Night Visit

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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.

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Night Visit

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

A schoolgirl visits a professor for an evening of intense discipline. (Approximately 4,298 words. Originally published 2004-01.)

I wore my favorite mauve and white pajamas, hoping they would bring me luck, though I knew my situation was about as hopeless as it gets.

What I really needed was a suit of iron armor, not flimsy PJs. But of course, it really made little difference: I doubted I'd be allowed the luxury of keeping the pajamas on very long.

I rapped on Professor Knorr's door, my heart thumping louder than my knock. He made me wait, of course. I could hear faint sounds of movement so I knew he was there, but he wanted me to sweat. I knocked louder, and after a long pause, again.

Finally, he opened the door. "Ah, Nina! You are here for your thrashing."

He said this pleasantly, as though it was nothing more ominous than a student arriving for tea. His mild manner was designed to throw me off guard, relax me, lull me into a false sense of security. It did not work. I'd visited Professor Knorr before.

"Yes, sir," I said submissively, bowing my head and entering.

"Very well," he said, shutting the door behind us with a heavy thud. "Fetch the cane, please."

My heart felt squeezed by an invisible hand. Like a mindless machine, I obeyed, walking to the cabinet at the far corner and retrieving the medium cane. This one would hurt terribly, even through that suit of armor. Against my bare skin it would be hideous.

"Desk," was all he said when I handed him the rod.

I bent across the desk, stretching and rising on tiptoe to reach the other side. My bottom bulged as I bent and I shivered in fear. I felt thankful he hadn't ordered me to take down my pajama bottoms, but perhaps he had forgotten, or maybe wanted to do it himself. It wasn't like it made any difference, though: he was using the medium cane.

I heard a slight whistle and then the cane cut into my backside. The sting was horrible. I gasped and clenched my teeth. It felt no different from a bare bottom caning.

Dimly I heard a snapping sound and fresh pain flooded my arse. It was horrible, but somehow I managed to stay in position, gripping the opposite side of the desk.

Again and again the cane swished down, each stroke leaving my buttocks stained with a plump crimson weal. He gave me six, all excellent strokes, and then ordered me to rise. He handed me the cane and I quickly, eagerly, rushed to return it to its case.

"Bring the slipper back with you," he said mildly, and my hopes of a quick thrashing were dashed.

"Yes, sir," I said, picking up the ugly black plimsoll. When I turned around, my quivering buttocks throbbing a dull ache, he was seated on the sofa. I walked and handed him the slipper.

He nodded at my pants. I knew what he meant and carefully drew them down. I looked at him. He patted his lap. Apparently, I got to keep my knickers, at least for the moment.

I went over his lap obediently, my slight body dwarfed by his. His large hands guided me into the correct position, one with my back arched so my bottom was the highest point of my body. His fingers grasped the waistband of my underwear and with a sudden tug, my bare backside was exposed. He drew my knickers to mid-thigh and left them, an embarrassing reminder of my nudity.

But my nakedness, while troublesome, was the least of my worries. If all he'd wanted was to see my bare arse I would have been more than happy to oblige. Unfortunately, Professor Knorr wanted to see my bare arse turn scarlet as he smacked it. With my rear already sore and covered with stripes, a thorough spanking was certainly not at the top of my list of things I relished.

But that was what I got. Professor Knorr was nothing if not efficient, and he proceeded to give me a most professional whacking. He spanked with the vigor of youth yet with the expertise of an old man. It was a devilish combination.

Like most academy girls, I did not want to appear weak or childish, so crying at the spanking stage was strictly off limits. But I must admit, with Professor Knorr in control of the situation, it was most challenging for me to remain impartial. I gritted my teeth and thought desperately of the most unrelated things I could: my cat, Sir Speedy, at home with my folks; Ellen and her boyfriend, Don, whom I secretly coveted; ice cream, piles and piles of ice cream.

