The room beyond was smaller than the examination room, but much more frightening. In the center stood what I knew with a sudden dizziness had to be a whipping bench—a padded surface angled to present someone’s bottom at the perfect height and angle. Webbing restraints like the ones fitted to the exam table dangled from various points on the frame.
“No,” I whispered. “Please… I’ll…”
But Hank was already guiding me to the bench with firm, inexorable pressure. His massive hand on my shoulder pressed me forward until I had no choice but to bend over the padded surface. The angle forced my bottom up and out, and I felt my face burn with the knowledge of how I must look.
“I’m going to secure you now,” he told me matter-of-factly, “to keep you from getting in the way or hurting yourself.”
His hands moved to the restraints. My heart pounded as I felt the webbing tighten again around my wrists, securing them to the front legs of the bench. Hank put the waist strap over my back, cinching it tight enough that I couldn’t lift my torso. Ankle cuffs kept my legs in place.
“Please,” I tried again, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’ll cooperate, I promise?—”
Hank didn’t respond. His huge hands went to the waistband of my jeans, I tried instinctively to twist away as I felt him work his fingers under my hips, so close to the place that the nurse had bared, but the belt prevented it. I felt him unfasten the button. He lowered the zipper. He worked the denim down over my hips, down my thighs, until the jeans pooled around my ankles above my sneakers.
When I felt his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties I cried out.
“Stop! You… you can’t!” I yelled, trying to turn my face back over my shoulder as if my red face and my tears would stop him.
He didn’t even look at me as he tugged them down to join my jeans. To my horror, I could feel the cool air against my shaved privates. I was bare from the waist down, bent over this horrible bench, completely exposed.
“No, please—” My voice came out as a whimper.
I heard Hank’s footsteps as he moved away, then the sound of a cabinet opening. When he returned, he stepped into my line of vision, holding a long, thin rod of polished rattan. A cane. Oh, god, he was going to cane me.
“This is a standard disciplinary cane,” Hank said, his voice taking on an almost instructional quality. “Six strokes for a first correction. You’ll count each one aloud. If you fail to count, or if you count incorrectly, we start over. Do you understand?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. The sight of that horrible implement, the knowledge of what was about to happen, made my mind go blank with terror.
“Do you understand?” he repeated, his tone hardening.
“Yes,” I managed to choke out.
He moved behind me, out of my line of sight. I heard the whistle of the cane cutting through the air—a practice stroke, I realized with mounting dread—and then nothing. The silence stretched out, and I found myself tensing, waiting, every muscle in my body coiled tight.
That’s when the shameful heat hit me.
It flooded through my body like a wave, starting low in my belly and spreading outward until I felt like I might combust. My newly bare pussy throbbed with need, and I realized with absolute horror that I was getting wet. Aroused by the idea of being whipped by a huge man I’d never met before today.
I was bent over, exposed, my bottom raised, and the realization hit me with fresh mortification that my pussy must be visible between my thighs despite how close together my knees were. The position forced the cleft of my pussy up and back, and with my legs restrained, there was no way to hide. Worse, I could feel wetness gathering, could feel myself getting slicker by the second. Oh, god, I was dripping. I had to be dripping. He could probably see everything.
The first stroke of the cane landed with a crack that echoed through the room.
White-hot pain exploded across my bottom, so intense I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I’d never felt anything like it—a line of fire searing into my flesh.
“Count,” Hank’s voice came from behind me, flat and unyielding.
“One!” I gasped, my voice breaking into a sob.
The second stroke landed parallel to the first, and this time I screamed. The pain built on itself, the succeeding strike somehow worse than the last.
“Two!” I cried out, tears streaming down my face now.
The third stroke caught me lower, right across the fullest part of my bottom, and I bucked against the restraints. But even as I sobbed and struggled, that shameful heat intensified. The pain and the arousal twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart, and I felt myself getting wetter, felt my pussy clenching around nothing.
“Three,” I whimpered.
Number four landed at the crease where my bottom met my thighs, and I shrieked. My hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding against the padded bench, and oh, god, that friction against my aching clit?—
“Four!” The word came out strangled.
