Beatrice's six of the best (and Vesna)

Vesna is the first through the door with a warm greeting for you, carefully manoeuvring an instrument case almost as tall as she is after her. From the shape and size, you would assume that it contains a double bass, although you notice that a white plastic label near the handle bears the legend This piccolo belongs to Vesna Țurcan. She conscientiously rests her case in the corner, taking pains to ensure it won't fall or slip, whilst her tute-partner enters after her, seemingly no less happy to be here, although she must know that she will be baring her bottom for six of the best very soon.

The girls get set up efficiently, but remain standing, waiting for your instructions. Taking the appropriate cane from the rack, you tell Beatrice to adopt the position and she instantly bends over, lifting her gauzy black tulip skirt to her waist in the same movement, to reveal a pair of bounteous olive-skinned buttocks devoid of any signs of recent chastisement. At the same time, her demeanour changes from cheerful to sombre, although not obviously unhappy.

"I'm sorry my work wasn't to the required standard, Professor," she begins, without prompting. "Please may I have half a dozen strokes to punish me for my unacceptable failure and remind me of the importance of doing better in future."

Murmuring your acquiescence, you walk around behind her to the appropriate place and draw your arm back over your shoulder to lash the merciless rod across her rounded cheeks with as much **** as you can muster. A swiftly indrawn breath tells you that the stroke has certainly had an impact, although the young lady on the receiving end bravely doesn't move a muscle, as a dark horizontal line is raised upon her rump, a band of redness spreading on either side.

"Thank-you for the first stroke, Professor." She sounds genuinely grateful. "Please may I have the second."

You admire the elegance of the curvaceous woman before you, stretched taut from shiny black stiletto-clad tiptoe to naked hip, back arched, breasts almost spilling out of her skirt-matching blouse onto the tabletop. Your second stroke is just as hard, only slightly below the first, but elicits no response apart from the ritual words, even the slight gasp from before now ruthlessly suppressed in the effort to endure the well-deserved punishment with stoicism.

After taking a moment to inspect your handiwork (and rest your arm), you resume with a third blow, again just slightly below the previous one and a few seconds later, the fourth, right at the crease between buttock and thigh.

"Four, thank-you, Professor." There's no hesitation in the brunette's response. "Please may I have the fifth stroke."

Again, you take a breather to gather your strength, running the tip of the cane up and down her cheeks, savouring the sensation of the rod catching on the stiffening ridges you've raised on her formerly unblemished rump. You lay on the fifth stroke diagonally, cutting across the previous four and for the first time, a slight tremor runs through the shapely twenty year old in front of you, although her voice is still steady when she thanks you.

With the final stripe, you cross the earlier weals in the other direction, to make a livid cross upon the lower half of Beatrice's beautiful buttocks. You stand back and smile, pleased with your exacting work, despite the growing ache in your shoulder.

"Thank-you for the sixth stroke, Professor! I'm so sorry I didn't try hard enough and I promise to do better. Thank-you ever so much for taking the trouble to punish me so effectively—that was the hardest sixer I've ever had—I really hope you'll allow me to show my gratitude, somehow."

It's only when you saunter back around the table to return the cane that you see Beatrice's face is a mask of tears, her eyes puffy with crying, because she gave no indication during the thrashing that she was in such distress. You're impressed by her circumspection and can't resist congratulating her on her deportment before deciding how to have her express her thanks more tangibly.