Check her housework

When you tell the alluring maidservant that you intend to check her work for the day, she reacts with nervousness and concern. This makes you suspicious that she may not have been doing her best, but try as you might, you are unable to find anything to complain about in her cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, tidying or laundering. The kitchen and bathroom are spotless, your possessions free of dust and dirt. One thing you discover in your explorations is that you now have a cabinet in your bedroom containing all manner of spanking accoutrements and even some bondage gear, whilst your cellar, which used to be used solely for storage, now contains a whipping post, apparently for when you decide to inflict a punishment so severe that the recipient can't be expected to submit without disturbing the neighbours.

You are about to pronounce yourself satisfied, when you look out of the dining room window. Two things strike you: firstly, the glass is slightly streaky, showing that whoever cleaned it didn't do a satisfactory job, and secondly, Imogen said that she had tidied the garden, but you can see several leaves and small pieces of debris on the lawn. Of course, punishing your grad-student for leaves blowing into your garden after she finished work there would be completely unfair, but it gives you an idea and you order her to strip naked and go out to collect the offending items. You are pleased that she seems embarrassed by the prospect of going outside in the nude; the frequency of spankings and associated exposure might have inured her to such humiliations, but as she opens the french doors and slips out, you see a pleasing blush travel down her elegant neck as far as her turgid pink nipples.

Whilst she sets about her task, hoping that your neighbours are not choosing this particular moment to look out of their bedroom windows, you quickly go back through the house and check the other windows. Sure enough, a couple more of the panes display slight smears; whether Imogen is personally responsible or simply didn't clean the windows at all, you still have a reason to thoroughly chastise her unblemished and flawless body.

The exquisite brunette steps back inside, goosebumps covering her flesh, either due to the growing cool of the evening or some premonition of the excruciating fate which is about to befall her.

"There are seven, Professor," she says, holding out her hands to display the leaves and twigs she has found. You tell her to throw them away and then pick up the quirt which is her statutory implement. The vision of loveliness stiffens and looks at you despondently in realization that she is to be lashed.

You run the tip of the vicious little whip from her collar, over her breast and down to the perfect hairless flower of her slit, debating where to begin, when it occurs to you that no part of her radiant figure bears the faded marks of previous flagellation. It must be a long time since she was last punished, so either she is incredibly well behaved, or…

"Imogen, you are exceptionally beautiful."

She blushes again and smiles at the compliment.

"Do you think that your beauty sometimes makes men remiss in their duty to discipline you when you need it?"

The smile turns to horror as she realizes the implications of your accusation.

"I-I don't think, I mean, I've never tried to use my looks to get out of, but yes, maybe, I mean men do like me and maybe sometimes they want me to like them, but I'd never take advantage, I mean not deliberately, I mean, oh, no! I'm sorry, you're right, I don't get punished as often as other girls, because men want to do other things with me instead. I ought to have asked for punishment, but I never thought about it before now. I'm sorry!"

"Well, don't worry, I think you'll find the new tipping rules will rather change the situation for you."

Imogen gulps as it finally occurs to her that her pulchritude and sensuality will no longer be an advantage, but a curse, ensuring that lustful men will watch her minutely for the slightest infraction that will lead to her writhing in agony as they thrash her to tears before requiring that she pleasure them in gratitude. You are amazed that your rule about tipping, which you added as an afterthought purely for your own perverted satisfaction, has turned out to be essential for ensuring fairness and equality.

Still, she has had several years of unwarranted mercy, thanks to her splendid form and figure, so perhaps you should redress the balance today with a much more severe flogging than you'd planned to give for the streaky windows.

Imogen interrupts your thoughts apologetically, "I'm sorry, Professor, but your dinner is ready. Would you like me to turn the oven down to keep it warm whilst you punish me, or will you wait until after you've eaten?"

Her words remind you how hungry you are and you tell her to serve the meal. While she does so, you select a couple of small hardbacks from your library and once your dinner is on the table, you direct your student to join it there, telling her to kneel on the edge, facing you, her arms outstretched, in order to give you something pleasant to look at while you eat. With her feet hanging in open space, she can't put her toes down to help her balance, increasing the strain on her core muscles. Furthermore, before taking your seat, you place one of the books you chose upon the back of each of her hands, making her position even more difficult and challenging.

Satisfied, you tuck in to an extremely tasty and wholesome dish, made all the better by the sight of a naked beauty struggling to stay upright and not drop your books. You take your time, enjoying the quiver of muscles in her toned abdomen as thousands of hours of yoga and physical conditioning pay dividends. After eight minutes, Imogen's elbows start to bend, easing the pressure on her shoulders, so you give her a warning. Instantly, she straightens her arms once more, although it is clearly becoming more taxing for the unfortunate young woman.

She manages to hold on for another five minutes, before the increasing stress in her joints starts her arms trembling uncontrollably. You continue to eat steadily, not rushing, knowing it is only a matter of time before one of the books drops. Your student's strength of will surpasses your wildest expectations and it is a further three minutes before her arms begin to drop once more. Another warning and she starts to arch her back in the hope that a change in position will help her survive for longer, but it is in vain. Watching her fight desperately to keep control is one of the most exciting shows you can imagine, but eventually she weakens and with a wail of despair, increased shaking in her limbs drops one of the hardbacks onto the floor, the change in weight distribution immediately dumping the other onto the table.

