

"Not another sound or I shall make it four!"

Katie's mouth snapped shut so quickly her teeth rang. Her body vibrated with terror. Three extra strokes! Oh horrors! Could this evening get any worse?

Of course it could. There was, after all, a thrashing to administer, and the old man was a legend. "I'm giving you eight," his voice said, and Katie began to weep. Eight! She'd been praying for four, expecting six. But eight! How could she endure it?

"Get out of position and the stroke won't count," he muttered. "And I'll give you an extra for my troubles.

"Now arch your back, stick up your bum."

In a daze, Katie obeyed. Her bottom was ready to burst the pajama pants. Blood pounded in her ears and nothing seemed real. Surely she was imagining this. This had to be a nightmare she'd awake from. Surely....

There was a hiss of air and the sudden thud of wooden rod heavily impacting flesh. Katie grunted and fell forward. The scream tore through her lips even before she realized the pain. It hit in a brutal wave, suddenly, unexpectedly, though she'd been dreading it for hours. It was white hot, a branding iron across her hindquarters.

"Stop that mindless noise!" snapped the Head. In another situation Katie might have been able to pick up the hint of pleasure in his voice, but now she was lost in a whirl of agony. It was all she could do to remember to breathe.

Swish-CRACK! The rod flashed again and Katie yelped, moaning fearfully and rubbing her thighs together and dancing frantically, her knees drumming the floor.

The first two had landed across the middle of Katie's bottom, and so the third arrived a little lower, right in the underhang, digging deep into the fat meat there. With a screech of horror little Katie fell over sideways, writhing and kicking her legs out flat. Nothing she did helped calm the furious alder biting her ass, but it felt like she had to do something. Her body wouldn't allow her to just kneel there and be beaten like a rug!

"Disgraceful," muttered the old man, but he was smiling. "That one won't count and I'm adding another."

Somehow Katie managed to get herself back up on her knees. A scolding from the Head gave her determination, though no extra courage. But this wasn't about courage, was it? She told herself it was merely a game of willpower. She gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. The first few had overwhelmed her, but she knew what to expect now. It was worse than she had ever imagined but somehow she'd make it through.

Her buttocks burned a dull fire but already the sharpness was gone from the pain. A sudden poke of the cane into her left buttock sent her crashing forward, bent into position. The material of her pajamas tightened across her ass and made her wince, but she knew the worst was to come.

There was a hiss as the yellow rod sang through the air. The smack when it caught her backside took her breath away. Agony blossomed from the pulsing weal left behind. She grunted and held herself still.

That was three she told herself. Her lack of control meant the other one hadn't counted. She'd heard of foolish girls doubling their punishments because they couldn't stay in position and she'd thought they were daft, but now she knew better. It had nothing to do with intelligence. Your body just reacted.

The fourth stroke (really the fifth) came, the tip a branding iron into the base of her right cheek. The pain seemed to take root and grow, her entire ass pulsing with agony. Katie felt her control slipping, but bent low, offering her bottom high. Her eyes were shut so tightly she could see dots of colored lights swirling in the blackness, but tears still squeezed out and dampened the carpet.

Five, six. The horror was never-ending, the quantities of pain something she had never dreamed existed. Already it seemed her entire body was in pain, but she knew that was just her imagination. The focal point was unquestionably her bottom, the pain radiating from there like a disease, infecting everything.

Another horrible stroke. This one, as the last few had been, was low, at the base of her bottom. The skin there was so tender she was positive she was cut and bleeding.

Another cut, this one across the back of her legs. Surely that wasn't normal? Oh Lord, this was inhuman. Her thighs stung madly, the skin so taut she could literally feel the weal rising. This was when she realized her bottom must have numbed a bit, for the stroke on her legs was like starting over.

How many was that, she wondered. Somewhere along the line she'd forgotten to count. It couldn't be much more could it?

The old man took his time with the next blow, waiting nearly a minute before thrashing it down with all his strength. He struck full across the cheeks, burying the tip deep.

Katie screamed, diving forward, her face buried in the carpet as her legs threshed wildly. Her hands, controlled by her body not her mind, had flashed behind and were gently kneading the swollen flesh of her cheeks.

"Get your hands off that bottom!" scolded the Head sternly. The cane rapped the knuckles cruelly until they withdrew, Katie moaning at the further assault. "That was to have been the last of the nine, but I shall not count it. Here is nine again."

The cane sang again, and Katie promptly fell over. She rolled back up immediately, but the pit in her belly that was reality insisted that it was too late.

The Head shook his head. "Pitiful, child. Pitiful! Don't you know how to take a proper beating?"

The question seemed to demand an answer, and at any rate, Katie figured having a conversation was better than being whipped. "Nnnn-no sir," she managed. "I... I've never been beaten before."


She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"For your sake. Imagine, fourteen years old and never been beaten! Not even at home?"

"No sir."

"Well, we've a long ways to go. Do you know where we are?"

