Thrash it out of her

If it's the anticipation of a spanking that's causing Imogen's nerves, then perhaps the best thing is to get it over with and give her the flogging she's afraid of getting. You begin by abruptly ordering her out of her clothes and she jumps to obey instantly, standing in all her naked magnificence before you with her scanty garments neatly folded on her chair, in half the time you expected. Her svelte body certainly does not disappoint; although you acknowledge that many men would find the intensity of marks from her previous chastisement off-putting, to you they do nothing but enhance her ineffable beauty.

"Imogen," you say, crossing the room to the implement rack, "fear of punishment should always be at the back of a girl's mind, but she should never let it affect her adversely. Now," you select a particularly heavy tawse, "if I think you're letting your nerves get the better of you, I'll strap you, do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor, thank-you, Professor." Paradoxically, she seems almost relieved that the thing she feared is about to happen and she no longer has to worry about it.

"Tiptoes and hands on your head," you instruct brightly and your student complies obligingly, interlinking her fingers, palm up, in exactly the way you prefer.

It's not long before you get the chance to employ the implement you've chosen. Imogen replies to a question a little too quickly, almost gabbling in her eagerness to supply you with the answer you seek. The tawse is quite short, but wide and thick, making it (you hope) particularly effective at reigniting the agony of the weals covering her tender flesh.

You crack the supple leather across the underside of one breast and her prominent ribs, the **** of the blow making her sway, then without pause, swing back-handed to the other side, following it up with two more lashes, just below the first pair. The thin skin of her chest darkens at once and you're gratified to see tears already trailing down her cheeks.

"Thank-you, Professor. I'm sorry, Professor." She's whimpering slightly as she speaks.

"Just keep going and ignore the strapping," you order, a challenge at the best of times, let alone when said strapping is on top of a vicious whipping that's barely starting to heal.

Soon, you find an excuse to repeat the punishment, this time sending her pretty boobies swinging with four rapid blows, then again, moments later. By now, Imogen is panting with exertion, pain etched in her beautiful face, but you don't let up, strapping her chest again, then her flanks, just above her hips and then her thighs, twice. Her body is glowing with agony and you order her to bend over, with her legs apart, for the next set of lashes. She turns her feet to the sides and touches her toes when she does so, offering herself up most vulnerably to your excruciating caresses.

As the thrashing continues, you tolerance reduces, the slightest sign of distress or anxiety enough to warrant another four blows to buttock and thigh. You mainly go side to side, hitting the sensitive outer curves of her delightful rump, but sometimes lay on a few vertical stripes, the centre thong of the tawse alternately ravaging the cleft between her cheeks and the plump twat nestled invitingly between her legs. You feel your excitement rising at the sight of shudders running through the young woman's body with every blow, like ripples in a pond.

Sobs wrack Imogen's shoulders prettily and she finds it increasingly difficult to discuss her developing thesis to your satisfaction, which in turn leads to more pain for the helpless youngster, but eventually, you're content with the progress you've made. The shapely brunette's bottom is mottled black with bruising on top of the welts from the whipping she took a few days ago, but the whole of her body from neck to knees must be on fire from the agony you've inflicted.

While Imogen weeps quietly, you admire your handiwork and the exquisite girl that forms the canvass for your art, happily contemplating what you both know comes next.

"I think that will do," you tell your grad-student, setting aside the tawse.

"Thank-you for punishing me for being nervous, Professor," she mewls, "Please may I be permitted to show my gratitude?"