“I should have buggered her,” he said morosely. “Then I wouldn't have lost it like that at the end. If I thought the clumsy fool threw me out a-purpose I'd have put her to the yard and flogged that fat ass off her. Cut her to pulp and peelings and rubbed in hot pepper and vinegar, after. It's all they understand.”
“You're insatiable, Karl, aren't you.”
“For you,” he said with sudden tenderness, “yes.”
“You must admit she showed great fortitude. She took it well.”
“Could you?”
“Yes,” said Frau Grumkow after a moment, and a light of bliss entered her otherwise rather cold blue eyes. “Now then, do you think you could give it me again? A really long drawn-out rogering, Karl. Any way so long as it's deep. After that little spectacle, I happen to feel… rather warm.”
“I'm sure I could,” he said. “But first I demand my rights. Remember your motto, my dear. Just to keep you in training, Beth.”
“Oh all right,” she consented crossly, tossing him the whalebone switch. “But make it quick. I'm randy.”
“For you I use the cane. The long one.”
“You would.”
“Come, my dear. You know 'tis twice as agreeable, after.”
“If not exactly, during. How many, Your Highness?” she asked mockingly, her fingers once more fleeing over the buttons of her breeches.
“Twelve,” he said darkly, looking at the sudden explosion of her snowy flesh. “At least, let's say…”
“I know, I know,” she said, moving to the desk with her britches at her knees now, “thirteen… the celebrated butcher's.”
“Exactly, Beth,” he said proudly. “This is going to hurt you so much more than it does me. But think of our Emperor… throughout.”
The Directress pillowed her face, after first removing her monocle, and in a quick thrill of apprehension that sent expectant shivers down her thighs awaited the onslaught of the enemy. The dark tongue of her clitoris stuck like some engorged stamen through her lips.
Maria Daunitz, meanwhile, had made her way back to her chamber as best she could. No maid had been waiting outside punishment room to accompany her, and all those still guarding the approaches of stairs and corridors had their faces turned resolutely away from the spectacle of a mistress speechlessly kneading her buttocks as she walked, as she might have kneaded dough. Still writhing with pain, she entered her room half at a run and made quickly for the closet, and its commode, to void herself as soon as possible of the burning jelly inside her. Ingeborg Untermacher watched her with a sympathetic shake of the head. She knew only too well how lost to all thoughts of dignity at such moments the female person could be.
Ten minutes later she was rubbing soothing cream into the wealed posteriors of her friend, who lay extended naked on the bed, still panting slightly.
“Never till now,” said Maria Daunitz, in a half-laughing paraphrase of the young Prince Frederick's comment on having been thrashed to blood by his father, “has a Brandenburg bottom been so disgraced.”
In fact, as Inge's fingers slid over greased hams, she felt a pleasant warmth more than anything, a sense of relaxation that was psychological as well as physical.
“That Duty cane's a brute,” agreed her friend with a soft chuckle beside her, “but she didn't have to hit you this hard. Heavens, some of these weals on the right are thick as fingers…”
“Ouch… easy…”
“Open your legs a little bit, darling.”
“Inge. She didn't hit me th-there.”
“Sssh, dear. Just lie still. It always helps, after.”
“Inge, what are you doing?”
But Maria, crimsoning, knew well enough. The answering buck of her loins betrayed her as she tried to reach back and push those pushing fingers away. For the older mistress' experienced thumbs were rolling up the oiled and spongy tissue inside the thighs, inside the cheeks, inside the… inside… Surprised, even alarmed at her own reaction, Maria Daunitz tried to clamp her legs shut. But it was no use. The surge of sensation had started to happen, her depths were rising, her legs unjoining…
“Inge, please. I'm… I'm…”
“I know you are, darling,” came the soothing whisper from behind, “just let go and let it come.”
“But I've never…”
“I know. And when it comes it'll go on… and on… there… and on… for ever!”
Maria moaned, suddenly burying her face in the pillow and clawing it to her. Her hips jacked up like a beast's in heat, as if belonging to someone else, as the volted spasm responded to those seeking thumbs in her guts, in her soul, in her essence of womanhood that boiled to the writhing stub of flesh being so skilfully manipulated by the mistress.