Unfortunately, every topic always returned to the steadily rising heat of my backside. Instead of eating the fantasy ice cream, I found myself sitting in it, feeling it ooze between my legs and loving the frozen iciness. In my imagination, Sir Speedy hissed and clawed at me, his claws leaving painful weals across my bum. And when I thought of Ellen and Don, I thought mostly of Don, of him watching me being spanked, of him admiring my pink quivering bum. To my horror, he could even see between my legs as I wiggled!

The leather slipper felt heavy and solid as it flapped against my skin. The Professor knew just which portion of the slipper had maximum impact and every few smacks he gradually moved the slipper to a new spot, thus ensuring every part of my bottom felt the peak of the leather. My buttocks swelled and tingled and throbbed something awful. I lay helpless across his lap as he rolled me toward him or away from him, or pressed his palm down on the small of my back, all to enable him better access to my vulnerable backside.

The pace of the spanking varied. Sometimes he spanked hard and fast, sometimes more deliberately. It kept me at odds, constantly uncomfortable, and all the more conscious of the swelling heat of my rear. How long this lasted I'm not exactly sure; after a while it seemed hazy, like a torturous dream, but it must have been at least twenty minutes. When he finally stopped and allowed me to stand, I felt drained and weak. He sent me to the corner to kneel with my pajamas and underwear pulled down to keep my ruby bottom exposed.

Corner time was miserable. I had nothing to do but think about how the corner pad had been worn so thin by thousands of girls in my situation that it was almost as bad as kneeling on the bare wooden floor, to feel the cool air on my bottom and cringe at the ceaseless throbbing, and to dread the continuation of the punishment and imagine that the worst was to come.

After about a half an hour, when my knees were hurting almost worse than my butt, he ordered me to stand. I got up gratefully, though my belly felt the ominous weight of further punishment.

"Are you learning your lesson, Nina?" asked Professor Knorr.

"Yes sir," I nodded meekly. In this situation it was best to be humble and obedient (unless I wanted another visit tomorrow night).

"You may pull up your pants," he said, "but don't assume your punishment is even close to being finished. I am quite perturbed by your attitude in class lately, young lady: you can expect a severe lesson tonight."

My heart felt heavy and slow, and my stomach nauseous. I bent and tugged my pajama bottoms up. As the cloth slid over my buttocks I clenched my teeth at the sharp pain.

"Fetch me the small wooden paddle," came the command, and I obeyed immediately, my belly twitching as though I'd eaten a live animal.

The small paddle was a heavy four by eight board with a short handle. It was designed for paddling one cheek at a time, designed to bruise and produce serious soreness. It wasn't as devastating as the big frat paddle, but it could be used for a longer period of time.

Professor Knorr had me bend and touch my toes. He gave each buttock six whacks with the small paddle, alternating cheeks after each wallop. Tears stung my eyes as I struggled to stay bent over.

Then he began again, this time with six each to the back of my thighs. It was all I could do to not start screaming.

"Rise. Place your palms flat on the desk and spread your legs wide apart."

I obeyed, though I greatly feared what was to come. Sure enough, a hand pushed against my back to lean me forward, and the paddle smacked the inside of my left thigh.

"Oh!" I exclaimed.

"Quiet," scolded the professor, and the paddle landed again on the same spot. I gritted my teeth and held on as the wooden board spread fire along the inside of my leg. After six stingers, he switched hands and used the paddle in his left to paddle my inside right thigh. I had to be cursed to have an instructor who was ambidextrous.

Then Professor Knorr did something novel and unexpected. He pulled out a short wooden stool and placed his left foot on it. He pulled me across his bent leg, draping me so my butt was high and exposed. He dragged my pajamas pants and panties down.

I felt ridiculous, but I was in no position to complain. The paddling that followed was brutal and hideous: he showed my ass no mercy whatsoever, and just whacked the shit out of me. I have no idea how many times he hit me: surely dozens and dozens, though it felt like more.

It was during the first of this assault that I lost it: I began to weep. I made no noise, but I couldn't stop the tears. They just flooded out of my eyes like a faucet had been turned on. Dangling over the stool, my tears dripped and splashed across the wooden surface. As the paddling got worse and worse, I moaned and wiggled my ass the little I could, trying to ask Knorr for mercy.

