Wait for your 'fun'ishment.

You desperately want to get to know the cute elf girl better, but it will have to wait. You don't want to find out the hard way how they punish truancy in Hell. "Sorry, Sur. Can I take a rain check? This is my first class at Hela U and I really don't want to start out on the teacher's bad side. Maybe we could hang out after classes?" Sur makes a noncommittal noise and then just kind of quietly steps out of line and walks off.

In the meantime you wait...

Aaaaand waaaaaaait....

Aaaaaaaand waaaaaaaaait.....

You get the feeling that Surthara is going to be giving you the cold shoulder from now on. You wish you could be more daring and dangerous like her, but it just sounds so scary and, well, dangerous. Instead you spend a three hour lecture course waiting as one student after another goes into to room for shorter and shorter periods of time. What started as moans mixed with agony and ecstasy and left the students limping out flushed and beaming, is now a few short yelps and a look of disappointment. You tell yourself that at least by going last, your punishment will be brief, if not fulfilling.

Meanwhile you wait some more...

And then wait some moooore....

Aaaaaand then waaaaaait some moooooooore.....

Besides, pain isn't really your thing. It hurts after all. More and more you feel like you made the right decision. So why do you feel worse and worse with every slowly passing second? You have ample time to ponder the problem, but no answers beyond cute girls are good and waiting is bad, but sometimes waiting for a bad thing is better than a good thing? It doesn't get any less confusing or contradictory as you go, but at least it helps pass the time...somewhat...

And you wait even looooooooooonger...

Aaaaaaand loooooooooonger....

Aaaaaaaaaaaand looooooooooonger.....

BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIING

The bell rings just before you finally are able to enter the class. You are surprised to see that Mistress M. Alice is diminutive green skinned goblin that stands no taller than three feet five inches in heels. Still with her short but stacked physicality and her leather corset and chaps along with stilleto steel toed boots that look like they could, and have, killed, you can't help but worry that you've bitten off more than you can chew the bite sized babe. She doesn't seem to notice you as you enter the classroom. It's only when you muster the courage to cough that she looks up and says, "Did you really just vait outside viff all zee other girls hopingk to be punished for beingk tardy to a class that vas already over?"

You stare shell shocked by her Boris Karloff meets Boris Badinoff euromash accent. She parts her thick black lipstick clad lips and smiles, showing off sharp teeth and surprising warmth. "Relax, little dumpling." Mistress M. says in a softer voice, with no unidentifiable accent."I'm not some b-movie dominatrix. I'm from Hell, not Hollywood. I teach domination techniques to those brave enough to learn them. Cowards...well..." she pauses as if to allow you ample time to worry about the deep, dark 'well' and then she leaps up onto her desk like liquid lightning and looks you dead in the eyes.

You flinch even before she leans closer and she laughs again, a little harder this time. "Heh. We get at least one like you every semester. Timid little flowers too scared to bloom. Well, I'm not here to teach you courage. I'm here to teach you how to wield it. So the 'lowliest' goblin can dominate the most 'powerful' vvitch. So if you are too scared to skip a class that's already over, what am I supposed to teach you?"

You start to stammer something about not knowing the rules, but your tongue feels fat and heavy and your mind can't get past a long list of apologies you know will only make the Mistress angrier. Instead you stay silent while she looks you over and licks her lips. "Nothing to say for yourself? Well I don't have another class today, and for some strange reason I rarely get any students approach me during my office hours, so unless you have any objections, I'm going to take my time punishing you for being late."

You want to protest, but again the words catch in your throat, and all that comes out when she pulls out a thick...long...well oiled...whip, is a wet whimper. "Heh. I thought you'd like this. You flinchy little bunnies always get excited when you're scared. It's funny. All you had to do was walk away. All you still have to do is walk away. Or just utter a single syllable of objection. You know...starts with an 'N'...ends with an 'OH'. Heh, bet you are just looking forward to the second part. Well don't worry your pretty little head. I'll make sure it's worth the wait." Mistress M. lifts the whip over her head and you have one second to notice that arcane ruins appear to be written along the leather of the whip in what appears to be blood.

