Little Trouble Leads to Big Trouble

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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Little Trouble Leads to Big Trouble

(****, F/f, Severe, schoolgirl caning)

A normally good girl discovers what life is like for the naughty. (Approximately 2,708 words. Originally published 1999-02.)

Alesha hadn't meant for it to happen. It was rotten timing, that's all. Art was her favorite class. One moment she was blissfully mixing colors for her floral watercolor, and then suddenly her life was steaming head-on into a brick wall.

Mrs. Wylert had stepped out for a few minutes, and several of the boys became rowdy. It started with some rude comments impinging on the artistic talents of the girls, and quickly progressed to crudeness as the guys played "Rorshack" with the unfinished artwork.

"What's that supposed to be?" asked Kevin Tuttle asked Alesha. He leered saucily at her. "It looks like a girl's pussy!"

Alesha blushed furiously, waving her red-stained paintbrush. "It's a rose and it's not finished yet!"

Unfortunately, at that moment David Jackson was trying to escape Monica's playful slap and his bump caused Alesha to crash into Kevin, leaving red splotches across his white shirt.

"You bitch!" he cried. He grabbed the thing nearest him, which -- fortunately for Alesha -- turned out to be a cup of water. He splashed it at her.

But the lithe teenager was too quick. She spun away, darting behind her easel, which took the full brunt of the blow. As she stared in outrage at the sorry mess her painting had become, she made her move. Even as she did it she knew it was wrong. There was even a part of her mind that warned her to hesitate, to think before acting. But she didn't think. She just threw the paint palette right at Kevin's head.

It was weird. In retrospect in happened in an eye-blink, but it somehow also seemed to take forever. Alesha watched in dismay as Kevin ducked, and then in horror as the classroom door opened and Mrs. Wylert entered. The spiraling plastic palette caught her full on the chin, splattering her dress with two dozen dripping colors. She went down with a thump, and for a long thirty seconds no one made a sound.

Next thing Alesha knew, she was sitting fidgeting outside the Headmistress' door, waiting for Mrs. Wylert to finish describing the crime to the administrator. There was no doubt in her mind that she'd be caned. Students were caned every day for far less offenses than attacking a teacher with a paint palette. The only question was how severely she would be caned.

Alesha had been caned twice before. When she was fourteen she and Maria Tigert got three strokes each for being caught off school grounds without permission. And last year Alesha got "six of the best" for cheating on her maths. She still hated mathematics, but suffering algebra was far better than enduring the hot, pulsing strokes of the rattan.

The door suddenly opened and a "colorfully adored" Mrs. Wylert exited, her face grim with rage. She glared at the trembling teenager. "You may go in," she growled. "I hope you learn a sharp lesson, young lady!"

"I'm terribly sorry," gasped poor Alesha, tears filling her eyes.

"I'm sure," nodded the woman. "But there's no excuse for throwing paint!"

Alesha had to admit she couldn't think of one. Even if it had been in self-defense it was still her fault for responding with violence. She bowed her head and shuffled into the Head's office, closing the door softly behind her.

The large room was air-conditioned and without windows, creating a chilly, gloomy atmosphere. Madame Quebera stood near her magnificent grandfather clock, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

"My, my," she murmured. "You quiet ones are the worst. One never knows what you will do."

"I'm really sorry," sniffed Alesha. "I tried to apologize. I wasn't trying to hit Mrs. Wylert--"

"Of course you weren't," interrupted the Head woman. "You are not here for striking your teacher. You are here because you struck, period."

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman went to her desk and looked at an open file. "This is your third visit in three years," she said. "It seems you need an occasional reminder of what happens to naughty girls."

Alesha studied the brown and white carpet and didn't say anything.

"Well, perhaps a dose of 'Mr. Whippy' will remind you to control your temper." As she spoke, Madame Quebera took down the long rattan cane from its hook on the wall. She swung the thin rod through the air, smiling pleasantly when she saw Alesha wince at the whistling sound.

"I can see you are anticipating your punishment properly." She dragged the punishment stool from the corner to the center of the room and indicated that Alesha was to get in position. The teenage girl hesitated. Her instinct told her to run, to turn and rush out the door and run home. Oh, she'd be caught and punished, of course. But could it really be any worse?

The embarrassment of being branded a coward, however, was incentive enough to motivate Alesha. She walked to the stool. Her stomach felt so hollow it hurt. She wanted to throw up, but it felt like she'd only have dry heaves, though she'd eaten lunch not long ago. She steeled herself and climbed up.

