The Difference Between Student and Teacher

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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 Difference Between Student and Teacher

(*****, F/ffF, Severe, nc caning)

A teacher learns about life on both sides of the rod. (Approximately 5,906 words. Originally published 2006-08.)

The worry and weight on sixteen-year-old Pam Green's chest felt like she'd swallowed an anvil. She was having trouble breathing, her palms were dripping sweat, and each thud of her heart beating sent a jolt of reddish pain to her temples. Her slippery hands gripped the seat of the chair beneath her tightly as she closed her eyes and tried to block out the sound. It was so faint, yet she couldn't help but hear it distinctly, a muffled, distant "thwuck!" followed by a gurgled cry of agony.

The sound made Pam tremble, for she knew that it was the report of a long swishy rattan rod connecting at high velocity with the bared posterior of a teenage girl. The girl, in this particular case, was none other than Dana Johanson, a tall redhead of seventeen. It was Dana who'd encouraged Pam to come along, last evening, saying they wouldn't be caught, and Pam, the fool, had believed her. Thus her present misery was entirely of her own making, well-deserved, though that didn't make it easier to bear.

Pam tried to remember when she'd last been corporally punished, and couldn't. She knew she'd been spanked as a child, but the memories were vague images of redness and tears. All she knew was that spankings were awful, something to be feared and respected. She'd never understood the sometimes jovial approach to thrashings some of the girls had, like Elisha McKeller, proudly showing off her stripes in the showers last week. Pam had seen the grim marks and been horrified, shuddering with terror. She had strived to avoid such discipline by being obedient and responsible, and until now, she'd succeeded admirably.

The massive wooden door suddenly jerked open, startling Pam, who hadn't realized the punishment was over. How many strokes had she heard? She'd counted to at least six and there'd been more, but how many? She hadn't been paying attention!

Out of the office emerged a pale-faced, teary-eyed Dana. The older girl looked horror-struck, her teeth tightly gritted in a fierce effort to contain her emotions. She did not even glance at Pam or the secretary but scuttled right to the exit door and departed. As the door to the corridor shut, Pam caught a glimpse of Dana putting her hands to her backside and tilting her head back in a grimmace of suffering.

"You may go in."

Pam started, staring the secretary, an ancient shrimp of a woman, wondering if it was her who had spoken. The woman raised an arm and pointed a gnarled finger at the Headmistress' door and slowly Pam rose and moved, though she was scarcely conscious of it. At the doorway she halted, a terrifying vision greeting her.

Madame Gribet, a stocky woman of forty-seven, stood waiting. She was ominously dressed in her black robe and in her hands she gripped a long yellow rod. Poor Pam stood with feet rooted, her mouth ajar with astonishment at this living vision from her deepest nightmares.

"Come in and shut the door," commanded the voice a second time, a touch of irritation showing, and finally Pam managed to get her leaden feet moving and obey. She could not take her eyes off that long, vicious rod in the woman's hands, trying to imagine just how much it would hurt as it lashed across her bared rump.

"Over here. I want you to bend over the back of this chair."

Pam didn't move. Her legs wouldn't work. Her brain was frozen. Life itself had vanished from her being. She simply stood there like an empty scarecrow.

Madame Gribet frowned, anger darkening her face, but then her features softened as she realized the teenager was merely terrified. She shifted the cane to her left hand and held out her right, taking Pam's hand and guiding the girl forward.

"Come on, dear. It will be over soon. It won't be as bad as you think."

Pam could only stare, blue eyes wide with fear.

The Headmistress eased Pam into a sitting position in the chair, then turned a second around and sat across from her. She held the girl's hands in her own, the cane abandonned on the desk. "You've never been caned before."

Pam shook her head. "No ma'am," came the croaking whisper.

The woman gave a deep sigh. "I wish I didn't have to do this. You are a good girl, an exemplary student, and you've never even had so much as a detention on your record. But rules are rules, and you broke a big one. Going off campus without permission, at night no less." The head shook gently. "I've got no choice. It must be the cane. You understand."

Pam squirmed, but nodded dumbly.

"I am disappointed in you. Why on earth... ah, it was a boy, wasn't it."

Pam's cheeks flamed with shame and she stared at the dull carpet wishing she was anywhere but here.