It didn't work. He gave me the full amount he'd intended (whatever that was), and then I was back in the corner, my bare ass throbbing and my eyes still dripping.

While I was kneeling there feeling miserable, Professor Knorr came over with something to make me feel even worse: he handed me a heavy leather strap to hold. I'd been strapped a couple times before, so I knew what to expect, and that certainly increased my depression. But there was some small comfort in at least knowing what was coming next. Far worse, for me at least, was the unknown. At least now I could mentally prepare.

The strapping quickly proved to be the worst of the evening's punishments so far. Professor Knorr led me to another room. It appeared to be a guest room, with a spare bed and a chest of drawers. But along one wall was a punishment bench, a wooden device that was a cross between a camping cot and a piano bench. A thin cloth mat lay on top, and there were ominous straps at each corner and at the middle.

"Remove your clothes," said the professor.

I didn't argue or even ask if that meant I got to keep my undergarments. In a few seconds I was completely naked. Perhaps I should have been embarrassed, but I was far too frightened by what was about to happen. Naked, I lay down on the bench, my bare ass sticking up vulnerably and making me wonder how much more it could take.

"No, on your back."

Puzzled, and even more intimidated, I rolled over. Professor Knorr knelt beside me and fastened a strap across my midsection. Then he stood and drew my legs toward my head, bending me in half. It was difficult to breathe, bent in half like that, but I didn't say anything as he tied my ankles to end of the bench above my head.

This position felt even more ridiculous than across Professor Knorr's leg! I was bent so far over my hips were lifted off the bench, my butt sticking out in an obscene moon. My sex hung open and exposed just below my face: there was no hiding anything. But once again I was too afraid to blush.

Professor Knorr stood over me holding the long leather strap. It was several inches wide and heavy, perhaps a yard long. I'd had my hands strapped once, and my ass a couple times, but never when my ass was freshly caned, slippered, and paddled!

I could watch the professor clearly above me as the unrolled the strap and prepared to strike. It was extremely intimidating. The first blow was full across my left thigh and it felt like it took the skin off. I nearly cried out. My eyes watered furiously. It was horrible, but there was nothing I could do: I could scarcely move.

I honestly don't remember much of the strapping, except that I cried the whole time and it was a horrible, horrible, _horrible_ experience. Professor Knorr worked on my thighs for a long time, lashing the tender backs and insides until they were scarlet and welted, and then he concentrated on my ass. I had thought my ass was pretty well beaten, but now the skin was taut and the cheeks were spread, exposing fresh, extremely tender flesh. The leather tongue found its way into nooks and crannies I didn't even know I had.

I don't know that Professor Knorr intentionally sought to whip my sex, but he couldn't help but get close, and the stinging in that area turned me into a quivering, sobbing mass of organic material. I couldn't speak or even think, just lie there and stare at that nightmarish strap descending again and again, licking at me with fire and pain.

Finally, it was over. Professor Knorr stood there rolling up the strap and smiling down at me. "Stay here and rest for a while," he said calmly, as though I wasn't a sobbing, naked, throughly-whipped teenager bound to a wooden bench. "I've got a caning to administer."

It was several minutes before his words completely registered. I'd gotten a chill when he said "caning" and I think I thought he'd gone to fetch the cane. But then I heard the doorbell ring and a new fear entered my chest.

I heard vague voices, then soft footsteps. There was quiet for a few minutes, and then, suddenly, the unmistakable swish and crack of the rod. It was very loud; my belly seized at the sound. Whoever was receiving the punishment must be in agony.

I could do nothing but lie there and listen to the thrashing in the other room. Professor Knorr was certainly working hard. Every crack was like a gunshot. After a dozen, I heard a dull moaning and feminine sobbing. I wondered who was his victim, and what she had done to deserve such a beating. It didn't stop after a dozen. I counted eighteen, but still it continued. Twenty, twenty-two, and finally stopped at twenty-four.