You purse your lips in disapproval and order Imogen to pick up the book which landed on the table and hold it between her palms, with her arms stretched out in front of her. The view isn't quite as good now that her pert round boobies are partially obscured, but her growing distress will never cease to amuse. Already tired, she has trouble right from the off and you're sure she will never last until you finish your meal, but you still slow down, savouring every bite and every wobble of the nude girl in front of you. Finally, she can endure no longer and pulls her arms in towards her chest with a sob.

"I'm sorry, I can't do it, I'm sorry." She starts to weep quietly.

"That's two failures, Imogen. I suggest you try harder. Hold the book out in front of you again, or I will take you down to the cellar and whip you from head to toe. Every time you lower the book, I will double the number of lashes you receive."

"Yes, sir." With a groan of pain, the brunette raises her arms once more, but not for long and by the time you have finished eating, she has lowered the book twice more.

"That was lovely, Imogen," you give credit where it is due. "Do the washing up and then I'll give you your whipping."

Imogen jumps awkwardly from the table and begins to clear your plates, while you go into the drawing room to relax and watch the news on television until she's ready. You don't notice any major changes on screen; all the female presenters are over thirty and none of the reports are spanking related, so you don't suppose this is surprising. After seeing that tomorrow is predicted to be another fine day, you switch off the box and return to the kitchen to see Imogen drying the tray she used to cook your dinner and hopping from foot to foot, squeezing her legs together as if she desperately needs to pee. Perhaps it's the running water, you muse.

The naked girl puts away the dried tray and hangs up the tea towel, her work complete.

"Get back on the table, in the first position I picked for you," you instruct.

"May I use the lavatory first, please Professor?" she asks.

"No." It is not the reply your grad-student was expecting.

"I-I can't hold it much longer, Professor!"

"It wasn't a suggestion, Imogen. If you make a mess, you'll lick it up and I'll whip every inch of skin on your body raw. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor." The answer is almost a wail.

"Now, do you know why you are being punished?"

"For not tidying the garden properly."

"Didn't you tidy the garden properly?"

"I-I found those leaves and twigs when you sent me out there."

"And were they there when you were out earlier?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"It wouldn't be very fair to punish you for something that happened after you finished, would it? So what do you think it could be?"

Imogen ponders for a moment, then answers hesitantly. "The windows?"

"Ah, so you know they're streaked."

"They always streak. I try everything. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"But the mirrors are clear."

"Oh, yes," the delectable brunette is emphatic, "I know better than to leave streaks on those!"

You smile. Obviously she's been punished for that transgression before, which means she hasn't completely avoided receiving discipline in the past.

"So you can do it, you just need the right incentive."

"Yes, Professor." She seems resigned.

"I think one lash per streak or smear is appropriate, don't you? So how many is that?"

You wait for the frightened girl to realize that you expect an answer and try to work out what number will be found acceptable.

"S-six, Professor?" is her considered reply.

"Well, I only counted three, but you're probably right, so I'll give you six lashes. However, we're doubling that for each of the four times you dropped or lowered my books, aren't we, so what does that make?"

"Twenty-four lashes, sir."

"No," you correct the arithmetically-challenged youngster patiently. "If you double six four times, you get…"

Imogen gasps. "Ninety-six, sir! B-but I can't, I'll die!"

"You'll die? I don't think so, young lady, but I suppose we'll find out. I'm going to whip you quite quickly, so there's no need to count, but don't disturb the neighbours. If I have to take you downstairs, I'll double the whipping again. Now hold your arms out to the sides."

You pick up the books, which you notice Imogen placed neatly on the table when she was washing up, and put them on the backs of her hands once more. She's recovered some strength during the brief interlude, but you're sure she won't be able to hold them for very long, so she should be grateful that you're going to whip her fairly rapidly. Lifting the quirt, you run it down her back and over her peachy rump, causing a shudder of apprehension. You plan to begin flogging her shoulders and work your way down her back, buttocks, thighs and calves to the soles of her feet. If there are still any lashes left after that, you'll have her face you for the remainder of her punishment.

The quirt is a wonderfully light yet effective tool of chastisement. The first stroke puts a fiery red weal just below the nape of her neck, causing her to lurch forwards and almost lose her balance, arms jerking awkwardly. You wait for the moment it takes her to recover, somehow managing to return to the prescribed position without dropping either of your books. Once Imogen is still, you are able to put accurate stripes so close together that the whole expanse of flesh rapidly turns into a huge raw weal. After just three blows, Imogen is whimpering loudly, twisting from left to right in desperation to find a way to endure the excruciating pain, but you continue mercilessly as soon as she stops moving. She is already suffering so much that you can't believe she will survive the whole whipping without earning some sort of additional torment and sure enough, it is just a few lashes later that Imogen's resolve fails.