"That does explain it. Perfectly natural. It's part of becoming an adult, my dear. We all do foolish things, every now and then, in the name of love. But... we also have to pay the consequences of such sins. In your case I'm afraid that means a touch of the rod."

Madame Gribet stood and picked up the cane. Pam was on her feet, her heart thumping so loudly she could hardly hear the woman. Like an automaton she got into position leaning over the back of the chair. The Head showed her how to place her hands on the seat, gripping the cushion from the sides, and spreading her legs so that her feet were securely planted.

Pam felt the fingers of the Headmistress as she raised Pam's skirt and tucked it into her waistbelt. A cool breeze tickled Pam's bare thighs and legs and she was embarrassed to be showing the Head her knickered bottom. But of course that was only temporary -- the strong fingers grasped the elastic waistband and drew the knickers down to mid-thigh, leaving Pam naked. The fatty cheeks of her bum hung open in the air, trembling with fearful anticipation of the doom about to descend upon them.

"Oh please ma'am!" gasped Pam. She knew her plea meant nothing, that it only showed her fear and weakness, but she couldn't help it. She desperately wanted to fall to the floor and grovel and beg for mercy, but some fragment of pride remained inside her and she didn't dare. Other girls took their drubbings without a murmur; she must be brave.

Then Madame Gribet was behind her, swishing that infernal cane through the air with the hiss of a serpent, and preparing the assault. "Ten strokes," uttered the woman sternly, and Pam nearly choked on her sobs.

TEN! Heavens, how would she bear it? She was only sixteen, a mere child, and she'd never been beaten before. Surely ten was unfair? "Please ma'am, couldn't it be six?" she pleaded. "It's my first caning!"

"I'm afraid that's irrelevant, my dear. Strokes are assessed for the crime, not your familiarity with punishment." The woman paused. "But I am being merciful. Your friend Dana received a full dozen. By all rights so should you, but I don't think you instigated this night run, so I'm only going to give you ten. They shall be full force and will hurt tremendously, but trust me: ten is much better than twelve."

It seemed a small difference to poor Pam, bent half-naked over the chair, but even two strokes less was at least something. Still her heart was filled with dread at the thought of ten strokes. She'd hardly known a girl to be beaten so many. Most girls got four or six. Angela Diamond had gotten eight, once, for that prank with the toilets, but ten?

Pam felt the cold wood of the rod tap lightly against her bottom and shivered. The rod went away and then it came back. When it returned, it was moving at high speed, and the intense shock as it lashed across the taut skin of Pam's buttocks was painfully loud in the confines of the office. Pam gasped, then heard herself screaming as a scalding fire bit into her bum. Her buttocks jerked and shuddered, jostling left and right as she danced in agony. Oh the pain was infinitely worse than she'd expected!

After the first few seconds where she could see nothing but red, sanity slowly returned. First she was aware that she could breath again, gasping in huge mouthfuls of sweet air. Then she could see, the delicate pattern in the seat cushion beneath her fascinating and amazing, as though she'd been blind for years and was suddenly cured. Life thrilled through her as she realized she was still alive. The pain was not so bad now. Behind, her buttocks steamed with heat that slowly cooled.

Then it hit her like a blow to the belly: with despair she remembered that the worst was not over -- that another stroke would shortly follow.

She was correct. After a suitable delay that only heightened the teen's anxiety, the cane snapped down again. This stroke seemed even more vicious, cutting deeper into the chubby flesh of her bottom. Her body reacted: limbs flailing, buttocks writhing, and her mouth open in screams of anguish.

There was another crack of hard wood against tender flesh and again Pam was convulsing as though trying to crawl out of her own skin. The pain was incredible. Three livid lines decorated her bottom -- only three -- yet the pain she'd endured was more than all the pain she'd cumulatively experienced in her entire life. How on earth was she supposed to suffer through seven more strokes?

The fourth sizzled in, lower yet, right into the sulcal fold between buttock and thigh, and Pam nearly went crazy with the pain. She was screaming and sobbing, but she didn't care if anyone heard. She was in deep torment and her rational mind was gone.