My blood felt chilled just thinking about that. Was that what was in store for me? Surely not! Yet the sinking in my belly told me that was a very real possibility. Professor Knorr was very irritated with me, and the little "six of the best" he'd started my evening's punishment with seemed like a distant memory. No doubt I had a caning coming; I just hoped it wasn't as severe as the one I'd just heard.

Suddenly Professor Knorr was there. He carefully unstrapped me and helped me to my feet. I was dizzy and a bit wobbly. My whole body ached. I leaned against the professor for support, forgetting my nudity completely.

"Are you ready for your caning?" he asked gently.

I gulped. Against my better judgement, I decided it was time for some pleading. "Oh, please, sir, I've had enough. Really!"

He frowned. "I don't think so, Nina. You've taken your punishment well so far, but I am very disappointed in you and I intend this evening to be one you'll remember for the rest of your life. Prepare yourself. Come into my study when you are ready." His eyes briefly traveled down my naked body. "Come as you are."

It was agony! He had given me no timetable: I could go in for my caning whenever I wanted. Of course the longer I waited the worse it would be (at least psychologically) and the harder it would be to get myself going.

I told myself I needed to go immediately, before I lost my nerve, but first I needed to catch my breath. I analyzed my condition. My buttocks and thighs were a mess. They were covered with welts and there was some bruising. Tomorrow I'd look even worse. Everything hurt, especially when I moved. Still, it felt better to be moving, so I did some stretching exercises, ignoring the pain it caused me, and I felt better afterward.

Ten minutes passed, then suddenly a half an hour was gone. I stared at the clock and told myself to go, but my feet wouldn't move. Finally, at a quarter till, I couldn't put it off any longer. Instinctively I knew if I waited I wouldn't go at all, and who knew what the consequences of that would be. Unthinkable.

I walked out of the room and down the hall. I was naked, in a teacher's home. I felt the tiniest shiver of sexual excitement. The door to the study was ahead of me, a bright triangle of light thrown from the doorway. I hesitated, took a deep breath, and moved forward.

At the entrance I stopped. Professor Knorr sat behind his desk, quietly marking papers. He must have sensed me, for his eyes went up and he smiled.

"Ah, Nina! You have finally decided to take your thrashing."

I nodded, unable to speak. It was then that something attracted my attention at the edge of my eye. I turned and froze in shock.

On the corner pad knelt a young woman. She was dressed in pajamas, like I had been, but just like me, her bottoms had been taken down to expose her bottom. She turned slightly, as though to see me, and I recognized Darlene, a senior girl. Her faced flushed when she saw me. I didn't know her, though I'd seen her. She was extremely pretty, with the voluptuous body of a goddess.

"Head away, Darlene," drawled Professor Knorr calmly, "unless you'd enjoy another dose." Immediately Darlene looked back at the wall.

But I could not take my eyes off of _her_. Her buttocks had been severely caned. In fact, I'd never seen such a severe thrashing. The tramlines from the cane weren't crimson like I was accustomed to seeing. These were black and purplish, horribly swollen at the ends, where the tip of the cane left its most violent impression. In places the ridges crossed each other and the skin was nearly broken, with dark red blood just brimming below the surface, ready to burst at the touch of a feather. It looked so awful I found myself crying just looking at it.

"Would you like to examine her more closely?" asked Professor Knorr.

I hesitated, shocked, then shook my head.

He smiled. "Please, I want you to see the results of a senior caning up close. Go kneel beside Darlene, study her bottom. You may touch her." Still I hesitated, but then he said sternly, "Do it. I _insist_."

I knelt beside Darlene. I'd seen cane marks countless times; it was a school tradition to show off your marks after punishment. But of course I'd only seen girls in my class. That seniors, who were punished so rarely, went through something this severe was a shock to me. These marks looked like they'd take weeks to fade.

"Touch them," said Professor Knorr. "Feel what you'll be feeling in a few minutes."

I whirled on him, eyes wide. He nodded. "Yes, I'm going to give you the same senior caning I just gave Darlene. Perhaps that will teach you to behave."

