The tawse

You carefully measure the distance to April's palms, lift the tawse over your shoulder and swing it down to impact her left hand with the flexible tips. You follow through to ensure that the full **** of the strike is imparted to her delicate flesh and from the shocked expression on her tear-stained face, the pain is far greater than she expected. Without pause, you raise the tawse once more, to continue the chastisement, twice, thrice, four and five times, each on the same palm.

With each lash, the three-tailed strap makes a journey of more than three hundred and sixty degrees, from hanging vertically behind your shoulder around in a circle to end up facing backwards beyond your thigh. With every blow, April's reactions become more pronounced, from whimpers to stifled wails of agony. The rapidity of your **** leaves no time for her to internalize the pain and she is soon beginning to squirm, willpower alone keeping her hand in place to receive the next punishing stroke.

After five, you change to her right hand; it offended just as much as her left and you will not spare it, despite the difficulty it will cause the young student in completing her work with a scourged palm.

*SNAP* "Oh!" *SNAP* "Ooooh!" *SNAP* "Aaah!" *SNAP* "Aieee!" *SNAP* "Aaargh-ah-ha-ha-aaargh!"

Both the tortured girl's arms are shaking so much that it is getting difficult for you to aim and you sternly order her to straighten up.

"I'm—" a spate of sobs interrupts her words, "so sorry," more uncontrollable misery, "Professor." But still she shakes.

You take hold of her left hand, which is blazing hot from the friction with the tawse, and bend her fingers back to tighten the skin on the centre of her palm. You give five short strikes upon the **** flesh, causing April to writhe in agony.

"These don't count against the total," you inform her, switching hands. "When you're ready to hold still, we'll continue the strapping."

"I'll do it, I'll be good," Aprils words are almost unintelligible through the bawling, her shoulders heaving, but you release your grip on her fingers and return to your starting position.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

You begin once more, but this time there will be ten smacks before you change hands.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

April is bracing her hands together, little-finger to little-finger, in an effort to hold her position.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

With each strike, April's fingers curl up momentarily and are then opened to receive the next, her wails degenerating into one long, low whine of anguish.

*SNAP* "Keep them flat," you admonish, before changing your target once more. *SNAP* *SNAP*

"Flat, young lady, or we'll be starting over."

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

In desperation, the contrite brunette arches her hands backwards, exposing herself to even greater suffering. She is leaning forward, as though this will somehow ease her torment, necessitating that she lift her arms higher to maintain her hands in the same position. You think she looks like a supplicant, praying for deliverance, but receiving only rigid and unyielding discipline.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

April's palms appear swollen and raw, her face ravaged by unending tears. When you take aim at her left hand once more, the poor girl descends into complete hysterics, scarcely able to believe that her punishment is not yet over.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

You have growing respect for the tawse; it is light and easy enough to wield at speed for a considerable time without exhausting you, but the pain it inflicts builds to a crescendo of agony comparable to any paddle or cane.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

April pulls her hand away, jiggling it as if to shake off the burning ache, but thrusts it back into place before you can say anything.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

"Oh, no," she whimpers, "not from the beginning, oh please no, not that."

"Five more for flinching," you say to reassure her, although she seems anything but reassured.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

For a moment, you think she is going to pull away again, but she controls herself and you transfer your attentions to her right hand once again.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

April buries her face in her upper arm, actually biting her bicep in an effort to stifle her cries.

"Stop that. Behave with some decorum."

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

Your student looks at you pleadingly, hair matted unflatteringly to her face, her whole body sweating with the effort of submitting to your cruel demands.

*SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP* *SNAP*

The flesh on the poor brunette's palms is starting to abrade and you know you can't continue much longer without risking injury, but you test her resolve by lining the tawse up as if to continue with her left hand once again. The helpless teen does not resist, now weeping almost silently, too spent with exhaustion even to scream. Her hands are terribly swollen, strapped raw, her wrists also bearing the signs of when your lashes came slightly too close to her body.

"Alright, that'll do. Get back over the table and we'll finish your caning."

"Thank-you for strapping my hands, Professor," she whispers between wheezing breaths, returning gingerly to her position. When it comes to placing her palms flat on the table, she lets out a trembling whine, but otherwise shows no reaction to her terrible ordeal.

You swap the tawse for the cane and place six livid weals upon the back of her thighs. Each stroke elicits a grunt and a slight movement, followed by a quavering expression of thanks, but in comparison with the thrashing she has just received, the agony of the rod is no longer unendurable and she takes the six as well as you could wish. As you return the cane to the rack on the wall, you notice that April is no longer crying, possibly because she simply has no tears left to shed.