Again and again that ruthless rod cut into her buttocks. Again and again the agony she'd experienced seconds earlier was repeated. Over and over this happened. It was anything but boring -- every stroke was a fresh sensation, a new location, a pain that peaked still higher, a pain that seemed impossibly severe and impossible to endure. Yet she did.

Another sliced in, harder and crueler than the previous strokes, and Pam shook violently and writhed miserably trying to dissipate the pain. Her buttocks squirmed and shook like a puppy shaking off wet.

Behind, Madame Gribet watched with satisfaction. It was a good beating, thorough and hard, as punishment needed to be. "You may rise," she said, and she waited until, eventually, the command penetrated the teen's consciousness and Pam stood, weakly, her hands flashing to feel the corrugated flesh of her flogged buttocks. The look of horror that crossed Pam's face was priceless.

Madame Gribet laughed. "Some good marks there. You'll have something to show the others in the showers."

That remark stayed with Pamela Green forever. She thought of it now, thought of the entire unique experience, her first flogging, as she nervously waited for her meeting with Headmistress Ellington. She had the uncomfortable feeling she knew what this meeting was about.

This morning Pamela had caught Donna Horton stealing a book from the library. It turned out the girl had several overdue volumes and couldn't check out a new one until her fines were paid and she didn't have any money. "But I need this one, Miss. I've got a report due on Monday!"

The fault seemed relatively minor; after all, books were supposed to be taken from the library, and this was for schoolwork, not pleasure, and so Pamela had let the matter slide. By all rights she ought to have caned the girl or taken her to the Head for a thrashing. But Pamela vividly remembered her one and only experience with the cane and was reluctant to use it unless absolutely necessary.

The door opened and Headmistress Jana Ellington was not smiling. She didn't speak, merely gestured, and Pamela entered the office feeling very small, like that sixteen-year-old going to the Head for a caning, instead of the twenty-two year-old teacher that she was.

Inside, she sat in front of Jana's desk. The atmosphere was cold and grim, and Pamela grew more and more nervous. The woman didn't speak but merely sat, glaring. "H-head?" Pamela finally asked.

The Headmistress pursed her lips, moving them in and out, in and out, then finally spoke with a deep sigh. "I am extremely disappointed in you Pamela. I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

The announcement was so unexpected Pamela nearly choked. "Excuse me?" she gasped. "You're sacking me?"

"I have no choice. The Academy of Saint Lucerne is an old school with long-standing traditions and strict rules of conduct. That's for instructors as well as students, as we made clear to you upon your acceptance."

"Yes I know but--"

The woman held up a hand for silence. "What did I press upon you in this very office, when I hired you?"

Pamela's mind whirled. This wasn't happening. She was so proud to have landed a position at such an exclusive private school. The pay and benefits were excellent, especially with room and board included. Horrors, what would happen to her now, fired after just a month at her new job? No other school would hire her. She'd never be able to teach again!

"I'm waiting for an answer."

"Uh, I, uh... you said that as an instructor, I, um, represented a moral example for--"

"No no, not that. I told you something else, very important. Something regarding _discipline_."

Oh shit, this was about Donna! Pamela nearly bit her tongue. Her head fell forward with shame. "You said that discipline is the most important thing at St. Lucerne and it must never be mitigated."

"What else?"

"That leniency is for the weak."

"And what did I ask you?"

"If I was strong or weak." Pamela's face was pink. "I said I was strong."

"You lied to me."

"No, I--"

"Pamela, I know about Donna Horton and the library book."

"Yes ma'am."

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"No, it wasn't that, I wasn't even trying to hide it, I just thought--"

"Thought what?"

"She borrowed the book for a paper she was working on. I didn't think it so wrong."

"So stealing for a good cause makes it right?"

Pamela could hardly breath. Tears glittered in her eyes. She'd really screwed up. Now she was out, without a reference, without any savings. What the hell was she going to do?

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Ellington. I made a mistake. It won't happen again, I swear it won't!"

"Of course it won't, as you are terminated. If you hurry and pack, you can still catch the six o'clock bus to town."

Pamela stood, tears trickling down her face. "Please, can't you give me one more chance? I made a mistake, I screwed up. It won't happen again."

The woman watched Pamela for a moment, the silence deafening, but the teacher didn't dare interupt the older woman's thoughts.

"There is one alternative to dismissal," said the Headmistress slowly.

