A tiny prick

You try to look within yourself to find the untapped reserves of strength that you'll need to survive your ordeal with your sanity intact, a keening wail vying with wracking sobs to escape your scream-ravaged throat. Unbeknown to you, your retreat from the outside world triggers some protocol in the AutoSpanker's programming and a sudden avalanche of pain wracks your body, leaving you literally unable to breathe for a moment, eyes staring forward, unfocused. It's as if your tortured flesh has become exquisitely more sensitive, able to discern in minute detail every smack, blow and scrape you've received over the last few hours.

Your new-found responsiveness draws your attention to a single burning pinpoint under your right arm and you look down as your head lolls forwards, to spy through your tears a small injection gun held by a robotic arm. You've been dosed with something that's making you even more susceptible to pain, presumably designed to stop you passing or zoning out.

* DING * The dry tones of the AutoSpanker confirm your deduction. "Stimulant administered. Health monitor confirms subject is able to complete the programme safely. Resuming session."

The rest of the hour is a hell beyond even what you've experienced so far. Every minute between the strokes stretches out like ten, every breath you take a torment that robs you even of the ability to scream, but you wish the gaps would go on for ever, because when the vicious whip lands, it redoubles all the agony you've felt before. It's not long before you run out of tears, your eyes drying, although your nose doesn't have that problem, unfortunately.

The inhuman device continues relentlessly and despite being insignificant beside the torrent of fire engulfing your back every sixty seconds, you're fully aware of the suffering afflicting your buttocks, crotch and the soles of your feet. You stop counting the lashes, not of your own volition, but because numbers no longer have any meaning for you. When the last stroke lands, you know it, however, because it perfectly completes the fan of lashes between your shoulders, leaving not even the tiniest strip of your back unwhipped.

Mr. Brown unfastens your wrists and your arms drop to your sides, even this movement awakening fresh agony. The saddle is gently lowered beyond its starting point until it's so near the floor that you're able to crawl off it; standing is quite beyond your abilities at the moment. Even in your current state, your ordeal isn't over. You still need to return to the table to sign the forms.

The idea of climbing into the chair is like scaling a mountain, but soft hands take hold of you under your armpits from behind and gently lift, helping you onto the seat, which you notice is now a backless stool, rather than the chair you're used to. A soft tissue is held to your nose and you blow loudly, realizing as you do that your helper is Diana, although you didn't notice the door open, nor hear her come in.

Mr. Brown's words wash over you when he explains what you're signing, including the details of the stimulant injection you received. You think you must be slightly delirious, because it sounds like Diana offers the disciplinarian a doughnut and he replies that you can take it home with you and bring it back tomorrow, then it's all over and she kneels at your feet to put your shoes back on, so that you don't have to do it yourself. She slides your clothes into your bag, however; vaguely you remember Simon Brown saying that you only need to spend the rest of the night topless; you can get dressed before you come to work in the morning. The HR man offers to help you to the door, but Diana has it under control and puts your bag and hers over her shoulder, before pulling your left arm around her neck and helping you to stand.

The journey to the front entrance, where a taxi is waiting for you, is decidedly awkward, especially given the difference in height between you, although the embarrassment of having your naked body pressed against Diana's clothed one is eclipsed by the terrible pain radiating from your scourged flesh.

The taxi has a removable sterile seat cover for you to lean back against safely and it doesn't add all that much to your suffering. The pressure of sitting on your awfully sore crotch area does, though. Diana puts your seat belt on first, followed by her own and then the minicab sets off. The driver, a sympathetic looking older man, already knows where to take you and you realize Diana must have arranged all this while you were being flogged.

Your throat is so raw from shrieking that you can't say anything, so you make the short journey in silence and when you arrive at your flat, Diana once again eschews an offer of assistance, insisting on helping you to your door by herself. She must have taken your keys out of your bag at some point, because she lets the two of you in whilst holding you up with her other hand. Kicking the door shut, she takes you straight to the bedroom, lying you face down.