CRAAAAACK

The sound strikes you first, making your muscles tense and adrenaline spike. It's only when you see the whip winding back, taking drops of your blood back with it, that you feel the sudden searing sting of pain. You look down and see that the goblin has torn your blouse wide open with her well aimed blow and left a ghastly gash across the supple, sensitive skin on your breasts. The pain is excruciating, deeper and more profound than anything you have ever felt. What follows is worse...a deep aching wound where the leather lash licked your breasts. It hurts so horribly...but the hurt is a needy kind. It feels like it's been infected with some kind of longing...some kind of lust. No, not infected...poisoned!

"I love that look! Realization, dread, despair, and desire all in one. That's right my pretty pet. I've cast a lust spell on this whip...written in the potent aphrodisiac of blood of countless cuties and my own special concoctions. It won't make the blows hurt any less of course, but it will make your longing for the next cruel kiss worse than the agony of torn flesh. Then again, you could always just leave." Mistress offers you yet another chance at escape, but the burning in your breasts has already spread, first as a blush, then as a brushfire up to your suddenly rosy red cheeks and down to your loins. You stand like a deer in the headlights, a small, sick part of you looking forward to the next impact.

CRAAAAAAACK CRAAAAAAAAAACK CRAAAAAAAAAAACK

Three brutal biting blows shred your skirt and leave hot, heaving gashes across your hips. You watch as your panties flutter to the floor like torn petals and your strangled sobs of pain grow needier and naughtier as the poison seeps into your blood and your racing heart pumps it to every quivering inch of your flushed flesh. Tears stream from your wild, wide eyes and between your trembling thighs. The pain is excruciating, worse than anything you've ever felt, but the need for more of her terrible, thrilling toxins is worse. Despite the shame and sordidness of the situation. You can't stop yourself from begging, "Puh PANT PANT pleeeeeease...give muh muh MOOOAAAN more..."

CRAAAAAAAAAAACK CRAAAAAAAAAAAACK CRAAAAAAAAAAACK CRAAACK CRAAAAACK CRAAAAAAAAAAAAACK

Every piece of flimsy fabric lies shredded and stained with your blood and drooly drippings at your feet. You stand on wobbly wet legs you body a roadmap of ruby red desire lines. A tiny, timid part of you tries to convince you that you can still leave. Mistress Malice has no power over you save your own fear and weakness, but unfortunately for you, these have long been the driving forces behind your every disasterous decision. You feel like a wide open wound, a wet cunt begging to be filled. When Mistress calmly commands, "Now be a good girl and crawl over here to offer me your heart, and if you beg pretty enough, maybe I'll lick your wounds..." you are already on all fours and looking up at her 'tower' over you from on top of her desk.

She looks so beautiful from this angle. A pint sized powerhouse with full, feminine features, gentle beauty, and an air of casual cruelty. You never stood a chance. Even as you hear the words tumble from your lips, "Please, Mistress, have my heart," you know you never could have said anything else. Even as you watch her pull your pulsing, purple gem of a heart out of your heaving chest and set it aside as if just another apple from a suck up student, you know you could never have offered it to anyone else. Even as she rewards you by running her thick tongue across your wet wounds, making you feel like you are covered in climaxing cunts searing and squirting and sending you into paroxysms of pain and pleasure you know you could never hope to be anything more than a teacher's pet. Even as she spends hours torturing and titillating you and petting your pretty purple hair as you agonize and adore and moan musically as the hours melt away along with your mind, you know you'll never leave her side.

Nor would you want to...

Not until she finishes punishing you...

Which you hope she never does...

Not today...

Nor tomorrow...

Not when the stars die out forever and the only warmth left in the whole universe is in her arms and your welts...

Not even in...