"Anything!" gasped Pamela. "I need this job, please."

"It's rare, but on occasion, we have chosen to discipline our instructors as we would our students."

It took several long seconds for the words to penetrate Pamela's brain. "You mean a caning!"

"If our students can take it, why not us?" smiled Headmistress Ellington. "Of course, as an adult, your punishment would naturally have to be more severe."

Pamela didn't have to think. Though she vividly remembered the agony of her previous caning, that was nothing compared to the indignity of being fired from her first teaching job and most likely never being able to teach again.

"I accept!"

"Are you certain?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Think about what you are saying. I will flog your bare bottom as though you are a student, except much harder and longer. Your crime is monumental as it goes against the very foundation of the Academy, so it shall be a most severe punishment."

"I understand Headmistress, and I accept."

The woman nodded slowly. "We shall see. I shall give you a chance to reflect and perhaps change your mind. In the meantime, let's have a little demonstration, shall we?" She pressed a buzzer on her desk and her secretary answered. "Sarah, please send for Donna Horton."

Pamela jolted when she heard the teen's name and she wondered what was going to happen. The Headmistress smiled at her. "Still concerned about little Donna? Tell me, Pamela, if you'd punished Donna as required by Academy regulations, what would have been her punishment?"

The teacher reflected. "That depends on whether I punished her for stealing or for violating library policy."

"Do you have proof she was going to return the book?"

"Uh, no. She said--"

"The criminal will say anything," snapped the Head. "Without proof you can only assume she was stealing."

Pamela sighed and nodded grimly. "Then that's twelve with the cane."

"Correct. However, because you failed to handle her crime promptly, her punishment shall be even more severe."

Pamela winced at this news, cursing her mistake yet again.

There was a buzz and Jana responded. "Yes?"

"Miss Donna Horton's here."

"Send her in."

The petite girl, age sixteen and looking remarkably like Pamela six years earlier, entered the room with a nervous and tentative step. "Headmistress?"

"You know why you are here, child."

"No ma'am." A nervous look toward Pamela Green.

"Isn't there something you wish to tell me?"

Another look. "No ma'am."

"Nothing you wish to confess?"

A sudden slump of despair. "Uh... yes ma'am." A long squirming pause. "I... borrowed a book from the library."

"Is that unusual?"

"I mean, I didn't check it out. I just took it. Without permission."

"You mean you STOLE it."

"Oh no! I just needed it for the weekend, for my paper. It's due Monday."

"You stole a book."

"No, I--" The girl's head froze as she looked into the gaze of the strict school administrator. "Uh, yes ma'am. I stole it."

"What is the punishment for stealing?"

All St. Lucerne girls were required to memorize school rules and consequences. Donna did not hesitate. "Twelve with the cane, ma'am."

"Miss Green here, she found you with this book."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yet you were not punished."

Donna's face was red. "No ma'am."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, ma'am. She let me off, ma'am."

"Was that proper on her part?"

The teen shook her head. "No ma'am. Leniency is for the weak!"

"Yet you accepted leniency. You took advantage of the naive mistake by a first-year teacher and did not turn yourself in for proper punishment."

Donna's head fell forward. "Yes ma'am. I'm sorry ma'am."

"Because of this, I am doubling your punishment. Twelve strokes now, and twelve more on Monday."

The girl's face was pale but she did not shy her gaze from the Headmistress. "Y-yes m-ma'am," she nodded. A hesitation, then: "T-thank you, ma'am."

"Very well. Fetch me a cane. Miss Green will do the honors."

Sweet Donna was obedient and brave, so unlike that frightened girl Pamela had been six years ago. What a fuss she'd made! Donna retrieved a stout yellow rod and handed it to Pamela with no expression on her face, then bent over a chair into the correct position, and said nothing as Pamela adjusted her skirt and lowered her knickers.

Beating that bare bottom was the hardest thing Pamela had ever had to do. The girl was so young, her skin so fair and smooth, and she seemed so small and vulnerable. But she took the strokes like a trooper. She writhed and gasped, hissed a few times at particularly hurtful strokes, and struggled especially after the ninth, but she remained in position and never once cried out or protested or begged. Pamela ached to go easier on the girl, especially as the thick ruby weals blossomed across her haunches, but she didn't dare with Headmistress Ellington watching so intently. Instead she thought of her own torment to come and made sure she beat Donna as harshly as she could.

