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.
(****, MF/?, Severe, nc caning, spanking)
A student reflects on how punishments feel. (Approximately 1,318 words. Originally published 2010-10.)
Time is relative, so they say. That is never more true than during a spanking.
I speak from experience. I get spanked a lot. I guess I'm a bit of a brat. I have a rebellious streak, and combined with a smart mouth, it seems I'm always getting whacked for something. My parents are super strict and they sent me to a private boarding school where corporal punishment is not only practiced, it's encouraged. So I get spanked. A lot.
I certainly don't enjoy spankings. They're quite miserable, during. Afterward, I'm just so glad it's over that one might even call it pleasurable.
But during the spanking I'm crying, writhing, panting, and praying the agony will soon be over. Yet in all the thousands of spankings I've experienced -- every single one -- I'm always shocked at the amount of time that has passed. What feels like hours was mere minutes. What felt like minutes passed by in seconds. It's really a bizarre phenomena.
I guess it's the opposite of "time flies when you're having fun." My version would have to be "time crawls when you're in hell."
Spankings are an elaborate procedure, of course. First there's the whole getting caught. That's where the alarm starts, that horrible pit in your belly when you think, "Uh oh. I'm gonna get whacked!"
Then there's the sentence. That's where your doom is announced and you're told, either verbally or via ominous action (such as a cane or paddle being procured), that you're going to be spanked and you realize that all hope is gone. It is at this point that time slows to a crawl.
Next is the waiting. This can range from seconds to days, depending on the situation. At school we have Saturday detentions which always include at least one tight caning in addition to hours of tedious busy work. It's horrible to know days in advance you've got a detention coming. You try not to worry about it but it's there, in the back of your mind, and if you get any other beatings in the meantime you're cringing with the knowledge that Saturday's sixer will be worse over fresh weals.
Sometimes the waiting is on your own time, like anticipating a detention caning, but even worse is when you're in the punishment area -- perhaps already prepped for punishment -- and you have nothing with which to distract yourself. This is when time grinds to a halt.
My father's a big fan of having me wait naked in the corner of his office for ten or twenty minutes (sometimes as long as an hour) in anticipation of the beating to come. Need I elaborate on how miserable an experience that is? I'm completely naked. The cane -- or paddle or leather strap -- is out in plain sight, mocking me with its presence. I cannot look at it yet I cannot get it out of my mind. It is there. Waiting. Laughing. Enjoying my torment.
Time crawls. I can feel every pore of my skin. I sweat. My breathing is ragged. I'm suddenly aware of hundreds of physical sensations I never noticed before. Tiny hairs on my arms tremble in a slight breeze from some unknown ventilation shaft. My throat is dry and aches. My feet hurt from standing, my back is sore, and my arms are as heavy as lead weights. A bead of sweat slowly trickles down my bare back. My skin itches in a dozen odd places, yet I dare not scratch. It's pure misery.
After hours and hours of this, my father enters. Or perhaps I'm at school, in the duty chamber, strapped to a punishment bench and Miss Lily, the Chastiser, has returned. Either way, it is now time for the real punishment to begin.
The beating, of course, proceeds slowly. There's no point in rushing it. There's plenty of time. After all, time has slowed to glacier speed. More than enough time for me to savor each and every licky stroke. I'm not quite fully grown yet, but my hips are broadening and there's plenty of buttock to work with. My arse can easily take a dozen with no overlap, though rarely am I chastised so mildly. Might as well draw out the strokes and take as much time as possible, make sure I thoroughly appreciate each and every cutting stroke.
The agonizing slices cut in wickedly, fiercely stingy, and cause me to squeal and rock and writhe violently. At first I think I can bear it. It's not quite terrible, yet. But as the strokes descend the pain builds, and soon I'm in living hell. The sickening pain quickly overwhelms my senses. I forget everything, who I am, why I'm there, who's in the room watching me. I forget my modesty, forget my shame. I cry, scream, moan, and struggle to stay in position. All I know is agony, pure agony, filtered through the thousands of nerve endings across my plump, sensitive buttocks. I can feel the weal swelling, pulsing with life as it grows across my bottom.
This is where time plays a strange trick. Here, in the midst of endless agony, where time seems to stop completely, time, at the same time, passes quickly. That's right: time passes both slow and fast during the same moment!
For instance, I'll get a tight cut of the cane. It feels like it has cut me right in two. It's right across the middle of my bum and it's just hell, eating and burning into me, a line of living fire. I writhe and moan, perhaps yelp a bit, and I wiggle my rump as much as I can to try and throw off the sting. Eventually, after a long minute or two of torture, the sharpest intensity of pain subsides. I can breathe again.
All this, from my miserable perspective, takes a good while. At least a minute, maybe several. I can feel the seconds ticking off like slow drops from a leaky faucet.
In reality, of course, this whole process takes just seconds. The cane swipes through the air in a blur and the purple weal pops up and swells in a few heartbeats. My mind knows that. And of course, the dreaded next stroke always comes too soon. So on the one hand time is crawling and the agony of the pain is prolonged, yet on the other it seems to flash by much too quickly as further pain is applied.
This miserable state of being -- endless agony -- lasts for a long while. Depending on the chastiser's style, type of punishment, and severity of beating, there may be short breaks during the whipping to ensure that you're fully aware of everything that's happening to you. They don't want to overwhelm you, of course, as that would preclude the purpose of having you experience the nightmare.
I've had whippings range from five minutes to an hour or more. Either way, it seems to last forever, and it's always too much.
And then, suddenly, it's over. It's like the sun bursting out from behind dark gray clouds. There's a gush of relief. Suddenly I'm aware of all sorts of physical sensations I'd been ignoring. I realize I'm panting heavily, I'm drenched with sweat, and that I'm exhausted. I can scarcely believe my good fortune, that I survived, that I'm still breathing, and that though my buttocks are screaming, I don't quite feel dead. (In fact, I feel quite the opposite: tremendously alive. There's something about a sound spanking that reinvigorates and revives. I'm never more alive than right after a tight thrashing.)
The punishment is over. Time resumes its normal pace. I look at the clock and I'm astonished. Fifteen minutes? That's all? I would have sworn I was in there for an hour, at least.
But that's always the way it is. Time plays tricks on us. Especially during spankings.