Fifty lashes unrestrained

Eyes darting in panic from you to the blubbering teenager nearby, Lorna's breathing is so rapid that she can hardly reply to your question, but with trembling lip, she finally manages to answer.

"Please may I have fifty lashes, Professor?"

Then she whimpers, lip trembling as if she's about to burst into tears. Seeing her companion endure without earning any further extras may have given her the confidence to think she can similarly survive without restraint, but you feel that might be unwise. Nevertheless, you accept her decision and tell her to put her hair up while you select a whip from your collection. Her hands are shaking so much that she's still fumbling around after you've chosen a nice supple single tail that should sting abominably without too much damage to her skin and you can tell she's scared that you're going to increase her chastisement for the delay, which makes her even more clumsy. Eventually, her chestnut locks are confined to a rough but sturdy bun on top of her head. She definitely doesn't want it coming undone in the middle of her flogging as that would mean more punishment.

You instruct her to lean against the wall with hands at head height, standing on her tiptoes, feet wide apart. To her credit, she follows your instructions unhesitatingly, slim torso almost vertical and arms stretched forwards for support. Your office and waiting room are well enough insulated for sound that you don't need to worry about her screams causing a disturbance.

Starting behind her right shoulder, you flick the whip at a downward angle, leaving a vertical stripe the length of her back, extending all the way down over the top of her buttock. She inhales sharply, barely keeping from crying out, but you're pleased to note that apart from arching her back slightly, she barely moves, making it easy to aim the next lash.

"Thank-you for the first lash, Professor," she says with a sniff. "Please may I be permitted to receive another."

Gradually, you move across her back, using the weight of the lash to do most of the work, swinging it in an elliptical motion that turns her skin bright pink, which will darken to a bruise over the course of several minutes. You pause after each stroke to give the girl on the receiving end time to fully appreciate each and every one. Throughout the process, Lorna becomes steadily more distressed, first moaning and then howling with agony between each blow, tears flowing in floods from her eyes.

Having reached a natural stopping point, you give the young student a short break, partly to allow her to recover her composure a little, but mainly to let the bruising to fully develop so that her back is as sensitive as possible for the second stage. In the meantime, you check your subject's skin, enjoying the sensation of running your hands over welted flesh.

By the time you're ready to continue, Lorna's no longer screaming, although she's still weeping profusely. For the final thirty lashes, you decide to start a bit further round, under her right arm, leaving a welt all the way from the middle of her armpit, across ribs just barely visible beneath tautened skin, down her side to the jut of her hip. The unexpected target nearly makes the girl flinch, but she just about controls herself, although she does shriek in anguish, needing two breaths before she can thank you and ask for the next.

You planned five lashes beneath each arm, separated by another layer of twenty on her back, but the very second one is enough to overcome her willpower and she snatches her arm from the wall in a pointless attempt to cover her injured side.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she sobs, but an apology isn't going to be enough.

"Turn to face me," you order, brusquely and she awkwardly shuffles round. "Hands behind your head."

"Ohhh, oh, oh!" Lorna wails at this simple movement, but complies, a little slower than you would like.

"Ten extras," you announce and flick the whip over her left breast, setting it quivering and sending droplets of tears flying. The teenager's yell is the most intense yet and her hands are halfway to her tits before she realizes her mistake and puts them back.

"Why don't we make that twenty?"

You're not sure whether the look of despair on the student's face or the excruciating pain you cause by repeating the previous lash beings you greater pleasure, but either way, this whipping is more fun than you expected. You patiently wait for the girl to mumble out her thanks and then give her the next lash, driving her to the point of near hysteria. With an additional twenty strokes already earned and the most painful part of her chastisement still to come, she must surely be regretting her decision to remain unrestrained by now.