Jana was pleased when Donna turned to show her the ruddy stripes. They were a dark and bluish, almost black on the right, the flesh grimly swollen and seriously tender. The thought of another twelve on top of those, even after a few days rest, was not pleasant. But Headmistress Ellington made sure to remind her: "Monday, five o'clock, for twelve more. And I won't be as gentle as Miss Green."

With a gulp Donna was gone. The Head looked at Pamela. "Well-caned. I see you can punish when motivated."

"Yes ma'am."

"Have you had time to reflect on your decision?"

"Yes ma'am... I'll take the punishment."

"It's going to be severe."

"Yes ma'am."

The figure studied the teacher for a moment. "How many strokes do you think you deserve? Remember, you're not a student, you're an adult."

Pamela thought about it. It was sickening. The ten she'd suffered at sixteen felt like it had half-killed her, yet she knew it had to be much more. Would twenty suffice? But little Donna was getting twenty-four, although in two doses. Surely Pamela deserved as much as her and most likely more. Pamela didn't like it, but she had to pick a number higher than the girl's.

"Th... Thirty."

Headmistress Ellington considered it. "That's a decent amount. It'd hurt a bit, I imagine. I'm pleased that you started out so high. But of course I have another number in mind. Care to guess?"

Pamela shook her head. "Please, Headmistress, have mercy."

"I like that you picked more than what I sentenced Donna. However, she's a student. She's not yet seventeen. You're an adult. You've got to have at least double her dose."

"Four dozen!" gasped Pamela. Her mind whirled. "Is that even possible?"

"It's more than possible, it's what you're going to get."

"But how will I endure it? I can't even fathom it! I got ten once, in school. I thought I would die."

"You're an adult now, Pamela. Children cope with pain differently. As an adult, you know pain won't kill you. It's just pain. You either choose to endure it or you don't."

"I guess."

"Now I don't like forty-eight. Why don't we make it a round fifty?"

Pamela felt weak in the knees. Six years ago she'd struggled with ten. Now she was about to face five times that? How could she do that? It seemed impossible, but what choice did she have. Her head fell forward. "Yes ma'am."

"So you're still taking the thrashing?"


"Fifty hard ones, on the bare bottom."

"Yes ma'am."

It was surreal. Pamela Green, a woman of twenty-two, stood nude from the waist down, preparing to offer her bare buttocks for a schoolgirl beating. At the Headmistress' suggestion, she'd just removed her skirt and underwear and the resulting half-nudity made her feel incredibly self-aware. Her buttocks felt so vulnerable and her insides shivery. Was she really going to do this?

She was, apparently. The chair was still warm where Donna had pressed against it. Pamela felt it against her belly and her mind drifted back to when she was sixteen and Madame Gribet had wielded the rod. Jana Ellington was in her mid-thirties, much younger and prettier than Gribet, and though she may not have possessed the senior woman's wirey strength, she appeared healthy and fit. Her expression was not unkind, but it was determined, and the long yellow stick looked just as fearsome in her slender fingers as it had in Madame Gribet's.

"You've got a broad, womanly's bottom," commented the Headmistress in a pleasant voice, as though telling Pamela she admired her oufit. "Plenty of meat for the cutting. I shan't worry about this too much: a rump like yours can certainly take four dozen or so. I may draw but I'll try to spread the cuts to keep the bleeding to a minimum."

"T-thank you, Ma'am," muttered Pamela, and she herself wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or not. Like Madame Gribet's "mercy" of just ten cuts, this token did not seem especially generous under the circumstances.

Jana hissed the cane through the air, testing it, ignoring Pamela's shivers of terror. "You're an adult now Pamela, so I'd appreciate it if you'd take this beating with decorum. It's going to hurt a smidge, so I can't expect total silence, but please, no screaming, I do have sensitive ears, and certainly no getting out of position... on pain of extra strokes. Am I making myself clear?"

Already Pamela was sweating. She gave a jerky nod, then almost shrieked as something hard touched her bare bottom. It was the cane, solidly tapping her bum as the Headmistress lined up the first stroke. Even the taps hurt slightly, jiggling the flesh and reminding Pamela how much more the full stroke would hurt.

