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.
Snippet: The Choice
(***, F/f, Intense, schoolgirl caning)
Is it better to be caned over jeans or on the bare? That is the question. (Approximately 1,473 words. Originally published 1998-02.)
"Well? Which shall it be?"
Monica stared at headmistress in desperation, but the woman's face was as dispassionate as stone. Her eyes were cold and her stance imobile, arms folded across her stout body. Monica was only sixteen, but she could read body language well enough to know that she had no chance at changing the woman's mind.
She glanced at the long wooden cane lying nearby on the desk and shuddered. The thought of that rod striking her bare backside was more than she could stand.
"J-jeans, Ma'am," she whispered, still reeling at her fate.
"Very well," said the headmistress. She checked the wall clock. "Go and change and be back here in forty-three minutes, at four o'clock precisely. Do _not_ be late."
As Monica left the head's office and wandered the empty corridors of the school, she could not stop trembling. She wondered at her choice. She'd gained herself a few extra minutes, postponed the inevitable, but at what price?
Her belly quivered nervously. She was greatly relieved that she could wear her Saturday jeans for her punishment, rather than her short school dress. Several years ago she'd gotten the slipper from a teacher. It had only been six whacks, but it had been incredibly humiliating. The woman had led Monica into an empty classroom, bent her over a desk and lifted her skirt, and then taken down her knickers. Monica had been too astonished and too frightened to protest. She was so ashamed she had begun crying even before the first stinging smack.
No, Monica was grateful she was to be caned over her jeans. They were thick blue denim from America, one size too small and tight as a second skin. Normally she was excited by the rare opportunity to wear her jeans, but today there was a huge lump in her belly as she fished them out of the lower drawer of her dresser.
She'd never been caned before, but she'd seen the marks on Emily Postal's bum two years ago. That had filled her sleep with nightmares of terrible beatings. Often, when she emerged from the shower, she'd pause before the wall mirror and stare at her naked body, especially her big round bum, and wonder what the cane felt like. She could imagine the livid scarlet lines across her pale flesh and it terrified her. Monica had always felt subconscious about her bottom -- it was much too big, though lately she'd grown into it -- and any punishment that made her bottom the focus of attention both horrified and fascinated her.
As Monica undressed, she wondered if she dared to wear an extra pair of knickers. Surely the Head wouldn't check, would she? Then again, if she did, most likely the entire punishment would be given on the bare, extra strokes and all. Monica shivered and tossed the idea. There was no sense taking the risk. Knickers were virtually no protection anyway. The jeans would have to satisfy.
For some mysterious reason, today Monica's jeans seemed unusually thin. She could have sworn they had been thicker the last time she'd worn them. The tightness of the material only enhanced Monica's awareness of her bottom. As she headed down the hallway on the return trip to the Headmistress' office, other students were milling the halls on their way to their final class of the day and Monica couldn't help but notice how everyone she passed turned to stare at her waggling butt. There was only one reason a girl would be wearing jeans during school hours -- a caning from the Head. Monica did her best to be invisible.
Outside the Headmistress' office, Monica sat and waited. She was over fifteen minutes early despite her deliberate progress. At any moment she expected the Head to open the door and order her inside, but every time she checked the clock she was horrified by its slow pace.
Finally four o'clock arrived, but the Head did not emerge. Monica was trembling with nervous fear. Part of her hated the dreadful waiting, but neither was she eager to have her bottom whacked. The school had gone silent as students were all in class again, and Monica noticed every sound with terrible acuity.
"Alright Monica," said a voice suddenly, and Monica looked up to see the Headmistress standing in the open doorway. Trembling, she got to her feet and entered the office. The door closed behind her with an ominous thud. Monica stared at the long cane on the desk.
The Headmistress pointed to a small wooden stool placed in the center of the room. "Get in position over the stool and grab the crossbar with your hands," ordered the woman.
Monica obeyed. Her belly was lying flat on the seat of the stool, her hands grasping the bar at the base of the stool. Already her face was flushing with embarrassment. Her bottom was huge, and it stuck out saucily behind her. This was it!
The Headmistress went to her desk and picked up a large wooden paddle. Monica had not seen it before, and her heart fell at the sight. It was huge, the blade over thirty centimeters long and at least two centimeters thick. Her jeans weren't going to protect her from _that_!
"If you attempt to rise or release your hands for _any_ reason, I shall repeat your punishment again from the beginning. Is that understood?" The woman stood behind the teenage girl, who shuddered.
"Yes Ma'am," breathed Monica, desperately wishing this was over and done.
"Good. We shall begin with the paddle to warm you up for the caning."
The first stroke of the paddle was frighteningly loud but not very painful. Monica felt a surge of confidence. She was glad she'd exchanged the paddling for the jeans. The jeans gave her a strong sense of protection. She'd never have been able to lie still for a caning on the bare bottom.
By the fourth whack of the paddle, Monica was starting to feel it. Her bottom tingled. As the fifth and sixth blows landed Monica was surprised to find that the paddling was _hurting_. The heat was building into a tremendous ache and each stinging blow revived the old pain in addition to inflicting fresh torment. She wiggled her bottom and gasped for oxygen. Tears burned in her eyes.
"Oh God, please!" she thought after the tenth blow. She couldn't believe how much her bottom hurt. She had to really work to stay in position and not let go of the rung of the stool.
"Owww!" Monica cried at the next blow. Her bottom gyrated frantically, drawing a rebuke from the Head who told her to "settle down." Monica obeyed, tears beginning to drip down her cheeks as the last blow fell. It was definitely a corker, actually pushing the stool and Monica forward slightly. Monica gritted her teeth and moaned, her bottom throbbing miserably.
"Now the cane," said the impersonal voice of the Headmistress.
With her whole arse on fire Monica couldn't see what impact a cane could have, but she feared it nonetheless. She began to cry in earnest when she saw the Headmistress flexing the long stick. She prayed it was just going to be four strokes, though she suspected otherwise.
The first cut was low, at the base of her butt, landing with a meaty "thunk." Monica thought she'd pass out from the pain. It hurt. It hurt terribly. The stinging was insane. She couldn't imagine it could be any worse, but of course, it had to be worse on the bare.
The Headmistress wasted no time but gave Monica another cut, this one slightly lower, just above her thighs. The girl moaned and writhed in agony, but did not let go of the stool.
They came like clockwork -- a steady descent of vicious stings, all concentrated onto the same general area of her bottom. There were eight in all. Monica couldn't believe it. She'd never heard of anyone receiving more than six strokes. But she was too frightened to release the stool and correct the Headmistress' mistake. She wondered if she'd been given extra caning for wearing the jeans. The cost of the jeans was supposed to be just the paddling, but one couldn't read the Head's mind. She certainly brought the cane down hard.
"Alright, Monica. You may go to your class."
Slowly Monica got to her feet. Her bottom throbbed within the supertight confines of her jeans. She felt wobbly as she tried to walk. She ached to grab her bottom with her hands but didn't, waiting until she was alone in the dormitory, where she took several minutes to massage the raw flesh. She admired her bare bottom in the big mirror, noting with pride that her stripes looked much worse than Emily's.