Flog her at the whipping post

When your beautiful grad-student asks to be taken to the cellar for punishment, you can scarcely refuse, no matter how savage the torment it will cause, so you help her off the table and guide her towards her fate.

Your cellar is dry and clean, with a rough concrete floor and unplastered, whitewashed walls. There are doors at both the top and the bottom of the stairs (the one at the bottom is new, or at least new to you), making the room effectively soundproof. Electrical cables have been tacked to the walls, leading to a pair of powerful wall lights, which illuminate the cellar with a harsh white glare. The jumble of boxes that you're used to seeing on the rare occasions you come down here have been neatly stacked next to the walls, to make room for a sturdy wooden whipping post, bolted firmly to the floor.

Without prompting, Imogen starts adjusting the whipping post to fit her body, raising the angled leg supports so that when she kneels on them, the crossbar will be at shoulder height and lowering a harness to fasten her head to the upright of the post. Whilst you watch, she resignedly secures herself in place, first with straps across her calves and around her ankles and then by placing her mouth over a large, plastic mushroom, resting her forehead against a sponge pad and wrapping a fabric band behind her head and affixing it with a trademarked hook and eye fastening system strip. You suspect that the mushroom is there to stop her biting her tongue or lips when the agony becomes too much, but it will no doubt also help stifle her screams.

Imogen can do no more and it is left to you to stretch her arms along the crossbar and buckle them in place with straps near her shoulders, above her elbows and at her wrists, keeping her palms facing back towards you. You also discover sets of thin cords which can be used to separate and restrain her fingers and toes and you decide you might as well go the whole hog and control even these tiny parts of her body, but while you are doing so, it occurs to you that there should also be some way to limit the movement of her torso. An inspection of the post reveals no belt at waist level, but there is a hitching point between the leg supports, so you take a look around, to see whether you can spot whatever should attach there.

At first, you can't see it, but then you notice that there's a box amongst the others stacked by the walls that you don't recognize. On a hunch, you open it up and find a selection of clamps, plugs, hoods and devices that boggle the mind. You ignore the majority of these obscene items (and the troubling implications of their presence in your punishment room) and pull out the object which seems likely to fit onto the whipping post. It consists of a right-angled bar, the short end of which attaches to the wooden upright, whilst the longer end terminates in a large stainless steel dish, with a stiff-bristled cylindrical brush sticking up out of it. The dish and brush are height-adjustable, thanks to a screw mechanism, and once reunited with the whipping post, they can be raised, so that the brush is **** between the labia of the victim and deep into her vagina, making any lateral motion of her hips truly excruciating. The dish will catch any urine, should she lose control of her bladder, which seems quite likely, given the circumstances.

So far, Imogen has remained silent, but when you pick up the brush attachment, you hear a tearful wail from behind you. Clearly, she has seen the object in your hand and it terrifies her even more than the quirt. For a moment, you consider sparing her this needless cruelty, then decide that if the mere sight of it causes such a marked response, then you just have to know what will happen when you put it into use. Accordingly, you lock the metal pipe into position and turn the screw to raise the brush head inexorably towards its destination.

When the bristles on the top of the brush reach her labia, Imogen tries vainly to raise or move her hips, but she is already restrained too fully for that. You reach between her toned thighs and spread her lips wide, continuing to turn the screw with your other hand. Millimetre by millimetre, the scourge disappears inside the tight tunnel, the pressure of its walls forcing the bristles into a downward angle. Imogen's wails are already turning into shrieks as the stiff quills scrape and scratch at her most delicate flesh, but you can't help thinking about how much worse it will be when the device is removed, as the downward points are **** to change direction on the way out. Your underwear is feeling very tight and once the brush is firmly seated as deeply as possible within your grad-student's burning core, you take the opportunity to strip from the waist down and free your rampant erection, your manhood bouncing wildly in anticipation of the action to come.

Finally, everything is prepared and you raise the quirt to give Imogen the whipping of her young life.

You begin where you left off, lashing horizontally across the centre of her back. Once again, you marvel at the power of the quirt, as you hardly need exert any significant effort to raise a ladder of livid weals from between her shoulder blades to the top of her rump. Freed from the limitations of your dining room, the chastened brunette no longer hesitates to roar her agony at every blow, the wooden upright already becoming slick with her tears. You **** Imogen to request one hundred and seventy-four strokes, but soon she will be in no condition to count them herself, so you kindly keep the tally for her. The first stage of her flogging takes twenty-one lashes, but when you reach her pert round cheeks, you realize that continuing down the centre will no longer be ideal.

You step to one side and begin to thrash her right buttock in isolation. You use the middle of the quirt's shaft to bruise the crown of her cheek, allowing the thinner, more flexible tip to wrap around and welt the outer edge towards her hip. It is the natural instinct of a girl spanked on one side of her bottom to twist her body away from the implement, but the brush residing within her sex makes any movement well-nigh impossible. Imogen's bum-flesh is as fine as her back and it takes just fifteen more lashes to turn it a mottled purple, jiggling alluringly with every impact, giving glimpses of the puckered pink ring of her anus.

Rather than turn your attention to her other buttock immediately, you decide to continue downwards, whipping the back of her right thigh with the same relentless motion. Imogen's cries had deepened to growls of anguish while you beat her rear, but now she starts to shriek once more, the pain seemingly sharper in the trim muscles of her legs.

In the soundproof cellar, the screams echo uncomfortably and you remember seeing a pair of ear plugs in the box from which you extracted the bowl and brush contraption. You walk over and in the course of finding the desired objects, you also spot a vial of smelling salts, which you take with you in case they come in useful later. The ear plugs do their job, cutting down Imogen's howls to manageable levels, without blocking them completely. After all, part of the fun of administering an appallingly brutal flogging is hearing the effects it is having upon its recipient.