Suddenly everything washed away in a blur of crimson pain. Echoing behind the cut was the dreaded sound, that attacking hiss and horrible "thwack" as the rod lashed into her buttocks. Pamela started and her mouth opened in a cry of protest, but she gulped it down somehow, gritting her teeth and silently absorbing the fierce sting. She couldn't control her body, however, writhing miserably, her naked buttocks dancing high above her bent back, a sizzling line of torment written across the rounded cheeks.

"One," muttered the Headmistress. The cane swished again. This cut was slighlty below the first, still into the middle of Pamela's rump. Her gurgled cry was strangled into a loud groan of protest.

Again and again the yellow rod swished. The crimson lines across Pamela's squirming buttocks blossomed and darkened, weals slowly swelling into discrete lumps of enraged flesh. Tears flowed from Pamela's tightly shut eyes and she writhed miserably.

It was awful, totally unpleasant, but the teacher found she could endure it. As far as she could tell it wasn't any less painful than her thrashing at sixteen -- every cut still made her want to jump out of her skin -- but her perspective was different now. As a child she'd felt lucky to survive the beating; now there was no question of survival -- it was merely a question of how to endure an unpleasant experience.

As the thrashing continued on past the ten she'd gotten at sixteen, on past twelve, then past fifteen, the cuts coming much too fast and much too slowly at the same time, she became aware of a new dimension of the torment. As a child the individual cuts were the punishment; as an adult it was total cumulation of the beating. That was why four or six strokes was fair punishment for a teenager. As an adult such a punishment would have been laughable, too quickly endured to provoke much long-lasting effect. Now the real torment was not the mounting sting of each fresh lash but the endlessness of a long, absolutely thorough beating. By twenty Pamela was already exhausted and close to breaking yet she was not yet half done! The knowledge that this discomfort would continue for a long time to come was quite distressing.

"Twenty-three," panted Jana, her breath coming in short gasps as she worked hard to deliver sound strokes of the cane. In front of her squirmed the impressively plump buttocks of Miss Green, the teacher moaning and shuddering constantly, her arse a criss-cross of dark red weals.

With a furious burst of energy the Headmistress quickly planted two more strokes in a blur of motion and then paused, setting the cane down on her desk and retreating to the sofa for a few moments rest. "We'll resume in a minute," she said gruffly. "Remain in position and think about what you've done, why you deserve this, and that we're only half finished."

Pamela whimpered slightly, but didn't dare move off the chair. She did wiggle, however, rolling from side to side and gasping lightly at the firey sensations coursing through her posterior.

Jana watched her in silence, a grim smile on her face. "You do have the most beatable bottom," she said with a sigh. "I can't say I'm not enjoying thrashing you. You wiggle so beautifully." She shook her head. "Some of these girls here, they're so thin, scrawny to the point of emanciation. No butts at all. I feel like I'm whipping a stick figure."

Pamela concentrated on breathing, missing some of the Headmistress' words but catching and marveling at the casual tone. It was as though the two were on a shopping trip in town or driving through the country. If someone only overheard the Head's voice they'd never guess that Pamela lay nearby across a chair back with naked, bleeding buttocks.

Finally, after ten minutes of respite, it was time for the beating to continue. Pamela had been dreading this yet desperate to get the punishment over with. She watched out of the corner of her eye, her heart thudding loudly, as the youthful Headmistress stood and stretched, then picked up the long cane again. The pain across Pamela's buttocks had cooled into mere discomfort and throbbing ache and the thought of that hard stick whacking into that wobbly ball of tenderness was not at all pleasant.

"Ugggh," grunted Pamela as the cane sliced heavily into her bum. The pain was twice as intense as before. The break had resensitized her bottom, and the cut on top of her pulsing weals was an agony too great to contemplate. Pamela could only groan in misery and pray the punishment would be over soon.

During the first half of the beating Jana Ellington had taken her time, carving up the buttocks slowly, waiting at least thirty seconds between strokes, drawing out the punishment. But now she applied the strokes in vicious sets of three or four, each cut mounting the pain higher and higher until Pamela was gurlging with choked screams. After each set the woman waited a full minute, greedily watching Pamela writhe, enjoying the frantic shuddering of the teacher's generous buttocks.