The stool was very old. It was wooden, with stout stepping bars for mounting. Alesha placed her feet on the lowest rung, about four inches off the floor. She kept her feet as wide as the stool would allow, for that was a rule the headmistress enforced. Bending across the stool, Alesha's hands went down for the rung on the other side, bringing her head lower than her bottom. Her belly didn't touch the stool at all: there was easily six or eight inches of clearance.

"You remember well," commented Madame Quebera. She walked up behind Alesha and quickly raised the girl's gray skirt. Folded up so it tumbled down her back, it left Alesha exposed below the waist except for her sky blue cotton panties and white knee socks. The position was appropriately humiliating, and even before the pain, Alesha felt her face flushing with shame.

"I deserve this," she thought miserably. In her mind she saw her hand fling the palette at Kevin and watched again as it crashed into the startled face of Mrs. Wylert. She felt awful. She really liked the art teacher and hadn't meant to hurt her. But just because she deserved this punishment didn't make it any easier to bear.

There was a thin hiss and something sharp bit into Alesha's bum. In a fraction of a second the pain had blossomed from a prick into absolute agony. She felt like she'd been cut. She was positive she could feel her skin peeling back and bleeding. Somewhere deep inside her chest she heard a heavy, desperate groan emerge.

Another swish, and another. The pain was splitting now, dividing into several intense regions of pain. Alesha was having trouble concentrating. Her palms sweated and made keeping her grip a challenge. She wiggled slightly, arching her back and tilting her buttocks as if she could escape. It was a mistake. The next blow caught her awkwardly, at an angle, the tip of the cane cutting deep in the lower portion of her right buttock. The agony was indescribable. Alesha just closed her eyes and screamed.

It seemed like forever before she had calmed down. She was surprised there had been no more lashes. Did this mean the punishment was over? That was too much to hope for, but Alesha couldn't help but grasp at it desperately. She twisted her neck slightly, glancing over her shoulder. Madame Quebera wasn't there!

"I shall finish from this side," came the sturdy voice, and Alesha looked to her right, astonished to see the woman standing with the cane raised for a backhand blow.

Before she could react the cane flashed downward. It cut across her bottom, but the end wrapped around her left cheek, digging deep into the side. For a second, Alesha thought she could handle it. But as the rod lashed down again, she could feel the weal from the previous stroke puffing up. The throbbing was hideous. Alesha writhed, tears streaming down her face. She wiggled her ass mindlessly, lost in the torment.

Again and again the cane swished down. Each stroke left its indelible imprint across her flesh. Alesha was crying so loudly she didn't even hear the headmistress say it was over. Her first indication was feeling her panties being lowered as the woman examined the marks.

"Hmmmmm. Not bad, not bad," murmured Madame Quebera. "This one here, it was weak, but over all, not bad."

Alesha slowly raised herself up and stumbled off the stool. She could not believe the way her buttocks throbbed. There was a fullness to the pain that was overwhelming. It was by far the worst caning she'd endured. Even on the occasions when her father had caned her, it hadn't felt like this. Then only one buttock had suffered most prominently, but by switching sides the woman had ensured that the painful tip (which stored most of the kinetic energy of the blow) had succeeded in wealing both cheeks equally. It was a devastating punishment.

Standing in the corner with her panties around her ankles and holding her skirt up, Alesha felt as immature as a three-year-old. She sniffed and cried and felt sorry for herself, praying that no one would come in and see her like this. It was humiliating. Her bottom was striped raw and all she wanted to do was run to the bathroom and sob, yet instead she was forced to remain on display, her punished bottom the focus of attention.

"I am writing a letter informing your parents of your conduct and your punishment," said Madame Quebera after a few minutes of silence. "You will take it and have your mother or your father sign it and bring it back to me tomorrow."

This fresh horror was enough to penetrate Alesha's pain-fogged mind. "Oh, please, Madame! Don't make me tell my parents!"

"Of course you shall tell them. They have a right to know about your behavior."

"Oh, but Madame -- my father with thrash me! He has a rule that if I'm caned at school I am caned at home again! Please, Madame Quebera, you mustn't make me tell them. I've been punished enough. I agree I deserved it, and you thrashed me oh so well, there's no need for my parents to know. I shan't do anything like this again, I assure you!"

Madame Quebera studied the girl for a moment, as if considering the offer. Then she shook her head. "It's against school policy, I'm afraid. If I'm forced to use my cane, I'm obligated to let the parents know."