If Fraulein Wedell was rinsing her body off with clear, cold water, preparatory to lying on her stomach all night, one figure in bed in an upper dormitory was doing just that. Under the horsehair Army blankets Monika Vorst lay on her belly with her nightgown around her waist. In the darkness the row of beds were silent, for no talking was permitted after “Lights Out.” Least of all, in Dormitory “D.”
Only the Praelictors were allowed to retire later and the bed of this dorm Prae, on its raised dais or platform at one end, was still empty.
There had been much bright-eyed excitement when Monika had rejoined her Dorm to go to bed that night. She had been careful to cool off the worst of her pain in the so-called Groves, or lavatories, outside, before rejoining her comrades in this short half-hour of pre-bed merriment. Wandering in feigning nonchalance-for stoicism was a status matter with all at Rutenberg-Maria had at once been surrounded by half a dozen ogling girls, in various stages of undress.
“Did you get it again?… Oooh, let's see… another eight!.. who was it from?… Daunitz, the new mistress?… is she tight?… oh do let's see…”
They crowded round, ooohing and aaahing, as Monika with fake indifference kicked off her panty-knicks and let them raise her skirt and examine the marks behind. The streaked bottom seemed to arouse considerable respect in even the most experienced.
“Good Lord, Monika, I wouldn't have liked to be you. You're absolutely black for at least two inches on the right. And this one…”
“That was Wedell. Hey, don't press it, if you please.”
“Her whole bottom's covered.”
“Sixteen!”
“Are you going to ask permission to stand tomorrow?”
“It really is a beautifully beaten bottom”-this from Barbara Mack. Monika gave her a smile.
“What was Daunitz like? Did she hit very hard?”
“I thought so.” She contrived to stifle a yawn. “Now if you wouldn't mind… I want to sit in some cold water for a minute, please…”
In the darkness between her bed and that of Barbara Mack now something glimmered palely. Quickly Monika Vorst reached out and accepted the offering. It was a six-inch stretch of bone, slightly slimy. Barbara had been using it first. Monika inserted the phallus at once. It slid up her vagina instantly. She had to work quickly and carefully. The slightest suspicion of a stain on her sheet and she would be up before the Matron next morning and what she'd had this evening would be child's play, by comparison. She lifted her hips a little, but not too much, in case she might be seen from the open door. Suddenly she hissed. In a very few seconds this was going to be total heaven. And was. Gosh, it was almost worth getting a beating sometimes, if only for that glory of ecstasy after.
“Good?” whispered Barbara Mack, re-accepting the even slimier length of bone.
“Bliss,” murmured Monika Vorst and, turning over, she fell asleep almost instantly.
Chapter Four
Reveille rang from the cavalry barracks across the wind-whipped plain, and promptly as it did so, at six o'clock each morning save the Sabbath, a bell clanged in the upper corridors of Schloss Rutenberg. A new day had dawned for its pensionaires. Matrone Steinkopf announced Aufstehen with a huge copper bell, walking past one Dormitory after another, and
every girl except the Prefects had to be out of bed by the time it was silent.
So there was much rubbing of sleepy eyes and tousled heads as the girls jumped out of bed, threw off their cozy nighties and made naked, all in a jiggling jostle of toasted girl-flesh, for the wash-room adjoining their individual Dormitory. Here each had to take a cold bath in a wooden tub which would be, as winter wore on, crusted with ice at the start. It was a merry moment again, of pushing and giggling maidens in prime condition, and the Prefect in charge, lying a few seconds longer in her raised bed, would wonder how many more of those chubby bottoms would have neat lines ruled on them by evening. Depending on how long ago they'd had it these lines were black, brown, yellow, the Hohenzollern colors with a vengeance. Supposedly each girl was meant to sit in the icy tub for a full count of ten slow seconds, and some Prefects laughingly enforced this. Others usually got up when the slopping and gambolling was threatening to grow too intense, in order to restore a little order and decorum into the activities. For this girlhood was anything but repressed; they were part of a new world, a coming breed, their camaraderie was close, their esprit de corps intense. Dorm “D” was a real team.
