The Princess

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2020 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 Princess

(****, M/F, Severe, semi-cons punishment caning)

A woman learns the duty of being married to the prince. (Approximately 1,893 words. Originally published 2010-04.)

"We will make this a formal punishment, my Lady," I said. "Just like in school."

Her pretty face was hardened and tense, the jaw muscle working as she chewed her lower lip. She nodded curtly, a polite acknowledgement of my words, but did not speak.

"How long since your last correction?" I asked.

"Three years ago. I was at university then."

"You understand that this will be stricter? You are royalty now."

"Yes sir."

I showed her the sinewy yellow rod, lethal in length, and as thick as my thumb at the grip end. She paled and licked her lips, her blue eyes brimming with silent tears.

"You will stand in the center of the room and touch your toes. You will remain still and in position. Getting up or moving will invalidate the stroke. Excessive movement will earn penalty strokes. You will call out the count of each cut in a loud, clear voice. Failure to do so before the next stroke will mean that stroke doesn't count. Strokes will come precisely at four per minute, so keep up or they won't count. If you miscount or count an invalidated stroke, I will assume an attempt to deceive and we will resume the beating from the beginning. Are my instructions clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Then prepare."

She was wearing a light pink top and gray slacks. They were attractively tight across her trim body, especially across the fuller bulge of her backside and curve of her hips. The material was thin and would not protect much. Her fingers hesitated at the waistband.

"Could... couldn't I keep my trousers on?"

"Three extra for impertinence!" I snapped coldly. "That's now fifteen beauties you have coming across your royal bottom. Unless you enjoy not being able to sit, I would advise you don't waste time and get on with it."

Her pale face nodded grimly, and the pants descended and gathered in a crude heap around her ankles. Her panties were white silk, extremely snug, and they covered little. She hesitated only a heartbeat and then, with a deep breath of courage, slid them down to join the slacks.

Her buttocks were beautiful. She was young and healthy and fit, and her skin flawlessly smooth. The cheeks were delightfully and appropriately chubby, like a woman's arse is supposed to be. Her bottom was not overly large, but her hips widened with soft feminine curves, and the presentation was intolerably sexy. With a flushed glance at me over her shoulder, she pushed her ankles an inch closer together and bent forward, arms stretched toward her toes. Her buttocks rounded, the high cheeks jutting outward in an impudent manner. The gap between the twin mounds was profound, with a dark, shadowy opening at the base. With such blonde hair, she appeared hairless, though I doubted she was bald down there. Well-groomed, certainly, but surely a woman of her class wasn't completely shaven.

Though a distracting mystery, her pussy was irrelevant to my task at hand. I focused on the buttocks I intended to thoroughly and severely punish. I raised the forty-inch pepper-wood rod, selected for its iron density and lithe strength, and lined it up across the peak of the golden hillocks. The wood narrowed to pinky-finger thinness for most of its length, but the far tip was thickened for extra weight and whip. I positioned it so that it extended an inch or two past the right cheek, which would allow the end to wrap around the hip slightly and extend the punishing welt left behind.

Slowly I drew back the rod and watched the second hand on the large wall clock. When it hit vertical, I struck. I swung the sturdy stick hard; I did not hold back. This was punishment, not a game. It caught her three inches below the start of the cleft and the violent retort of solid wood against solid flesh was immensely satisfying. The princess had a sturdy bottom well-capable of enduring a lashing and I intended to give her one.

Judging from her restrained reaction, she was suffering intently. She let out a gasping whimper and her hip jerked. Her head flew up, and I caught a glimpse of her straining face in the full-length mirror across from her. Her eyes bulged with astonishment and I could see the recalculations going on in her head as she revised her estimate of how much this beating would hurt.

On her buttocks, the mark from the stick was quickly darkening from pink to flamboyant ruby. The weal stretched the full width of both cheeks, with a brief gap for the chasm between. The far edge was longer, wrapping around the hip as I'd planned, and it was darker in color.

I rested the cane on my shoulder and I watched the second hand while the princess writhed. When the hand reached the three, I struck again, though she seemed surprised and cried out, "Oh! Ah!"

On the third, she was in agony, but suddenly remembered she wasn't counting. "Uh, that's three," she muttered.

"No, it is zero," I said. "Miscounting results in starting over. The first two didn't count because you didn't count."

She sucked in her breath sharply, but didn't argue, which was wise of her. Perhaps the pain wasn't quite such a shock to her now. After the next cut she groaned and quickly blurted, "One, sir."