"I can't think of anything but how much my bum hurts."

"Hmmm. Well, that was nine I just tried to give, but you failed to receive it properly. That's the third failure, which means three extras. And don't forget, there's three coming for your filthy feet. Seven left in all."

Katie gasped, tears jumping from her eyes. Seven! Oh Lord, how could that be? She'd was already beaten to pulp. Surely she couldn't be expected to endure more!

"Oh please, sir, have mercy. I-I can't take any more."

The Head laughed, a dry rasp that chilled her. "The times I've heard that before! Yet in all these years, not one, I repeat, not one child who has told me that has ever _not_ been able to take what she was due. It's reality, Miss: you will take what's due."

Katie didn't know what to say. This was so far out of her realm of experience she didn't even know how to feel, let alone respond. Her mind expected mercy: it couldn't cope with the thought of more agony to come. Her mind told her that somehow she could avoid this, that it wouldn't happen. But the Head had just told her she was wrong. And already she was leaning forward, pressing her forearms against the carpet, arching her buttocks high into the air for further chastisement. It was a living nightmare.

In two seconds, the cane spoke thrice. As in most things involving corporal discipline, this was both a mercy and a chastisement. In a flash, three strokes were finished. Katie had no time to react and get out of position, which was good. But the agony of three lightning strikes in so short a time was just like the Head had sprayed her ass with lighter fluid and lit her butt on fire. She screamed and writhed, but managed to stay in position.

"Steady there, hold on. Almost done. Just a few more."

Katie didn't know how she could take any more, but somehow she did. Another blur of sound and motion and liquid fire flooded her ass. Three more strokes endured, and only one to come. She wept with relief.

"One more," grunted the Head. "Don't get up until I give you permission."

She knew it was going to be bad, but it was far worse. Words don't exist to describe the intensity of that final assault. From the sound she would have sworn the rod had smashed itself to pieces. It caught her low, of course, right in the crease between buttock and thigh. That area was well beaten already, though recently neglected, and the fresh impact of the rod was like the entire caning repeated in a single stroke.

Katie sobbed and clawed at the carpet. Her body threshed wildly, her ass waving in the air. It was minutes before she could breathe properly, and even then it was in husky panting gasps. She knelt there, breathing heavily. She felt like she'd just rolled down a rocky hillside, or been put in a washing machine on spin cycle. Everything ached. Her buttocks throbbed miserably, though the sting was fading into an ache.

"Get up."

Wiping her eyes, Katie got to her feet. It seemed a million years since she'd been this tall. Her body felt all out of balance, top heavy, blood filling the wrong chambers. She stood slowly, wavering. She couldn't bear to look at the old man, but she forced herself to do so. She was terrified of what would happen if she did not.

"Not very impressive, Miss Katie. Yes, you endured, but I told you you would. They always do. But your wailing and thrashing about is poor decorum. You need to learn how to take a beating like a lady."

Katie's mouth was fiendishly dry, but somehow she muttered, "I'm sorry, sir." She almost added, "I'll do better next time," then realized the unspeakable implications of that statement and remained silent.

But the Head seemed to read her mind. "You'll do better next time," he said.

"There won't be a next time, sir. Never. Never again!" Her fervor and sincerity couldn't be doubted.

Again the raspy laugh. "If I had a pound every time I heard that!" He shook his head slowly. "Of course you'll be here again. In fact, I'm going to insist upon it. You know Prefect Donna Wells?"

"Yes sir. She's in my dorm."

"Yes. Well, you are to ask her slipper you regularly for the next month. Three times a week should be sufficient. Make sure she goes hard. And long. I want you to have plenty of practice. Then I shall see you here in November and we'll try this beating again and see if you can't take it properly."

Once again, Katie was speechless. Which was just as well: there was nothing to say. After a moment the Head seemed to dismiss her, so she nodded, mouthed a "thank you" (she still couldn't speak), and headed for the door. As she was putting on her slippers and taking up her robe, the old man said, "Oh, Miss Katie?"

She faced him.

"I'd make sure my feet are clean next time. No point in earning extras before we start. And if I was you, I'd tread carefully until then. For your sake I'd hate to see you in here before your scheduled appointment.""

Katie nodded quickly at the advice and escaped into the darkened hallway. As soon as the door shut behind her she was slipping her hands down the back of her pajama bottoms and palming her bare cheeks. The weals were astonishing, a maze of crisscrossed lines. But there was no blood, and with the initial sting gone, only ache remained.

Holy shit, she thought bitterly. I can't believe I lived. And now I have to ask Donna to spank me so I can go through that again?

But already Katie was a changed girl. She had survived, that was undeniable. And already the memory of the caning was fading. It couldn't have been quite as bad as her brain was telling her, of course. That was her overactive imagination making things worse because it was her first beating. No, she knew what to expect now. She'd get the slipper from Donna and be ready, and in a month she'd be able to take a caning from that old man with a smile.

At least that was what Katie thought then.

The End