A pool of sweat, snot, and tears formed on the cushion beneath Pamela's panting face as she broke down completely into heavy, jerking sobs. As the beating approached forty she lost all control, howling and kicking, her body awkwardly dancing on the back of the chair.

But still the strokes continued, three vicious slices, then four. A horrific five in a row made her shriek out her pain. There were only three left and she knew these would be the worse of all. Jana lashed down with all her strength, taking her time with each cruel cut, Pamela grunting and gasping with each vigorous blow.

Finally it was over. Pamela's butt was heavy with thick, swollen weals, many a bluish-purple, and places where the tip had sunk in were black with bruising. Despite the generous acreage available for the lines, there was scarely any bare flesh left untouched by the stout cane. From the top of Pamela's ass-crack to the back of her upper thighs were steady streaks of red and purple. She had truly been well-beaten.

"There, you survived," commented the Headmistress.

"Barely," gasped Pamela. Her face was nearly as crimson as her buttocks, her eyes swollen and red, her makeup streaked and her hair seriously disheveled. Still, she felt a touch of pride that she'd come through, that she'd taken her punishment. Perhaps not with total dignity, but at least she'd been obedient about it.

Jana Ellington nodded to the door at the side of the office. "That's my private bathroom. Why don't you clean yourself up. You don't have to leave until you've composed herself. I'm assuming you'd rather keep this incident between us."

"Yes, thank you," sighed Pamela, and she meant it. She tried to stand and found her legs wobbly, so she held on to the chair and tried to regain her breath and her balance.

"As far as I'm concerned, this matter is closed. You made a mistake, you atoned for it, and the student in the matter has been and will be disciplined, so this is finished. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes Ma'am!"

"Good. There is one more minor detail: the stolen book. You need to return it to the library."

"But what about Donna's report?"

"What about it?"

"It's due on Monday. If she doesn't have it ready..."

"She'll be disciplined. So what?"

"But she's already scheduled with you at five..."

"So she'll get two thrashings. Pamela, did you not learn your lesson? Leniency is for the weak. It is not your job to coddle these girls, to keep them out of trouble. Your job is to provide them with strict rules and discipline when they get out of hand. Though it's cliche, Donna made her bed and now must lie in it. It's a problem of her own making."

A problem of her own making...? Pamela nodded. It was true. It was foolish of her, a teacher, to try and protect a foolish girl like Donna. The girl had weeks to do her paper and waited until the last minute. She had stupidly neglected her library account previously, racking up overdue fines. If such behavior caused her to steal or miss academic deadlines, then she would have to suffer the consequences of her own decisions.

"You are absolutely right, Headmistress Ellington," Pamela said with ferver. She reached a hand behind to boldly and obviously rub her scorched bum. "After all, a beating never does a girl any harm."

The woman grinned so widely she was almost laughing. "Well said, my dear! I think you've changed. I'm delighted you decided to stick it out and stay on."

Pamela nodded, pleased with the Head's praise, and headed for the bathroom. At the door she paused and turned to look at the woman straight in the eye. Her voice was steady with determination.

"I did learn my lesson this time, but I expect that if I ever need another, you'll be just as strict with me, Ma'am."

Jana nodded. "Absolutely. That is the St. Lucerne Way."

The whipped teacher gave a little shiver at the sternness in the Head's tone, but she was smiling as she disappeared into the private bathroom. Life for her had changed completely in the last thirty minutes, but that was for the better. Her bottom might suffer on occasion, but it felt good to be so loved and cared for. Discipline, Pamela decided, was just what she needed. Both as a student and as a teacher. Both to give and receive.

As she washed her tear-stained face, Pamela suddenly remembered a cheeky brat named Agatha Brown. The fifteen-year-old girl had been rude at breakfast this morning and blamed it on her period. Pamela hadn't said anything, but now she realized that was a mistake. This evening she'd find the girl and give her a good thrashing. Six, no eight. Eight solid cuts across Agatha's chubby bum. That would teach her. The pleasant thought warmed Pamela's newly cooled heart as she gently smoothed cold cream across her blistered bottom. She began to hum a little melody of happiness.

The End

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