It took just nine lashes to set her thigh all aquiver and you follow it up with six to her calf which make her muscles bunch and twist in the vain effort to avoid your blows. You move over to the right side of the whipping post for the flogging of her feet and apply a full ten strokes across her squirming heel, instep, ball and toes, to make absolutely certain that your grad-student will find standing or walking to be excruciatingly painful for quite some time. The cords around her toes keep her soles taut, but also give you another wicked idea, so you take careful aim and inflict one blow to the sensitive membrane between each of her digits.

Even through the ear plugs, you can hear the note of utter despair in the roar of agony which this provokes. Nowhere is safe from your cruelty. Then you hear another sound. It takes you a moment to place it, before you realize it is the sound of pee hitting a stainless steel bowl. You warned Imogen that if she pissed herself, you would whip her head to toe and you see no reason to go back on your word. Now, there is no need to continue counting the lashes; you will chastise your subject until her whole body is a single throbbing weal, no matter how long it takes.

You reverse course for the twenty-three year old beauty's left leg: first four strokes between her toes, then ten across her sole, six upon her calf and nine on her thigh. Fifteen are as sufficient for mortifying her left buttock as her right, which is now turning black from the bruising and swelling into ridges like a washboard. By this point, Imogen has dissolved into total hysterics, incoherent wails and moans all that come from her mouth.

You whip the side of your young grad-students's body, allowing each of the twenty lashes between hip and armpit to curl around to her smooth belly or the outer curve of her smarting breasts. The blows that land directly in the hollow of her shoulder cause the greatest reaction, her whole body shaking as she screams herself hoarse. For the arm, you alternate upward and downward strokes, laying on a dozen before you reach her palms, then another six across the hand and four more between her fingers, raising cruel pink weals that will torment her every action for days. You run the tip of the quirt along the top of her outstretched limb to her neck, then up over her head, flicking the top of each ear as you pass, making her twitch helplessly, as her bondage makes it impossible for her to move her head more than a few millimetres.

Changing things up from how you flogged her legs, you begin at her right shoulder and whip outwards to her hand, mirroring the other limb, before returning to her armpit and down the right side of her body to her hip. You notice that her responses have become muted and decide to use the smelling salts to ensure that she is fully alert for the most important stage of her punishment. The effect is immediate and electric. Imogen's body jerks rigid as she tries to pull her nose away from the vial and she starts to whine piteously at the realization that she will not be permitted to escape any part of her suffering.

You cork the salts and walk around in front of the panting and whimpering girl. She is no longer crying, although her chest is soaked with previously-shed tears and her eyes remain unfocused, staring through you rather than meeting your gaze. The upright of the whipping post protects the middle of her chest and tummy, along with her vulva, but her breasts, and particularly the stiff pink nipples, are fully ****.

Hoarse from screaming for what must seem like hours, Imogen makes little noise when you raise the first weal on her left tit, but you have no doubt from the rictus of agony that afflicts her mouth that the pain is prodigious. This time, you alternate between pert globes, paying particular attention to the undersides and not neglecting her aureoles. Finally, you step to the side and raise the quirt high, whipping it down to expertly catch the nipple with the very tip of the flexible implement.

The brunette's breast bounces under the impact, the white welt swelling almost instantly on the top of the nipple to make it bend nearly in half, but her response is not as pronounced as you would have hoped. Looking at Imogen's face, you see that her eyes have rolled up in her head and you quickly get out the smelling salts once more.

Imogen instantly jerks back to life, the moan that escapes her lips sounding barely human while you prepare for the next blow. This does not hit quite the same spot as the last, just catching the aureole, but you couldn't have wished for a more animated reaction. Imogen writhes against the post, sending both boobies jiggling, the **** in her cunt finally surpassed by the distress of her tits. You would love to try a third, but her rubbery teat is already turning black and bulging to twice its usual size, so you worry that you might cause serious injury if you continue.

Her other nipple is, as yet, untouched, however. Your victim is no longer staring passively ahead, but following you intently with her eyes, so she sees you position yourself to lash her second nub and starts to thrash wildly in desperation. Her spasmodic movements make it difficult for you to aim. Difficult, but not impossible, for your first attempt lands squarely at the base of her nipple and your second just catches the tip.

You watch, fascinated, as your grad-student gyrates helplessly for several moments, before she slumps, exhausted, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs as she looks at you hopelessly and pleadingly at the same time.

You survey your work, your erection starting to feel uncomfortable in its rigidity. Indeed, as promised, you have whipped your unpaid maid from head to toe. Even her ears have swollen up where you applied a perfunctory lash previously, whilst the rest of her body below the neck, apart from a few areas hidden by the whipping post itself, are varying shades of black and mauve. You cannot imagine a more severe punishment that doesn't cause injury and so remove your ear plugs and set about releasing her from her bondage.

Imogen has no strength left and as you undo the straps, her arms fall limp and lifeless to her sides. When you unfasten her head, she slumps back, held upright only by the tortuous intrusion into her genitals. A wail of anguish reminds you that the brush is still causing her tremendous suffering and you wrap your arm around her chest for support as you begin the gradual process of removing the offending object from its tender hiding place.

"Nnnn-uuugh!" You were right in your surmise that withdrawing the brush would prove far more taxing than its insertion, the slim beauty in your arms shaking with torment as she moans desperately. She starts to retch and for a moment, you think she is going to throw up from the pain, then the brush head pops out and she collapses in your arms, possibly even passing out for a moment.

"Please, no more," she whispers, looking up at you, tears starting to flow once more. "I'll be a good girl, I swear."