Yes, but only once

Clearly, the curly haired brunette wasn't expecting you to strike so high up her calf, because a twitch of her legs causes the pen to slip and nearly fall off before you've really begun.

"Nnngh. Sixteen, thank-you, Professor. Oh, please may I have another."

The pen is now balanced so precariously that it doesn't surprise you at all when the mere vibration from the next impact is enough to dislodge it completely to drop on its end to the floor, bounce onto its side and roll away. A moan of anguish comes from the student kneeling in front of you, quickly changed into a resigned apology and miserable thanks.

Before you can stand to retrieve the errant writing implement, Lorna dashes over and picks it up, holding it out to you on the palm of her hand. You take it and thank her and she smiles before returning to her former position, staring straight forward, trying to ignore the harsh beating taking place inches away.

Once again, you use one hand to steady Anthea's ankles and replace the pen with the other.

"If you drop it again, it'll be two dozen," you say calmly, but the dark-complexioned teenager is anything but calm.

"I-I can't, I can't do it," she sobs, shoulders heaving, on the brink of hyperventilating, so, keeping your hand on the backs of her legs, you move the other to the nape of her neck and squeeze reassuringly.

"Shh, there, girl, it's alright. I would never ask you to do something you can't do and neither would your tutors. You're here because you deserve it and you need to believe in yourself. What we ask is difficult, but its for your own good."

You keep talking until she starts to regain control, then sit back on your chair, ready to resume the punishment.

"Thank-you, Professor," she whispers eventually. "Please may I have the eighteenth stroke."

For the next few moments, the room is filled with the sound of rod on flesh, increasingly loud gasps for breath and shuddering sobs interspersed by whimpers of thanks. Although her face is red and soaked with tears which have even dripped from her chin to her heaving chest, Anthea's legs remain pressed firmly to the seat of the chair and your pen moves not a jot. Clearly, your encouragement has had the desired effect, or perhaps her pain threshold is higher than most.

"Well done, girl," you congratulate her, warmly. "You see, you can do it when you put your mind to it, just like your academic work. Apply that same focus in other areas and I'm sure you'll get through the rest of term with minimal further intervention."

"Thank-you, Professor," she mewls tremulously. "I'll do that." Then she starts weeping uncontrollably, but there is the matter of an additional punishment to administer, so you pocket your pen and start issuing instructions.

Soon, the wailing brunette had removed her shoes and is pressing her thrashed calves against her thighs, reaching behind her to bend her toes back to expose and tauten her soles, ready for the cane. You stand up to get a better angle to apply a sixer on each foot, concentrating mainly on the arch, but extending the target area to the balls of her feet when required.

You have confidence in the precision of your strokes and use a little more **** with each swing, raising bright pink welts that will no doubt remind their new owner of her transgressions with every step for several days, if not weeks. Every blow makes her moan in growing torment, only her newfound determination keeping her from pulling away in a vain attempt to protect her tender soles.

By the time you've finished, she's on the brink of screaming with every stroke, her thanks barely intelligible. With another two dozen of her original for left to go, you decide to give her a break, so that she can fully appreciate the entirety of the chastisement you're going to inflict. Accordingly, you leave her kneeling on the chair, sobbing uncontrollably, whilst you turn to her freckled companion.

"Well, Lorna, have you decided how you'd like to be flogged?"