Snippet 04: The Woodshop

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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.

The Woodshop

(***, M/f, Intense, n/c paddling)

Talk about torment: a girl must exercise her woodshop skills by making a paddle for her upcoming punishment. (Approximately 950 words. Originally published 1997-06.)

Lana was in the woodshop again. She hated the woodshop. She wasn't very good with tools, and usually her projects came out crooked or cracked and her father made her start over. Today she was on her third try. She prayed it would work this time. She'd lost a whole Saturday to this project and didn't want to devote Sunday to it too.

With extreme care Lana slid the thick board into the table saw and began to cut. Her hands trembled as she moved the board along the blade, but she breathed a sigh of relief when the board emerged cut exactly as she'd planned. "Third time's a charm," she thought hopefully. Though she dreaded the inevitable outcome of her labors, she wanted to get this over with.

She brushed some of the wood particles off her arms and wondered if she was wearing the right clothing. Her pink tank top was flimsy and loose and allowed irritating pieces of wood and dust to get inside her bra. At least she wasn't too warm. Her legs were bare as she was dressed in a pair of old cutoff jeans that were two sizes two small. She couldn't wear them to school but in the workshop her father didn't mind.

Finishing the cuts with the table saw, Lana placed a bevel bit on the rotating saw and proceeded to round corner the edges of the board. A few minutes later she was drilling the holes -- six of them, each dime-sized.

Then she sanded the piece, making sure the surface was smooth and even. It looked like she'd done a good job this time -- the wood was strong and the cuts accurate. Two coats of varnish finished the work, leaving the surface slicker than snot, and Lana hung it up to dry. Her father would be home in a couple hours -- she hoped he would be pleased.

Lana was in her room when her father came home. He didn't say anything but simply knocked and opened the door. Lana sat up nervously, and licked her lips. She followed her father out to the woodshop.

"You did a good job," he said as he picked up her creation. It fit his hand perfectly, and he seemed impressed. "Even your varnishing is improving."

"Yes, sir," Lana said quietly, with no emotion. Her heart was fluttering and she felt weak in the knees. At her father's gesture, however, she obeyed, quickly unsnapping her shorts and letting them fall to her ankles.

"Now let's see how well this works, honey," said the man jovially. Lana shuddered and bent forward, extremely conscious of how her panty-covered fanny stuck out behind her. She placed her hands on her slightly bent knees and waited.

Rough, calloused hands grasped the edges of her underpants and she shivered as she felt them sink to her ankles. She felt helpless and vulnerable as she waited for the inevitable.

Her father took the paddle in his right hand and rubbed it with his left, admiring the silky smooth surface. Taking the paddle, he pressed it against Lana's naked rump. She held her breath as he began to polish her bottom with the flat wood. He caressed her ass all over, letting the wood glide across her cheeks and even between her legs, rubbing it against the insides of her thighs and letting the narrow thickness press against her sex. Tiny droplets of moisture dribbled onto the paddle and these he rubbed off on the undersides of her asscheeks.

When the first wallop came Lana let a cry escape from her lips. It was always this way. No matter how hard she tried she could never be silent on the first blow. It always came when her bottom was buzzing from the sensuous rubbing and the sharp sting always caught her like a douse of ice-water.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the paddle walloped her again and again. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. By six she could barely stand still. After the first dozen she couldn't stop sobbing.

"Not bad," said the man, rubbing the paddle with his hand. "You do good work when you concentrate, Lana."

Lana was past caring about the stupid woodwork -- her ass was throbbing. Worse, she knew the spanking had only just begun. Even as she thought this, she felt the paddle pressing against her rump again, rubbing lightly, as though in warning.

"No, please," she pleaded, but she knew it was pointless. The paddle lifted and descended rapidly, beating a drum tattoo on her ass. She quivered and danced, whimpered and cried, but there was no letup. The paddle walloped every inch of her rump, from the outside edges to the inner cheeks, from the thin top portions to the plump overhangs, every bit of skin was ignited and roasted, until Lana could barely breathe she hurt so bad.

Finally it was over. Lana spent twenty minutes in the corner, hands on her head and bottom bared, fidgeting and feeling profoundly sorry for herself. When her father returned and released her, she wiped the last of her tears from her eyes and accepted the paddle from him. Dutifully, though she could scarcely think, she took the black permanent ink marker and wrote "Spanked for lying. Saturday, Sept. 14, 1996, Lana Williams" in large letters across one side of the paddle. She gave it to her father who smiled at her. He climbed onto a footstool and hung the paddle on the wall next to the others, a wall of dozens and dozens of carefully crafted masterpieces of woodworking, each dated and signed, a wooden scrapbook of painful memories.

The End

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