Flog April brutally for lack of improvement

You look through April's past marks for the year on your computer and frown.

"Is something wrong, Professor?" asks the noticeably nervous eighteen year old fresher.

"Hmm," you reply, "I see from your records that when you started the course, you were getting plenty of A-plusses as well as A-grades, but you've been getting steadily fewer A-plusses as time's gone on. Why is that, do you think?"

"I-I don't know, Professor."

"Do you think a strapping would help you work out the reason?"

"Oh! I think maybe it's just the time, you know, for the extra research and things. I have more commitments now, extra-curricular activities and such."

"But surely your academic work takes priority?"

"Yes, Professor, but as long as I keep getting an A, I thought I could afford to be doing other things."

"Ah. At this university, we always strive for excellence. Only your very best is good enough, even if your mediocre effort is twice as good as anyone else's best. I can see that the policy of caning for any mark below an A is not working very well for you, so I propose that instead I cane you for any mark below an A-plus. Do you think that would give you an incentive to try harder?"

"Y-yes, Professor, but I'll try harder now anyway, because now I know that's what I should do."

"Well, April, I think you always knew that deep down, but convinced yourself that you could get away with less, because you are so bright. A severe caning will help disabuse you of that notion, so I've decided that we'll keep the number of strokes the same for an incomplete, but reduce it by four strokes per part grade, rather than six as for other girls."

April pauses for a moment and then gasps in shock. "But that's sixteen strokes!"

Now, it's Debbie's turn to gasp. She hadn't worked out the severity of your decree as quickly as her tute-partner. A sixteen-cut caning would be difficult for anyone to bear, let alone a virtual stranger to the rod.

"Professor, the pain is going to be simply monstrous, so maybe I could hold April's hands to help her stay in position."

"No, Debbie. I understand your desire to help your friend, but exhibiting the self-discipline necessary to surrender to your punishment is an important part of the disciplinary process. April will just have to cope."

The pretty brunette is already in tears as she adopts the position over the table. She has been strapped plenty of times and knows what is expected, but a caning is very different.

"Have you ever been caned before, April?"

"Only on my birthday, when I was being assessed to see what implement I should carry around with me. The cane hurt much worse, but left terrible marks, so they chose the tawse, because my bottom never seems to wear out from that."

You suppose it makes sense that girls have to be assessed at eighteen to comply with your rules. As you line up for the first blow, you notice that April's toes barely touch the floor, so much shorter is she than the blonde you were caning a few moments ago. Her bottom is unblemished; either she hasn't been tawsed recently or she was right about the heavy strap not leaving visible marks upon her peachy rump.

Remembering how quickly your shoulder tired before, you resolve to moderate your strikes and slash the wicked rod across the apples of your student's pert cheeks at about eighty percent of your maximum ****.

The effect is still electric, as the brunette virtually bounces off the table.

"Oh, oh, oh, one, th-thank-you, Professor. Oh, oh, please may I have the next stroke."

You work your way slowly down her curvaceous rear, spacing your cuts so that although individually excruciating, the agony does not combine to an unbearable level just yet.

After four blows, April is sobbing continuously and finding it difficult to speak clearly, but still holding up well, all things considered. The fifth stroke reaches the top of her thighs, eliciting a squeal and a sudden trembling of her legs, as if they were trying to shake off the pain. The next five put a ladder of puffy raw weals on the backs of her thighs as she steadily approaches a state of complete hysteria, her legs being much more sensitive than her bottom.

Arriving at her knees, you return to the top. Your tactic of not using full **** seems to be working and your shoulder isn't playing up at all as you crack the cane directly onto the swollen welt left by your first blow.

"Aieee!" April kicks back in agony, unable to cope with the sudden increase in pain.

"I'll repeat that one," you say, eliciting a wail and a fresh round of sobs.

*THWACK*

Landing on the same spot raises a stiff white blister along the top of the ridge formed by the previous assaults upon the shapely brown buttocks. This time, by a supreme effort of will, the brunette manages to remain still, but lets out a heartrending scream of anguish.

"I realize that you may need to cry, but please try not to shout out. It is disrespectful and if you do it again, I will repeat the stroke," you say.

"I'm sorry! I'll try harder," whimpers the suffering girl through her tears. "Thank-you for the eleventh stroke, Professor. Please may I have another."

