Yes, right now

"I am very disappointed, Imogen." Your words are like a bombshell for the young stunner. "I expect you to make your best efforts when tipping and that performance was not acceptable."

The brunette is shaking like a leaf and starting to hyperventilate as the nightmare prospect of further chastisement flits through her mind. It's clear that she can't take much more and you're tired in any case, but this certainly needs to be addressed, so you drag yourself from your bunk and over to the spanking cabinet you noticed earlier. You select an appropriate set of straps and use two of them to secure your unresisting maid's ankles to the top of your headboard, spreading her legs wide and obscenely exposing the pink estuary of her sex. A third restrains her hands behind her back and a fourth passes between her teeth, lest she bite her tongue when the punishment begins.

Lifting the now-familiar quirt once more, you slice it firmly and quickly onto the yet-untouched flesh of her inner thigh. Each blow elicits a shudder and a howl of agony, a livid ridge testament to the effectiveness of this particular implement.

After six, you move to the other thigh, this time working your way right down to the cleft of her hip, before returning to finish the first leg with a further six relentless strokes. Imogen's muscles tense ineffectually, the straps preventing her from bringing her legs together or protecting herself in any way. You glance at her face and see that she is still fully conscious and staring back at you with the unmistakable look of abject terror in her eyes.

You resume the punishment by whipping her pudenda, laying on the lashes at an angle to ensure that the sensitive edges of her lips take the brunt of the impact. The noises Imogen is making are animalistic, inhuman, and her legs are going into spasm, which makes your aim far trickier. You reach down and pull back the hood of her clitoris to expose the tiny nub within. At first, the hood slips back into place, but you persist and eventually it stays in place. At once you try to strike it with the whippy tip of the quirt, but your subject's gyrations are such that you miss, scouring her mound instead.

The hood snaps back into place and you realize that this isn't going to work, so you return to the cabinet and select a small plastic clip attached to a fairly heavy weight. You snap the clip onto Imogen's clitoral hood and allow the weight to pull it back, leaving her laid bare and unprotected. The helpless girl can do nothing but howl and thrash in agony and you're **** to wait for her to absorb the pain caused by the vicious little clamp before you can complete the whipping. Finally, she begins to tire, her movements less intense. Again, you swing the quirt and on this occasion, you are successful, the tough material striking fragile flesh. Imogen shrieks, the pitch of her cry climbing until she is wracked by a silent scream.

Her clitoris has swollen so much that it can no longer hide behind its inadequate protection and turned deep maroon in colour, making it an irresistible target for a second attempt.

This is just as accurate as the first, but the **** sob of anguish it produces is scarcely more piteous than the earlier howls, leading you to conclude that your grad-student has already reached the limits of her suffering and that any further chastisement would be ineffectual.

Accordingly, you release the tortured girl and return the straps and weighted clip to the cabinet. When you yank the clamp from her clit hood, it causes one final paroxysm, but by the time you've finished, Imogen is lying limp on the bed, shallow breaths interspersed with whines of torment. You wish you could enjoy her irresistible body once more, but you're totally spent, so that joy will have to wait. With any luck, time will make her even more tender as the bruising comes out, ensuring that your sexual demands will cause even greater misery and distress.

"That's enough for tonight. You can leave my tip on the dining room table when you leave, but clean up the cellar before you go, please. Quietly!"

The young grad-student is actually crying with relief as she drags herself from the bed, but when her feet touch the floor, she realizes that her flogged thighs are too sore to support her weight and she collapses to the floor. Rather than give you a chance to castigate her further, she crawls from the room and down the stairs, fulfilling your admonition not to make any noise which might disturb you. Indeed, so exhausted are you after your thrilling day that you're asleep as soon as you wriggle between the covers.