I stared at the bottom in front of me, tears in my eyes. I was speechless, frozen. All I could do was look at the ravaged bottom before me. I admired the sexy curves, the soft skin, the mature pouting lips peering between the plump cheeks. Did my bottom look like this? Darlene was so pretty, her bottom so sexy, and yet it was now crisscrossed with heavy cane marks.

Without even thinking about it, my hand reached out to gently touch one of the weals. The ridge was distinct and prominent. Heat poured from the sore buttocks. I pressed my palm against the steaming skin and felt Darlene tense, though she didn't say anything. Her bottom was big and round and firm. The heavy weals felt like some kind of braille writing: what was their indecipherable message?

I noticed that the worst of the strokes were on the left buttock: the stripes on the right were merely red, while those on the left were black and blue. I decided this was because Professor Knorr had stood on Darlene's right side to whip her. The tip of the cane, which held most of the energy, had connected across her left buttock. A few of the strokes had gone past her cheek and wrapped around nearly to her front. I carefully counted: all twenty-four strokes were easily identifiable.

And this was to be my fate? To have my own buttocks thrashed purple like this? Oh God! I trembled and felt sick. I looked at Professor Knorr and he was back behind his desk.

"Whenever you're ready," he said, and it was like he slapped me.

Slowly I rose. I blinked back the tears and nodded. "Yes sir," I said, and I went to the cane rack and took down the long yellow senior rod. He smiled when I handed it to him.

"Think you can remain in position or do I need to tie you down?"

Pride forced me to answer: "I'll do my best to stay down, sir."

He nodded and pointed to the short stool. I bent over and placed my palms on it. I set my legs wide apart for balance. I took a deep breath and waited.

Professor Knorr went behind me and began swishing the cane through the air. My bare bottom stuck out behind me, waiting. I shivered, feeling dread in my belly.

How could I possibly endure this agony? But then I knew Darlene had just lived through it, and so would I. At least I hoped so.

There was a harsh swish and my right buttock exploded in agony. The stinging was fierce, much fiercer than anything I'd ever felt. My mouth opened and a bizarre, strangled cry emerged. I bit my lip to keep from screaming and wiggled my ass frantically, trying to make the pain go away. Instead the pain kept going deeper, burrowing into my bottom, moving from a sting into an ache.

I thought back to all the canings I'd received over the years. The pain was similar, just worse. More intense, deeper. There was a rawness to it that horrified me. It was like this was real and all the other canings I'd received had been for play. This was _serious_.

I swear I aged ten years during that caning. I went in to Professor Knorr's that night a young girl and emerged a woman.

I'd always thought canings were bad, but during that caning I realized I'd never been truly caned before. Though I hadn't enjoyed them, in a sense they _had_ been pretend. They had hurt, and left welts that lasted a few days, but those mild welts had never horrified me: I'd taken pride in them, shown them to the girls in the shower so they could see how tough I was. Now I was being beaten: properly beaten, the way an adult was beaten. This was a caning that bruised and cut skin, that possibly left scars. This was a real adult caning, my first, and even as I suffered, I felt maturity descending on me. If I could take this, I could take anything.

The beating lasted a dozen strokes. Every one was a classic, memorable in its own right. I sobbed and clutched at the stool with all my strength, willing myself to stay in position. Professor Knorr didn't drag it out, but gave them to me quickly, one right after the other, with only about thirty seconds between each stroke. (That sounds like a lot of time, but I was in so much pain that it seemed like every time I took a breath the next one came down.)

Then Professor Knorr switched sides and carefully gave me a dozen more from my right side. The tip of the cane left matching imprints on my left cheek, and in the end, both buttocks were similarly bruised and wealed.

I was excused and sent to use the bathroom and shower, and Professor Knorr told me I'd be spending the night in the guest room.

It was while I was in the shower that the significance of Professor Knorr's left-right switch came to me. Once again, I heard the distant crack of the cane across bare flesh and I realized with horror that Darlene's punishment wasn't over: he'd only properly marked her left cheek and needed to duplicate the feat on her right.

It was only fair.

The End

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