Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 87050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I pictured Lydia approaching the whipping horse on her bare feet. I heard the creak of leather-covered wood as she positioned herself, and then the clink of the buckles as Dr. Porter strapped her down, immobile and helplessly offered for her correction.
Dr. Porter’s voice cut through the hushed room, his tone stern and disapproving. “Miss Lydia, I see the marks from yesterday’s caning are still quite visible on your bottom. I had hoped that lesson would have been sufficient to curb your willful behavior, but it seems I was mistaken.”
I heard Lydia’s soft whimper, imagining her shame as Dr. Porter examined her still-punished backside. The headmaster continued, his words sending a chill down my spine.
“Given that you were the instigator of last night’s misconduct, and considering your lazy and careless piano practice today, your punishment will be more severe. You will receive twelve strokes, Miss Lydia, with your governor set to level one.”
My breath caught in my throat at his pronouncement. Twelve strokes, and with her governor so low that she would feel every nuance of the pain. I couldn’t help but picture Lydia’s face, imagining the fear and dread that must be etched across her delicate features.
There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by Lydia’s shaky breathing and the soft beep of Dr. Porter’s handheld as he adjusted her governor. Then came the familiar whoosh of the cane cutting through the air, followed by a sharp crack as it connected with Lydia’s flesh.
Lydia’s scream was immediate and heart-wrenching, the sound tearing through the quiet room. I flinched against the wall, my own bottom clenching in sympathy and sending fresh waves of pain through my body.
Before Lydia’s cry had fully faded, the cane whistled through the air again. Another crack, another agonized scream. Dr. Porter set a relentless pace, not pausing between strokes or offering any words of admonishment. There was only the terrible rhythm of the punishment—the whistle of the cane, the crack of impact, and Lydia’s screams of pain.
As the horrible punishment continued, I found myself growing almost dizzy with the confusion of thoughts and feelings that flooded my chest, my tummy, and worst of all the parts below. Each crack of the cane against Lydia’s flesh made me flinch, my own welts throbbing in sympathy. Yet beneath the fear and empathy, I felt an undeniable current of arousal building within me.
My governor worked continuously, sending constant tingles through my most intimate areas as it struggled to curb my shameful need. The sensation only served to heighten my awareness of my body—of how powerless I was, hands atop my head and punished bottom on display. I bit my lip hard, trying to focus on the cool plaster against my forehead rather than the heat building between my thighs.
Lydia’s screams filled the room. I knew I shouldn’t be able to think of my own needs, but I found my mind drifting once again to Gamma. I tried to concentrate on the feeling of his presence, and suddenly it was as if I could see through his eyes. The image in my mind became startlingly clear—Lydia’s pale bottom, striped with angry red welts, rising to meet each stroke of Dr. Porter’s cane. I could almost feel Gamma’s fascination, his body responding to the sight of Lydia’s punishment just as it had to mine.
With each crack of the cane, I felt a jolt of what I was certain was Gamma’s arousal. His desire seemed to pulse in time with my own need, growing stronger as Lydia’s whipping progressed. I sensed his appreciation for Dr. Porter’s skill, noting how each stroke landed with perfect precision, layering new welts atop the old.
Through Gamma’s eyes, I saw how Lydia’s bottom clenched and unclenched between strokes, the muscles quivering in anticipation of the next blow. I noticed details I would have missed from my own perspective—the way her toes curled against the leather of the whipping horse, how her chestnut hair had fallen forward to partially obscure her tearstained face.
As the punishment neared its end, I felt what seemed to be Gamma’s mounting excitement. The strokes of the cane drew increasingly desperate cries from Lydia, and I sensed Gamma’s satisfaction at seeing and hearing the evidence of a lesson well learned.
His arousal seemed to peak as Dr. Porter delivered another stroke, laying it diagonally across the others in a way that made Lydia shriek in agony. I saw it through his eyes: how her punished backside squirmed desperately, how the lewd movement showed the watching gentlemen her bare cunny and even a glimpse of her tiny pink anus.
How her glistening need, despite the action of her governor, showed there, seeping from the virgin sheath where her husband would someday make a woman of her. I felt my eyes go wide, because I would never have noticed that—or, if I had, I would have persuaded myself I hadn’t truly seen it. Gamma had definitely seen it, though, and I could hear in his thoughts a kind of understanding I didn’t have: the sort of thing I wanted so desperately for him to teach me.