Finally a few slapping cracks of the Prefect's strap would resound and with a whistling “Phew!” some girl, still grinning, would jump into the water she had been reluctantly eyeing. Praelictors were permitted occasional strokes with these straps, “hunting” strokes as they were called, given too by the mistresses with their switches (known for the purpose as Jagdgerte), but to punish a girl any further they had to fill out a chit requesting permission. The girl then had to take this for signing to the Duty Mistress of the day. The latter very rarely refused the request, which was then returned by the culprit for effectuating to the Prefect, who in turn never abused the privilege. It would have been unthinkable to do so-let alone the punishment involved, if discovered. There was indeed no motive to do so in an environment in which justice was so universally worshiped. The strap stung considerably, but the pain was far from intolerable, and a dozen strokes was seldom exceeded. However, the effect was beneficial, notably for the scum, and today Prafekt Seckendorff, standing with beads of moisture on her powerful downy thighs, and rich wet muff, decided it was time to give her own “underschool,” or personally assigned new girl, a reminder of her place in life. She was one of the few Praelictors who liked to take a cold bath to set herself up for the coming day, as well as the majority. Little Anna Erland had just scampered by, to dress and do her bed. Toweling herself briskly on parted legs, the big girl smiled at the Junior doing the same there.
“Get those yesterday, Monika?”
“Yes, Seckendorff.”
“Hurt?”
“Oh like anything.”
“I always hated it from Wedell.”
“Urn, and Steinkopf.”
“Heavens, yes.”
They laughed in complicity together and as Monika Vorst ran through to the dorm to dress the Prefect flicked out the wet end of her towel so that it snapped under the bounding right buttock, indenting it there.
“Ow!” Monika looked back with a grinning squirm.
Many of the girls had put their tunics under their mattresses the night, in order to press them neatly for the new day's wear. The dormitory was now a tangle of tightening knickers, pulled-high stockings, and polished shoes. After which the girls tidied their lockers and made their beds. Seckendorff, making her prefectorial stroll past these when they had finished, dropped out laconically, “Erland. Untidy corner. Come and see me after breakfast, would you.”
Breakfast was at seven, but punctually at a quarter of the school formed up for morning inspection by the day's Duty Mistress, in the big hall before the dining-room. They paraded in classes, like soldiers. The Duty Mistress inspected them before and behind, walking along their ranks close followed by the Duty Prefect for the day who carried the dreaded Duty Book. The mistress herself carried her switch, unclipped from her belt. For this was no laughing matter, at all. Though the so-called hunting stripes seldom amounted to more than three or four, these long eel-dark switches cut like fury, being used principally about the backs of the legs.
This morning the presiding Duty Mistress had roamed the front rank of the Juniors without especial event, except for a passing reprimand here and there, when she stopped before one striking brunette.
“I don't think you require soap behind the ear, Ingrid,” she said quietly. When she had passed on, the Prefect behind her snapped, “Stand out, Forster,” and the girl took three smart military paces forward. One more girl did the like, from a rear rank, only in her case she stepped backward. She had not dried herself sufficiently, it seemed, notably between the legs.
Inspection completed, the Prefect ordered:
“Forster. Right turn. Touch your toes.”
Each girl was accorded three hissing kisses with the lash across the top of the legs, across, in fact, that band of ivory white between her knickers and stocking-tops. Ingrid Forster had to blink back tears marching into a breakfast.
After breakfast there was a so-called free period until first class at eight thirty. In fact, each girl had to evacuate her bowels under penalty. Prefects and seniors were exempt from supervision but the rest had to line up in the chilly exterior area of planked latrines, known as “Groves,” perhaps sarcastically, and have their contributions to a bucket approved by a Prefect before proceeding back to the building. These were usually quite copious since the diet had a large admixture of psyllium seeds within it, and the bulk of even a scum's Wurstchen was considerable. Each had to wash out her bucket afterwards. Anyone “missing” was sent to the Matron, where she soon knew about it.
