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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(*****, M/f, Intense, paddling, caning)
You'd better decide quick, or you'll get it worse. (Approximately 487 words. Originally published 2000-06.)
"Hurry up. Which is it?"
Licking her lips, mouth dry, Carrie stared at the two horrible instruments. There was the big wooden paddle. It was heavy and thick, and every blow shook your body like an earthquake. It left bruises and stiffness for a week. You knew you'd been punished after a whacking with that thing!
The other choice was the slender rattan cane. She hated the cane. It was long and whippy and every stroke left searing welts that throbbed for days.
But of course it was only six with the cane, a dozen with the paddle. Which was worse? God, she HATED making these kinds of decisions.
She didn't look at him, but she could sense Mr. Kettle was boiling. How long had she been deliberating? She'd known about this punishment for two days. He'd expected her to arrive with her decision made. She still couldn't decide. The worst was that's all she'd thought about. Her classwork had suffered terribly. She even got slippered in Daubert's Biology class for not paying attention.
Mr. Kettle glanced at his watch and Carried sucked in air. He was about to burst -- she had to say something.
"How about neither one?" she said, half-joking, half-hopeful.
The headmaster's eyes swelled with rage.
"I mean, couldn't I be given lines or something? Please, sir!"
"That's IT!" roared the little man. "Since you cannot decide, it will be BOTH!"
Carrie went white as milk. "Oh, no! You can't!"
"We'll start with the paddle," said Mr. Kettle, picking it up off the desk. "Get in position."
"Yes! I'll take the paddle! I choose the paddle!" moaned Carrie, bending over the stool. She winced as her skirt was raised and her knickers lowered.
Then came the whacks, huge, hard blows that nearly knocked her off the stool. Her bum exploded with pain. It sizzled, boiled, steamed. And still the paddle kept slamming into her. After the eight or ninth she lost count and she lay there howling, until, miraculously, the whacking was over.
"Stay right there!" warned the headmaster, exchanging the paddle for the cane. "We've got six more to go."
"Please, sir!" sobbed Carrie. "No more! I'll be a good girl, I promise!"
But the headmaster was adamant. Carrie was pushed back into position, her bare bum high on the stool, and the teacher began to deliberately thrash her bottom. Carrie screamed at each stroke, writhing and kicking, but even in her agony, her body somehow knew that to rise up would be inconceivably worse.
When her bottom bore six parallel scarlet and purple weals, the headmaster allowed her to rise and dress. Her hands fondled her ruined bottom frantically and large tears dripped down her face.
"I take it next time, you will know how to make a decision?" asked Mr. Kettle.
"Yes, sir," choked out Carrie. She'd already decided to never egg a car again!