The New Head

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2020 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.

The New Head

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

A teenage girl gets another severe caning from the new headmaster. (Approximately 1,940 words. Originally published 1999-09.)

Summer got to her feet slowly when the assistant signaled the Head was ready for her. With a deep sigh of resignation, she pushed open the heavy oak door.

Headmaster Shreaver was standing behind his desk, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. "Good afternoon, Miss Denny," he said calmly, his voice cold and devoid of any charm. "I see you have yet another appointment with my cane."

"Yes, sir," whispered Summer dully. She dreaded getting the cane. It hadn't always been this way. Old Headmaster Matterly had never made much of canings. The way he saw it, girls were bound to slip now and then, and a few strokes of the rattan to the backside always set them right. There was no need to cause a furor over a little discipline. Usually Summer would be in and out of his office in less than a minute. Granted, the strokes hurt like fire, but the process wasn't a tenth as bad as Shreaver made it. He drew it out forever, made it as humiliating as possible.

"I think you know the position," murmured the big man as he took down the four foot senior cane and flexed it into a large U.

Summer obediently bent over and reached down toward her ankles. She missed the way Matterly had always joked with her at this point, and asked about her family, especially her little sister (who had cerebral palsy). He genuinely cared about his students -- none of this formal I'm-the-teacher-you're-the-student crap that Shreaver loved. He never made you feel like an idiot for deserving a caning.

He also never -- except on the rarest of occasions -- caned on the bare. Head Shreaver, however, _always_ caned on the bare bottom. No exceptions. Even if you'd been sent for a minor two or three strokes. Summer could feel him lifting her skirt and flipping it over her back. The feeling of dread in her belly doubled as she felt his fingers digging into the waistband of her panties. She closed her eyes as the material was drawn down. Shreaver pulled the underwear to her knees, leaving her buttocks naked for the cane.

"How old are you, Miss Denny? Sixteen, isn't it?" murmured the Head as he stood back and studied the half-naked girl. Summer shuddered. She hated this.

"Such a big girl, aren't you. Growing into a woman. And yet here you are in my office again, bare bottomed and waiting for my cane. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, girl? Do you _like_ being thrashed like a schoolgirl?"

"Please, sir," begged Summer, her face burning. She just wanted this over with. Why did he have to taunt her?

"Fourth time this term, I believe. And according to my predecessor's records, you made quite a habit of having your bum whacked. Fourteen times last year, wasn't it? Now what did I tell you the first time I caned you this year?"

Summer swallowed hard. "You... you said you'd make my canings memorable, sir."

"And what did I mean by that?"

"That you didn't want to see me here every week. That my behavior had better improve or..."

"Or what, Miss Denny."

"Or I'd have an awfully sore bum, sir."

Shreaver nodded. "That's right, girl. And yet here you are for your fourth caning!" He swished the cane angrily and Summer cringed. "Prepare for a most thorough thrashing, girl, because this is going to _hurt_!"

Summer had no doubt about that. Her previous experiences with Shreaver had at least taught her that he was an expert at thrashing a girl. Unlike Matterly, who tried to get the caning over with as quickly as possible, both for himself and the girl, Shreaver drew out the punishment. Matterly could give a girl six of the best in less than a minute. Shreaver would never give more than one stroke in a minute. He said the body needed time for the pain to settle in before the next stroke landed.

Matterly always announced at the beginning how many strokes you were getting -- it was rarely more than six, occasionally eight, and usually a mere three or four. Summer had yet to receive less than six from Shreaver, and last time it had been a brutal dozen. But he never told her how many she was to receive -- it made staying in position a tremendous exercise in willpower.

The first stroke of a caning is always the worst. Your mind prepares you for the pain, but it's always far more than you expected. It's like the brain just can't remember such intense agony. Once you've suffered the first stroke, however, the rest is mere endurance, a continuation of that first sting.

Today was no different. The rod caught Summer full across the base of her cheeks, the tip digging deep into her right buttock. She could feel the weal swelling. She clenched her teeth and moaned, shaking her head violently. She hadn't wanted to show Shreaver how much it had hurt, but she couldn't help herself. That blow had been incredibly hard. Tears stung her eyes. Now it was time for the miserable wait.

"There, how's that feel, young lady?" asked the Headmaster in a jeering voice. "Stings, doesn't it? Well, you let that sink in good and proper. I want you to really enjoy that one. Think about how you can improve your behavior and stop ending up in this position."

Summer didn't say anything. Her mind was in a battle with her bottom. Her ass was roaring with a bright fire that threatened to engulf her entire being. Only her brain kept her in control, keeping her in position, her lips pressed tightly shut, her eyes closed as she suffered silently. Slowly the fire died down, never extinguishing completely, but allowing a sense of reality to return to the poor girl. It was like emerging from deep underwater -- suddenly she was at the surface and out, breathing fresh air again. Yet she knew she was going to be dunked under again.

