She wets herself

Again and again you slash the vicious quirt into your student's silken flesh, building a crescendo of agony breathtaking in its intensity. **** sobs and wails alternate with periods of inaudible speech, as if Imogen is praying or trying to give herself encouragement, writhing helplessly beneath your relentless onslaught.

The quirt is light, but the **** of impact is still sufficient to test Imogen to the limit and as the skin begins to peel from between her shoulder blades, a particularly effective lash proves too much and she loses control of her bladder, releasing a pungent yellow stream over the table and onto the engineered wood floor.

"Oh, no! I'm sorry. Please, no." With a supreme effort, Imogen cuts off the flow at once, but the damage is done.

"This is not acceptable," you say, solemnly, "but since you only let out a squirt, I will give you one more chance. If you can lick up all your mess within one minute, then I will tie you to the whipping post in the cellar and give you double the remaining strokes, that's one hundred and seventy-four. But if you mess up again, I will whip you from the tips of your fingers to the ends of your toes."

Imogen lets out a wail and starts to sob so wretchedly that both books fall from her hands, but she sets to work at once, putting her tongue and lips to work sucking and licking at the vile liquid. In just forty seconds, the table and floor are spotless and you lead the whipped young woman to her fate.