Thus, Anna Erland, possessor by this point of a slip of paper which began “Request for permission to give the bearer six stripes…” was tensely costive, and climbed the stairs fearfully to the Matron. This good woman lost no time in bending her over and administering a rectal evacuator, of glycerine and castor oil, and long suppository slid in high. Then pigeon-toed, and plucking at her tunic in front, the girl had to stand in a line of four, “controlling” her insides for a ten-minute wait. One offender was fairly griped double, and begged to relieve herself, or else. Unfortunately the alternative, if she let fly as her inner person so demanded, would have been a really sound caning from the implacable Steinkopf. Most held out, squatting over a pan in turn and in public. Each knew, as she left, that were she to miss again that week, it would be a long-beaked clyster up her anus, compared to which the suppository would seem a Sunday-school picnic. And after this little Anna Erland draggled to her Prefect's private den, or study, having first passed by the Duty Mistress to have her chit signed.
The Praelictor's room was sparely and simply furnished. It had, so far as the curtseying entrant was concerned, a low leather hassock, on which was a solid strap.
“Did you get it signed, scum?”
“Yes, Seckendorff.”
“Good. Give it me. I'm going to give you six for an untidy bed. Feeling nice and shivery behind?”
“Yes,” came the glum answer. “Pull up your knickers.”
The Prefects were not allowed to beat on “the bare.”
“They're pulled up, Seckendorff.”
“Well, pull them up higher. If I split them I'll let you off the rest.”
The big girl took up the strap which was about four inches wide and some two feet long; she brought it down with all her strength, and the testimonial of a puff of dust, on the leather hassock set out there. Then thoughtfully, if anything harder, she repeated the gesture. Watching, Anna Erland, aged thirteen, felt the back of her throat dry suddenly; she was nearly in tears.
“Looking forward to it?”
“Ner-ner-no, Seckendorff.”
“Disgusting little scum, ask for it like the filth you are.”
“Per-please may I have a, a… I mean six stripes,” the girl was crying steadily now, her dark hair shaking, “across my bottom, for, for leaving my bed untidy.”
“Idiot! I want an adjective before each noun. Invent. Imagine.”
“P-p-please may I have six stinging stripes… across my wretched bottom, for, for leaving my miserable bed untidy.”
“Not bad. Now three adjectives, and different nouns. Come on, make it colorful. I'm waiting.” So was the swinging strap, it was plain.
The girl bent her head-“I beg to receive six whippy licking juicy strokes of the strap across my small unworthy deserving bottom… arse… for leaving…”
“That's enough. Lie across here.”
Tremors shook the liquid little bottom, when the tunic had been drawn off it. It was small, indeed. The Prefect struck it mercilessly, from in front, at the girl's head, bringing the tail-end of her strap cracking into the underbottoms-three each side- and when it was over, little Anna Erland rolled on the floor in pain.
Simultaneously, in the distant Duty Room, another sinner was feeling sorry for herself, hissing and twisting under two thoughtfully placed “hunting” flicks, both of which plucked up her butties, for having made two errors in Recitation, lines from Cicero set her the previous day.
Promptly at eight thirty-which was to say five minutes beforehand, since everything happened “on the stroke” at the Schloss-classes started to another bell. They were naturally conducted in complete silence and total attention on the girls' part; they continued, with a short break for physical exercises, and milk, until noon. Luncheon was at one.
These classes were not normally punctuated by punishment; the Head discouraged wasting valuable intellectual study in the infliction of bodily pain. All the same, a mistress would and did mete out a few juicy slices with her switch, or crack a slouching back so hard it would twist like a snake for a few seconds or so. Ordinarily a frown sufficed. Else it might be: “Take twenty lines of Recitation”…”Write out a hundred times, Helen, 'I must not yawn in class' ”… “You will have an hour's Detention, Maud”… “See me after school” (and it would not be, the offender knew, in order to play post office exactly), or finally, the most dreaded and serious of all, “Put yourself down in the Book, Clavdia.”
The Prussian Girls Page 5