The second stroke, coming so long after the first, was nearly as bad. It was high, far above the first one, right across the top of her crack. She could feel the skin splitting -- at least it seemed like that. The agony flooded down her cheeks and she wiggled vigorously, uselessly.

By this time in a Matterly caning she'd be in the lou, admiring her stripes in the mirror. For some reason, canings were always better when they were over. In fact, Summer had once concluded (to her surprise) that she enjoyed the feeling of a sore bum. It made one delightfully aware of that part of the body. When she walked down the corridors she loved the feel of her round bum waggling, the rough weals rubbing against her tight cotton knickers. When she sat in class, the dull pulsing pain in her arse kept her alert and awake, alive. It was the process of obtaining the caning that was miserable, especially from Shreaver, since he made it last so long.

Finally the third stroke came. It was hard, astonishingly hard, right across the middle of Summer's bum. She gasped despite herself, rising slightly. Her left hand slipped off her ankle for just a second before she bent back and grabbed it.

"Ah ha!" gloated the Head. "You know you aren't permitted to get up during a caning! That stroke won't count."

It was a dismal Summer that waited for the repeat stroke. When it finally came she nearly screamed. He'd placed it exactly over the previous one, repeating it literally. The double weal was pure hell. Tears poured down Summer's face. She wished for the thousandth time that old Matterly hadn't retired. He wasn't half as strong as this new Head. She could take six of his without blinking. But just four of Shreaver's and here she was, bawling like a child.

Matterly also never lectured. He wisely figured that the cane did the talking, and that a girl writhing in agony had more important things to concentrate on than his commentary. Shreaver, however, took the opportunity between strokes to deliver long, pointless speeches on the virtues of mortality and obedience, and the grim punishments awaiting naughty girls who didn't cooperate. The lectures rarely had anything specific to do with your crime -- they were general treaties on proper behavior. Summer hated those scoldings. Shreaver expected you to listen, often asking questions. If you didn't want a stroke repeated, you'd better know the answer.

"Bottom feeling hot?" he asked after a brutal sixth stroke. "That's what naughty girls get! Nice hot bottoms covered with juicy stripes! You don't lie, do you Miss Denny? Liars end up here, bent over in my office, earning scorching licks of the cane. And you don't want that, do you." He paused until Summer realized he wanted an answer.

"Yes, sir. I mean, NOOOO, sir! I don't want that!"

"Ah, that's good. I guess my cane is making an impression, then. We'll make these next ones even harder!"

Summer had dissolved into shuddering sobs before the tenth stroke. Her bottom was covered with horizontal of red welts. She was finding breathing difficult. She'd forgotten how horrible her last caning -- a dozen strokes -- had been. Had it been this bad? It didn't seem possible, and yet it was obvious she wasn't going to escape with less than a dozen. She prayed it wouldn't be more than that.

Slowly the agony continued. It seemed to poor Summer she'd been in the Head's office forever. Her back and arms ached from being bent over. Her body was drenched with sweat. Her arse throbbed unmercifully as she waited for the thrashing to continue.

Fourteen came and went, and then fifteen. The strokes were no longer parallel now. Shreaver angled them, crossing the previous weals. By this time, however, the pain was no worse than anything else Summer had endured. It was just more pain. Wouldn't it ever stop?

After four criss-crossed blows, two from each side, Shreaver delivered number seventeen across the backs of Summer's thighs. The girl wondered why she couldn't faint. The pain was hideous, and she knew he wasn't finished. He'd never stop on an odd number.

Sure enough, eighteen came, an inch below the previous. Nineteen and twenty were so low Summer knew they'd be visible when she wore shorts for games. She writhed and cried quietly as she waited for the next one.

But Shreaver was finished. The caning was almost over!

Summer listened as he walked back to his desk and put away the cane. He hadn't told her to rise yet, though she ached to do so. After several minutes of horrible waiting, he ordered her to the corner. She hated the corner, but it was better than more of the cane. She stood with her back to the room, holding up her skirt to reveal her thrashed buttocks. Her panties had fallen around her ankles and she shivered at her nakedness.

This time it was two hours in the corner for the teenager. Last time it had only been an hour. Shreaver seemed to escalate his punishments with each offense. Summer prayed that she'd never be sent to him again, but the pit in her stomach knew that she would. It was inevitable, like the tides or rising of the sun. Sure, this caning would keep her on the right track for a while, probably several months, but sooner or later her natural mischeviousness would get the better of her, and she'd find herself sweating in Headmaster Shreaver's office again.

The End