From the book The Girl In The Golden Mask by Reece Gabriel, we have Karen spying through a door upon the punishment of a careless housemaid:
Karin watched as Anya lifted her head for the Count to take the cane. Dramatically, he waved it through the air, testing its mettle.
Next he held it up to her face with his white-gloved hand, giving her a chance to kiss it. Her lips went obediently to the bamboo, pressing, making love to it.
“Up,” he ordered, satisfied at her act of obeisance.
She rose to her knees, back straight, breasts thrust out. Her responsiveness was like that of a well-trained dog.
Anya made no attempt to protect herself as he poked her nipple. “Where shall we beat you today?” he asked, as though they were about to embark on a ride in the park.
“My body belongs to Master,” she said in a slightly high-pitched voice.
He lifted her chin with the tip of the cane. “Is that the answer I want?”
“N-no, Master.” Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Where shall we beat you today?” he repeated.
The frail blonde trembled, her full bosom looking so much more vulnerable on her small frame. “On…on my b—breasts,” she stuttered.
“Are you begging me, Anya?”
She nodded. “P—please, Master, beat my breasts?”
The look on Anya’s face told Karin that this was the last thing Anya wanted. Karin could only imagine how badly such a thing would hurt.
The Count smiled sadistically. “Your wish is my command, girl. Hold them up for me.”
Anya cradled her tits, molding them and lifting them. Karin saw the marks, faded but very much real. This would not be first time. Perhaps this was a ritual, being made to plead for what she hated most?
Incredibly, Anya’s nipples were erect, despite the pain they were about to receive—or was it because of the pain?
The Count tapped his slave’s shoulder. “You will count, Anya.”
The cane sliced the air, landing viciously on Anya’s left tit. “One,” she arched her back, teeth clenched, eyes closed.
A welt rose immediately, just above her delicate areola.
“Two,” she moaned as he delivered a savage blow to the right tit.
“Hold them higher,” he commanded. “Push up your nipples.”
Anya obeyed, setting herself up for even worse torture. Her breasts were like ripe fruit, born to be seized and owned.
She screamed as he lashed out at both nipples at once, a deadly accurate blow sideways against the sensitive pink nubs.
“I’m waiting,” he said coldly.
“T—three,” she sputtered, realizing her error.
“Too late.” The Count struck at her back. Anya doubled over, making a low, groaning noise. The Count continued to deliver thwacks along her spine until she righted herself, once more proffering her young breasts for abuse. Tears streamed down her face.
The cane sliced through the air, no mercy, no respite. Anya was the picture of discipline, her face locked in an expression of acquiescence. “Four,” she proclaimed, her voice belying the terrible horror.