It obviously hurt her to say it, for it was painfully clear that four thick stripes decorated her arse, but she only had herself to blame and knew it. I beat her regularly on the fifteen second mark, and slowly her count grew to six. At seven she writhed quite a bit and was slow to make the count. She managed, but barely. Eight caught her solidly on the lower slopes and she rose up, hands clutching at her swollen, beaten cheeks. Tears of sorrow trickled down her face as she realized what she had done.

"Sorry sir. That one was intense!"

"You'll learn."

I repeated eight and she counted it obediently, but her suffering was grave. The serious look on her face as she grimaced and panted told the story. So did the strange animal sounds that emerged: grunts and groans, gasps and shrieks, wordless cries of "Oh!" and "Ah!"

By the time I'd laid on the twelfth, which was really the seventeenth, her arse was entirely covered with gory stripes. I placed the next across the back of her legs, resulting in a gasping cry and a leap so tumultuous the princess' feet caught in her slacks and she fell to the floor. She writhed there for a few seconds while I glared at her.

"Resting comfortably? If you're not back in position by the time the next stroke is due," I explained, "I'll add it as an extra."

Hastily she staggered back into position, kicking the clothing out of her way and bending back over, her grim expression rueful. She was scarcely over when I struck, again on the thighs, just below the previous ruby mark.

"Ah! Thir-thirteen, sir!" She writhed prettily, waving her once-white arse about as though it was on fire. Her legs, I saw, were no longer pressed so neatly together. Modesty was the least of her concerns now.

I studied the second hand, timing my blow precisely with its sweep across the nine. This time I avoided her thighs and brought the stick hard into the underbum, right in the crease. I put extra power into the final few inches and was rewarded with another uprising. She stood sobbing, with one hand on her painful right hind, the other ruefully wiping away tears.

"Two extra for excessive movement."

She bit her lip. Her eyes stared at me in horror, but her voice came as a harsh whisper. "Yes sir."

I pointed to the clock with the cane tip as the second hand approached the twelve. "One more for not being in position at stroke time."

Groaning, she lithely bent and touched her toes, her welted buttocks waiting. She was trembling as the rod cracked across her lower curves. "Uhhh. Fourteen, sir!"

She seemed to have steeled herself, for she endured the next two with dutiful aplomb. I whipped the next one into that same band of tortured flesh at the juncture between rump and thigh and was rewarded with a plea of protest.

"Ahhh! Sir, please! Higher. Anywhere but there."

"No count, so that one will be repeated."

Knowing she had taken that awful cut for nothing broke her. Her body shook with sobs. I watched the second hand impassively and struck when the timing called for it. She was still writhing and the fresh pain of another lash sent her howling, and she again forgot to count.

I cracked the cane across her thighs as hard as I could. She screamed, "Seventeen, sir!"

The final stroke was, of course, the worst, delivered with every ounce of strength and skill I possessed. I placed it across the fullest peak of her buttocks, on top of existing weals, and it took all of her considerable willpower to mutter the final count.

"Eighteen, sir!" Her voice was hard and gravely.

"You may rise, but do not touch your buttocks. Meditate for a moment on the sensations you feel and learn from them."

She stood, a slender woman-thing, with attractively rounded buttocks grimly welted with crimson and blue. She was naked from the waist down but oblivious to that condition. Her focus was on survival, on such minor details as breathing and standing without falling.

Her pretty face seemed to have aged a few years within the moments I'd been with her. Her jaw was taut, her eyes grave. There was a steeliness to her that had only been hinted before. Her back was straighter, her muscles tense. She looked more like a warrior ready for battle than a corrected child. For the first time, I saw a potential queen.

"Thank you for p-punishing me, sir," she said softly.

I nodded. "Just doing my duty, Your Highness."

"It was... exemplary."

"You live to a higher standard now," I said. "As the chosen one of the prince, you can expect similar treatment for flaws in the future."

"Of course." She hesitated. "It will always be you? Who punishes me, I mean?"

"I am your lord's executor."

She nodded, strangely quiet. I could not tell from her expression if this news pleased or terrified her.

"Your punishment has concluded, my Lady. You may dress or bathe or whatever you wish. I will report to your husband."

"Yes, thank you."

"Do you wish me to send in a maid?"

"No thank you. I'll be fine on my own."

I placed the rod on the mantle where it was an obvious reminder and departed. When I glanced back as I closed the door, the half-naked princess was biting her lower lip and peering at her wounded backside over her shoulder.

For a first beating, she had acquitted herself well, I thought. Far better than I had expected for a girl not trained in royalty. Of course this was only the first correction. Between her ignorance of royal standards of behavior and the prince's ruthless strictness, there would undoubtedly be many, many more. I didn't mind that at all.

The End