And nothing Alesha said could change the woman's mind. The afternoon passed with infinite slowness, with the girl standing on display in the corner, suffering silently as occasional guests entered and discussed items with the headmistress. She had nothing to do but focus on the throb of her buttocks, the monotonous click of the grandfather clock, and the impending thrashing from her father when she arrived home.

By the time the final bell sounded, Alesha had worked herself into such a state she knew there was no way she could endure another thrashing. By nature a good-hearted girl, she was unused to devious thinking -- but she learned quickly.

Arriving home she greeted her mother with a broad smile and a hug, and then went straight to her room, the note buried in her books. Sneaking out, she went to her father's study. In the bottom right hand drawer of his desk was box where he stored canceled checks. She fished through them until she discovered one written by her mother, which she pocketed. Back in her room she practiced for nearly thirty minutes, and then signed the deadly note so perfectly her own mother would have sworn it was legitimate.

At school the next morning Alesha silently presented the note to Madame Quebera. The woman eyed it briefly, and then spoke to the girl.

"Your father stripe you?"

Alesha knew she couldn't lie successfully on a rug -- she was born to tell the truth. So she blushed and stared at the floor. "No ma'am," she whispered. "He... he decided you'd done such a good job he didn't need to give me more."

It sounded lame, and the headmistress frowned, but didn't argue. Alesha quickly pressed forward her advantage. "But he said if I'm ever caned again, he'll take the birch to me!"

"Ah!" nodded the woman approvingly. "Watch your step then, young lady. You don't want the birch. It's like ten canes at once!"

Alesha gulped and looked appropriately fearful, and was promptly dismissed. By noon, she'd forgotten the note.

* * * * *

It was nearly three weeks later, on Tuesday evening, when Madame Quebera quite literally bumped into Mrs. Taylor at the local market.

"Oh, you're Alesha's mother!" she said, recognizing the woman.

"Madame Quebera! How nice to see you. I hope my daughter's not causing you too much trouble in school."

"Actually, since that dose of the cane a few weeks ago she's been a regular angel," laughed the headmistress.

"Cane? Alesha got the cane?"

Madame Quebera frowned. "Why of course! Don't you remember? For throwing the paint palette at Mrs. Wylert. I don't see how you could forget that!"

"Why, I don't know what on earth you're talking about," gasped Mrs. Taylor. "I never heard a thing about that!"

As it will do, truth will out, and Wednesday during maths clueless Alesha received a summons to the headmistress' office. Remembering all too well her last visit, she wasn't anxious to make another, but she couldn't imagine what it was about. She was stunned, therefore, to discover not only Madame Quebera waiting for her, but her own mother and father.

"Mummy? What's going on?" she murmured, a chill passing through her slender body. She was getting a horrible feeling.

"Your mother was just rereading my letter to her," the headmistress said. "You know, the one she signed after I caned you a few weeks ago?"

Alesha's stomach lurched and fell through the floor. She went weak and nearly collapsed on the floor. She grabbed a nearby chair for support, staring wildly between her parents and the head of the school.

"I... I--" she began, and then broke off into sobbing. She couldn't lie, and the truth was too difficult to speak.

"You're a forger and a liar, Miss Alesha," said the headmistress coldly. "Save your tears, for you shall need them."

Alesha looked up through blurry eyes to see the woman taking down her long brown cane and she nearly screamed except she was too frightened to do anything. She could only stand frozen and stare.

"This isn't happening, this isn't happening," she said over and over again in her head. But she knew it was, and that there was nothing she could do to change it. That was the most frustrating thing. If she could have reversed her forgery, not done the things she'd done, she'd have leapt at the chance. But that was the past and this was the present. And in a few moments in the future she'd be sobbing as that long, nasty can lashed down across her haunches.

"Remove your skirt and panties," ordered Madame Quebera. "This is going to be on the bare. Sixteen strokes."

Alesha was already trembling as she began to undress. It didn't seem real. Nothing seemed real. She was a good girl. She only got in trouble a couple times a year. How did she get here, naked, bent over a punishment stool?

Her parents stood in the corner and watched the preparations silently. Their faces showed no sign of mercy, no source of salvation. When Alesha looked pleadingly toward her father, he nodded slightly.

"Yes," he whispered. "At home. This Saturday."

Alesha shuddered, her mind whirling. A coldness crept into her belly. No father to save her -- he wanted his own chance to thrash her bare bottom!

She sighed. Her little escape was going to prove costly. Instead of evading one caning, she was gaining two. And these were going to be much, much worse!

The End

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