Sentence

The blow slashed violently across her right buttock. Mistress ordered her.

• Count and apologize after each blow. If you forget, I'll start from scratch.

Emma gritted her teeth, already feeling the sting of the first blow on her skin. She took a short breath before replying in a trembling voice:

• One... sorry, Mistress.

The second blow fell immediately, lower, marking her flesh with a twin line of fire.

The second blow landed with cruel precision, carving a burning furrow into Emma's taut flesh. She stifled a moan, her fingers clenched on the edge of the desk, her knuckles whitening with the effort not to scream.

• T-Two... s-sorry, Mistress, she stammered, her voice choked with humiliation even more than pain.

The blows gradually increased in power and cruelty, clearly so she wouldn't get used to them and achieve maximum effect at 12. Emma trembled and had to make an effort to concentrate on the count; she could never bear to do it all again.

The cane whistled a third time, landing diagonally on the first two stripes. Emma's breath quickened as a new fire seized her flesh.

"Twelve, pardon me, Mistress," she gasped, her thighs trembling with the strain of the position. The corset dug deeper with each ragged breath, the stays pressing against her ribs like fingers.

Mistress traced the rising marks from the tip of the cane, humming. "Twelve strokes, Slavia. You will hold out until the last one, or we will start again from scratch." »

The thirteenth blow was lower, where the curve of the buttocks was most noticeable. Some girls looked away, others seemed fascinated, as if they wanted to be in Emma's or her teacher's place.

The thirteenth blow was lower, where the curve of the buttocks was most noticeable. Some girls looked away, others seemed fascinated, as if they wanted to be in Emma's or her teacher's place.

A shudder ran through the crowd as the cane whistled again, landing with cruel precision right in the hollow of the first two marks.

The fourteenth mark was inscribed just above the others, so precise that Emma felt every millimeter of the burn etched into her flesh. A trickle of sweat slid down the back of her neck as her fingers, white from their grip on the desk, trembled with the effort of not flinching away.

• Fourteen... sorry, Mistress, she whispered, her voice broken but clear, knowing that one forgotten word would mean starting all over again.

She was losing track, everything was spinning around her, she was running out of air, but she had to hold on until the end.

The fifteenth blow landed, stinging the fleshiest part of her left buttock with calculated ****. Emma felt her knees buckle, but she gritted her teeth, her nails digging into the polished wood of the desk.

• Fifteen... s-sorry, Mistress, Emma breathed through gritted teeth, her voice panting. The heat from the last stroke of the cane radiated in waves, mingling with the searing pain of the previous blows. Her thighs trembled, her corset tightening with each ragged breath as if to remind her there was no escape.

The teacher spun slowly, the cane tapping her palm in a rhythm that matched Emma's shallow gasps. The tension in the room was palpable, the other girls' gazes burning at her exposed skin—some wide with fear, others clouded with fascination.

The cane whistled for the sixteenth time, striking right in the hollow of her buttocks, where the reddened skin was already stretched to the point of breaking. Emma let out a muffled moan, tears blurring her vision as her fingers clawed at the wood of the desk, desperately searching for a grip.

• Sixteen… s-sorry, teacher… Her voice was a hoarse whisper, strangled by the effort not to scream.

At eighteen, she no longer knew, she doubted if she had made a mistake, everything around her was spinning, but since Mistress didn't react when she said:

• Eighteen, sorry, Mistress.

Once again, she heard the cane whistle through the air before crashing against her thighs.

The nineteenth stroke struck the sensitive skin of her thighs, where the flesh was already marbled red. Emma let out a muffled cry, her nails digging deeper into the wood of the desk. The pain radiated like a burning wave, mingling with the other marks covering her body.

• Nineteen... s-sorry, Mistress... Her voice was broken, each word an effort.

The cane whistled for the twentieth time, cutting through the damp air of the room before crashing down across the existing marks. Emma felt her skin barely tear, a sharp burn that finally drew a hoarse sob from her. Her tears were now flowing freely, tracing bright furrows across her scarlet cheeks.

• T-twenty… sorry.

Her voice broke abruptly when the cane suddenly grazed the back of her neck in an icy warning. The cane stopped against her neck, cold as a blade. A shiver ran down Emma's spine as the silence grew tense, broken only by the sharp click of the mistress's heels as they circled around her. The smell of wax and heated leather mingled with the metallic scent of her own sweat.

• You forgot something.

The voice was a smooth whisper, too soft for the burn smoldering beneath each word.

The cane pressed harder against the back of her neck, enough to make Emma's tense muscles tremble.

• I... I beg you, mistress... Her voice broke into a wet breath, her trembling lips brushing the damp air of the room.

A low, almost hushed laugh answered her.

Just kidding, Slavia. Gentlemen, take her next door; she belongs to you. I want to hear her cries of pleasure or pain, it doesn't matter to me, but these young ladies here must remember what awaits them at the slightest mistake.