"Don't worry," she murmurs into your ear, "I'm just going to put some more disinfectant on your back, but it's not looking too bad, I promise you. It's really going to sting, but afterwards I'll put some cream on your bum. And elsewhere…"

You lie exhausted while she bangs around in your bathroom for a minute, then comes back. She was right about the stinging and when she applies the spray it's only your hoarseness that stops you making enough noise to annoy the neighbours.

"You're so brave," she whispers. "At least you didn't swear like Nora from accounts! Thirty-six lashes for stealing rubber bands upped to a hundred and forty-four for foul language." She laughs and even in your current state it melts your heart a little. Then she takes a jar of cream and starts to gently rub it into your battered and welted bottom.

"I'll leave your back for now," she says as she works the beautifully cooling cream into your bruised muscles, "but I bet it'll have healed enough by tomorrow for me to put something on it." She continues to massage the back of your thighs and goes on down to your feet, carefully taking your shoes off and stowing them under the bed. You had forgotten how much those narrow rails had dug into your tender soles, but Diana's healing hands soon soothe away the residual aches and stiffness. She returns to your bottom, this time gently moving your legs apart so she can get her fingers between them and ever so gently assuage the pain still assailing your punished pudenda.

Clearly Diana has done this before. Her touch is so light that it doesn't aggravate the abrasions and bruises afflicting your fanny and it's only after the continuous rhythmical circular motions have lulled you into calmness that she progresses to slide her fingers along the edge of your lips, where Dave explored you much more roughly just a few hours earlier.

Your body hurts so much and you're so exhausted that you can't imagine any erotic overtones right now, even if such an encounter with Diana would be your fondest wish, but she continues patiently, until she has coated the whole of your sex with the wonderful cream.

"Do you need the loo?" she asks and you realize that you do, although you're in no shape to get there. Somehow, even though you don't have the strength to reply, she understands and tells you that she'll fetch a bowl. After she returns, she drags your legs and hips off the bed (thankfully the front of your body has escaped punishment so far) and holds some vessel for you to empty your bladder into. The pale liquid burns as it leaves your body and Diana dries you cautiously but thoroughly, before lifting you back onto the bed and going to empty the bowl.

"Why don't we try to get you a bit more comfortable, so you can get some sleep?" she asks rhetorically. You want to tell her that you're in too much pain to sleep, but you're not even strong enough to do that, so you just lie there while she sits by your head and starts fiddling with your hair, which still feels drawn uncomfortably taut after whatever Simon Brown did with the vacuum cleaner device earlier. At first, she seems to be pulling on it even more, but then it starts to loosen bit by bit and finally your guest spreads your long hair out onto the pillow beside you, making sure not to get it on your back.

You hear a clatter from your bedside table and briefly open your eyes to see a plastic ring and a couple of pins lying there, apparently having been used to hold your hair in a tight bun during the whipping.

"You rest and I'll still be here when you wake up," Diana whispers into your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

You hear her getting undressed and then she climbs into bed beside you and starts to gently caress your arms, sides, and legs (inside and out), waiting for the moment when tiredness overcomes pain and you're able to fall into a fitful sleep.

You don't know how long you're able to rest, but fresh agony searing through you brings you back to wakefulness. Diana doesn't complain, fetching a flannel to moisten your face and some ice cubes from the freezer for your aching throat. Then she gets back in bed, lying close to you for the reassurance physical contact brings, while she applies the rest of the cream to the spots that are causing you the most pain. When the jar is empty (all too soon), she melts ice in her hand, allowing the cooling water to drip onto your blazing skin.

You fall back into a disturbed slumber, wakening repeatedly through the night as your back hurts worse and worse, even as the torment in your bum and crotch seems to have reached a plateau. Every time, Diana is there for you, rocking you back to sleep when she can. Eventually, however, she tells you it's time to be getting up, because it will take you much longer than usual to get ready and you really can't afford to be late to work, today of all days.

The thought of having to return to work in your current state fills you with dread, but you know that a whipping isn't any excuse for taking a sick day, so you let Diana help you out of the bed and onto your knees; you're still far too weak to stand unaided. It turn out she's already run you a cool bath and she supports you while you crawl into the bathroom and half-lifts you into the tub, where you remain on hands and knees while she brushes the lather over your tortured skin with her hands. The fact that the soap doesn't irritate your back half as much as the disinfectant did last night reassures you that you're healing, although the pain is definitely worse rather than better.

