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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(***, MMF/ff, Intense, paddling, strapping)
A foreign exchange student is punished. (Approximately 1,527 words. Originally published 2004-01.)
Francesca had never been paddled before. Her mother favored a leather strap, and her father always used a birch rod. She was intimately familiar with the feel of both of those implements of correction. But the paddle was new.
She watched as her new friend Daisy leaned against the principal's desk and bent over. Daisy was wearing a short skirt that just barely met the school's length policy, but it showed off the curves of her ass wonderfully. Unfortunately, that aspect didn't exactly help her now.
Principal Dawkins pulled back the hefty wooden board to shoulder height and slammed it forward. It landed with crushing force against the pert, upturned bottom, and Daisy let out a hoarse cry.
"Ooooh! Ouch!" she moaned, half-rising up from the desk.
"Stay in position," ordered the principal, and the paddle slammed into her butt again.
The noise was horrific. The room echoed as though a bomb had gone off. Francesca's mouth went dry and her knees felt week. It was strange: if she was waiting for six of the best from the head's cane like had happened so often at her last school in India, she wouldn't have felt this nervous. But never experiencing the paddle, she feared it with an unreasonable terror.
Daisy had taken four swats now and was really feeling it. She writhed and moaned, kicking her feet and begging Mr. Dawkins to be merciful. He didn't comply but continued the hard paddling.
After eight, Daisy was sobbing, but the principal didn't stop until she'd taken the full dozen.
Suddenly Francesca felt panic: it was her turn!
At least she was wearing jeans. They weren't heavy, unfortunately, but certainly thicker than Daisy's thin skirt. Reluctantly, she took Daisy's place at the table. When she reached to grab the other end of the desk, she found the wood was warm and moist from Daisy's sweaty palms. Even worse, the desk beneath her face was damp with Daisy's tears.
Bent over like this, Francesca was uncomfortably conscious of her ass. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle.
Suddenly there was an explosion and Francesca felt pressure against her backside pushing her forward. Before she could even process that sensation, the explosion blossomed into raw pain. The stinging was intense. It was nothing like the precise sting of a rod or strap: this sting was spread over her entire ass.
"Grrrruhhh," she grunted.
Again the paddle whacked her ass and she rose up on tiptoes, gasping at the horrible pain. Her American friend, Daisy, had told her that switches were the worst pain in the world, and Francesca could relate that to her father's rod, but this pain was huge, overwhelming with its coverage.
WHAM! Another blow. A cane's sting was sharp and agonizing, but at least it took a number of strokes for your whole ass to be burning. This paddle had her butt wiggling for mercy after just a few strokes.
"Ohhhhh," she moaned after the fourth swat. Principal Dawkins didn't slow down, but continued the assault. After four more Francesca felt steamy tears running down her face and dripping onto the table. The paddle was so hot!
As the next blow crushed her pelvis against the desk, she wondered how she was going to survive the final few swats. Every smack felt like a hot frying pan pressing against her flesh. The jeans were no protection at all.
Sobbing, Francesca somehow stayed in position for the final couple of swats which were just miserably awful.
"All right, that's it. The two of you may go. I hope you've learned your lesson."
Daisy and Francesca exited the principal's office as though it was on fire. They ran to the restroom and after making sure they were alone, bared their bottoms and comforted each other by comparing their sore, crimson, blistered cheeks.
Francesca had seen some thrashed bottoms in her day, but this mass of scarlet flesh was amazing. It would take three dozen of the birch to make a bottom this red she told Daisy. It was almost like you were wearing a pair of red bicycle shorts, or maybe ruby French panties.
When Francesca went to (carefully) pull her jeans back up, she was surprised to discover how tight they were. "I think my ass is bigger," she said, frowning.
Daisy agreed. "It's swollen. That's what happens after a paddling. You'll want to wear a dress the next couple of days."
"You are sad," Francesca said. "But it is over."
"Not quite. We still have my parents to deal with," sighed Daisy. "Not a problem for you, but I'm in for it."
"I don't understand."
Daisy smiled. "In my family, being punished at school means getting it at home as well. Mom will use the hairbrush and Dad will take me to the woodshed when he gets home."
Francesca's eyes widened. "Oh no!"
"Yeah, I'm sure Dawkins is on the phone with my mom right now. He's required to notify parents when there's a paddling."
"Do, uh, my parents have to be notified?" asked Francesca nervously.
"No, my parents are your guardians while you're here."
"I know, but will your mother telephone mine?"
Daisy shrugged. "I don't know. Is that important?"
Francesca hung her head. "My parents, they are strict like yours. Punishment at school means a thrashing at home as well."
"Oh! So if my mom calls your mom, your mom might tell her to give you what she's going to give me."
"Damn, that sucks. Let's just hope she doesn't call."
But of course, Daisy's mom did call, and when the girls arrived home after school, she was waiting in the living, fat hairbrush on the coffee table in front of her.
"Proud of yourselves young ladies?" she asked the moment they entered. "Daisy, you know what's coming to you. Francesca, I spoke with your mother, and when I told her that I planned to paddle Daisy, she insisted that you get the same as my daughter. So both of you are in for a difficult evening."
The girls, pale and nervous, slowly advanced into the room. When Daisy's mom ordered it, the girls ran to their room and stripped off all their clothes. They came back downstairs a few minutes later, completely nude and terrified.
Daisy was first, and Francesca was terrified when she saw her friend's big bottom bouncing under the frantic blows of the wooden hairbrush. Her skin was a deep pink to begin with, but after just a few moments of paddling, it was dark ruby on its way to becoming purple.
Then it was Francesca's turn, and though she was frightened, she thought she could endure the punishment a little better than Daisy, who had hollered up a storm. Surely that hairbrush couldn't be worse than the smack of a slipper?
Oh horrors! It was ten times worse. It was so heavy it seemed to collapse Francesca's bum-cheeks, and the deep bruising produced an incredible ache. This was initially overshadowed by an intense stinging which accompanied each blow, but faded quickly, leaving the ache behind.
The paddling was only for a few minutes, but the swats were lightning fast and Francesca completely lost count of the count and the time. It seemed like she'd been over Mrs. Elliot's lap for hours before she was released.
Both girls were sent to the corner to stand for an hour until Daisy's father got home from work. Then he'd take them out to the woodshed for a good strapping. Francesca didn't know how she could bear any more, but she had little choice. She and Daisy stared at the wall and felt sorry for themselves.
The time passed with agonizing slowness, and then suddenly, way too soon, Mr. Elliot was home. He opened the front door and stared at the two naked girls, butts as red as fire.
"Ho ho ho, what do we have here? Two naughty girls?"
He disappeared into the kitchen and exchanged a brief conversation with his wife, then went upstairs to change. He was back all too soon, and ushering the girls out the back to the woodshed.
It actually was a toolshed, an eight by ten storage unit, but Mr. Elliot was an old-fashioned man and preferred to call it a woodshed when it was used for discipline. Hanging on a hook by the door was a long leather strap.
The girls bent over a wooden sawhorse together, their bare bottoms side-by-side for dual discipline. Despite the severe paddlings already received, Daisy's father gave no quarter: he whipped the bottoms and thighs before him with vigor and enthusiasm, making both girls yelp and sing.
The strap stung horribly, and it left crimson welts in its wake. The bottoms of the girls shivered with fear when not being whipped, and trembled violently when the leather struck.
Finally, after twenty strokes each, it was over. The girls were allowed to rise and squeeze their stinging, welted bottoms. Then returned to their room to dress.
"Supper'll on in thirty minutes," Mr. Elliot told them. "Be on time."