The twelfth (really the thirteenth) lands half way between the first and second and again April howls in agony, her cheeks beginning to look like a washboard.

"That's another repeat," you announce and April breaks down, barely able to breathe for the wracking sobs shaking her slim torso.

You don't wait, but lay on the next in the same spot and the suffering girl can finally take no more. She grabs her throbbing buttocks with both hands and pulls her feet up in a vain effort to assuage the burning pain. Piteous mewls come from her mouth and you notice that Debbie is also crying in sympathy for her friend's torment.

You pat April's head and gently stroke her hair, saying "it's alright. Just take your time. I know it's hard, but this is for your own good."

It takes nearly ten minutes for the tortured teen to calm down, although her tears are still flowing with abandon.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she finally whispers. "I just couldn't stand it."

"I know," you say, "it's supposed to be difficult, otherwise it wouldn't teach you anything. Now get back in position and prepare for the first stroke. We're starting over."

The young woman slumps in despair; everything she has already endured has been for nothing and the repeated punishment will be infinitely worse. The time it took her to recover has allowed bruises to form, making her already-sore flesh even more tender and sensitive. As her shoulders heave with silent sobs, you gently chivvy her back into compliance.

"Come along, girl. No point delaying. Straighten up or I'll have to start adding extras."

April forces herself back into position with a groan and you prepare to start again.

*THWACK*

"Uuuuuuuuh. One, thank-you, Professor. Please may I have another."

This time, you start lower down, close to her sit spot. The centre of her buttocks is too badly ravaged to take many more strokes, so the lower curves and her thighs will have to take the brunt.

*THWACK*

"Ah, ah, ah, ah. Two, thank-you, Professor," she sobs helplessly for a few seconds before adding "please may I have another."

*THWACK*

Her body is as rigid as a statue when the cane lands on the top of her thighs.

"Three, oh," her head drops for a moment, but she straightens again. "Three, thank-you, Professor. Please may I have another."

It is the last time she is able to react with any semblance of dignity, as the fourth stroke overwhelms her resistance and she begins bawling once again, barely able to get out the required words.

*THWACK*

The fifth lands in the middle of her thighs, which quiver like jelly, her toes drumming an involuntary tattoo on the floor as hysteria once again threatens to take control.

*THWACK*

Her knees bend as she sobs out her thanks and you consider repeating the stroke, but decide to give her another chance.

*THWACK*

"Aaah!" The agonized girl holds her breath for a moment, then lets it out in a garbled rush, "seven-thank-you-Professor-please-may-I-have-another. Uuuugh." It's as if she physically can't get enough air into her lungs to be able to cry as hard as she wants to.

*THWACK*

As you reach her knees, April is shaking like a leaf, almost completely incoherent. Her tears have soaked the front of her blouse and made a puddle on the table beneath her chin. Now all that remains is to place the remaining eight strokes in the same spots as the last ones, redoubling her suffering beyond measure.

*THWACK*

When the rod lands on her bottom once more, a shudder runs through her body from toe to head and she momentarily collapses, her face hitting the tabletop with a resounding smack. You think perhaps she's fainted, but she gets straight back up, arching her back to present herself as you require, **** to avoid additional chastisement.

Nevertheless, you cannot allow such a breach to go unpunished and mercilessly repeat the stroke.

April is shaking so violently that you can hear her elbows rattling on the table, but she remains in position and counts the stroke unintelligibly.

*THWACK*

With the tenth blow, you notice a change. It's as if April is so exhausted by what she has endured so far that she doesn't have the strength to react. The trembling stops and even her bawling grows less ****.

*THWACK*

The change continues as you begin to cane her ravaged thighs once more, counting the stroke listlessly, almost delirious with pain.

The next three go the same way; a thwack, whispered thanks and on to the next one.

The fifteenth cut brings her out of her fugue with a gasp and the final blow just above her knees has her bawling and writhing as powerfully as any that have gone before. From the apex of her buttocks to the backs of her knees is one unbroken expanse of raw, welted flesh.

"Waa-haa-haa-I'll work harder, sir, I will. I'll get an A-plus next week, I swear. Oh, Professor, it hurts so much. Nnnn-oh, oh, oh."

You let her cry herself out until she's ready to continue, but eventually it is time to consider your tip.