A buzz from your external doorbell calls your beautiful companion away and the haze of agony puts paid to any curiosity on your part regarding who might be calling at this early hour. You hear voices briefly and then the front door shutting and Diana returns, a large cardboard box under one arm. She fetches a pair of scissors from your bathroom cabinet and slits it open, taking out two jars of the same cream she used on you last night. The box looks big enough for about another six inside and you hope that's not an indication of how much help Diana thinks you'll need to recover from your ordeal.

You must be improving more than you thought, because you're aware enough to ask where they came from and receive the reply that Diana ordered them last night on her 'phone with emergency delivery. You insist on paying her back, but she says she'll split it with you as she needs a refill herself, then she rinses you gently with tepid water squeezed from a sponge. You'd like to wash your hair, which feels sticky with perspiration, but you don't really have time to dry and style it and you suppose it will last one more day, so you let Diana tie it into a bun much looser than the one from last night.

Diana raises you to your feet for the first time today and you manage to stand while she pats you dry with the fluffiest towel she can find, before leading you back to the bedroom for more soothing cream. This time, she starts at your feet, which is a relief, since even the short stint on them reminded you how much they hurt after your whipping. She moves your legs apart so that she can sit between them to massage your thighs, digging her thumbs in a little to loosen your aching muscles at the expense of temporarily greater discomfort. You try to stifle your groans of anguish, lest she think you're not grateful for her ministrations, but she just coos reassuringly, telling you that everything is going to be alright.

For a while, it is. She moves to the side and is able to apply a coating of cream to your back with the lightest of touches, confirming that it has fully healed, although it is still a mass of throbbing weals and burning abrasions. She doesn't rub the cream in yet, instead returning to your horribly caned buttocks and the cleft between them, running her fingers down and around your aching sex, massaging you tirelessly until she feels you start to respond to her treatment.

Unlike last night, the idea of eroticism is not entirely quenched by the agony pulsating through your nether regions and Diana is very much aware of this, teasing you with feathery caresses until your lips begin to part of their own accord, revealing your moist core, glistening with the tell-tale evidence of your arousal. The pain is still there, but now almost adds to the pleasure, rather than overpowering it. Diana continues, dipping her fingers into your wetness and swirling it around your intimate folds. Your breathing deepens, the suffering of the past twelve hours lifting off you moment by moment.

Your guest's skilled fingertips find your clitoris shyly poking out of its protective lair, stirring you to passion you would have thought impossible and involuntarily, you begin to grind your hips into the bed covers.

"No, Jenna," Diana speaks for the first time since her attention became sensual. "You know if you cum, it'll just make you more sensitive. You need to stay aroused to help you cope with the pain, but keep away from the peak."

You groan with disappointment, but nod in agreement, knowing she's right. As much as you would love to succumb to her caresses, you need the natural pain relief of unfulfilled desire far more. She return to her self imposed task, stirring you to passion with one hand whilst she starts to massage in the cream on your back with the other.

Her plan clearly works, as you'd never have been able to stand it without the benefits of arousal, but all too soon she finishes and her talented digits withdraw from your sex. She brings her hand to her face for a moment, savouring your scent, then offers it to you to lick clean, which you instinctively do, blushing when you realize exactly what sort of impression you must be giving to the object of your desire. She doesn't seem to mind, though, judging by the smile on her face.

You don't have much time for anything more, unfortunately, so you allow Diana to help you into your clothes and then manage to make your way into the bathroom under your own steam to clean your teeth and use the lavatory while she gets dressed, herself. Diana picked out a plain white blouse and loose brown skirt for you, together with ankle socks and no underwear, to which you plan to add a pair of low heels to add a little extra formality to the ensemble. For her own part, she's content to wear the same outfit as yesterday, having rinsed out her underwear in your sink some time while you were resting. She borrows your toothbrush and then it's time for you to limp awkwardly outside and head into the office.