The Prussian Girls

by P. N. Dedeaux

  “Appeal denied. What is the penalty for a failed Appeal, Duty Mistress?”

  “In this case-six with the stick, Frau Direktrice.”

  “Administer them.”

  Lanky Luzie Rombau curtseyed and came leggily forward, almost mincing over the parquet in her gleaming boots. She selected a long whippy cane from the bench and drew Barbara Mack forward a few paces.

  “Bend over and touch your toes.”

  For ritual's sake she received the six across her knickers, skirt up, the snake-like stick eating into the taut material each cut. The last two made her clench slightly, but otherwise the girl took them very stoically, rising red-faced on order.

  “Strip them,” came the next command.

  For a public birching ritual required that the small chlamys be literally ripped off the body of the offender, panties following. Luzie Rombau effected this briskly and completely, tossing aside the miserable shreds of clothing; both girls were exposed in nothing more than tightly gartered stockings and high-heeled shoes. They created more than a quiver of interest in the girlish audience, not to mention several crossed legs in the row of seated mistresses. For both had been shaved. Monika Vorst's mons shone like some polished stone, demurely slit at the summit of her close thighs; Barbara Mack's mound had come out dark as a man's jowl, lumpy and vigorously cleft. She had smaller breasts, tiny buds, and a very narrow waist, but her buttocks swelled out almost to the point of distortion, the sulcus spreading right across them without break. Both pair appeared pinkened from the sandstoning they had received from the Matron, a preparation that made each feel she had spent a day uncovered behind in the scalding sun, and across Barbara's lower halves were now six lively purple weals.

  “Have you anything more to say?” asked the Directress. There was not a hint of irony in her tone.

  “Nothing to say, Madam,” replied Barbara Mack promptly. And her friend joined in with a mumble.

  “Proceed with punishment. Fraulein Katte, two dozen strokes for Mack, if you please. Take your time and let them be felt.”

  With a frown and a curtsey the mistress came down from the dais, honored to open the ceremony. Meanwhile, the Duty Prefect, Anneliese Borcke, advanced to secure the culprit.

  The Rutenberg block for birching was simple, but effective, and most girls seemed to find it salutorily ignominious. The girl knelt on a ledge of the black stone, as now, and had her knees strapped well apart. She then bent herself over it. The surfaces either side were inclined, so that the sufferer lay forward at an angle rather than completely vertical-this was found highly effective since the twigs could thus cut right under the seat; when the thighs were due for work, they were duly brought together. At the apex was a leather pad to which the waist was strapped, and to which was attached a perineal thong when necessary. Finally, the girl's arms were secured behind her with elbow-wrist cuffs which drew her shoulders fully back and meant that she fell wholly forward over the front side, her weight in that way being drawn forward so that she could really get no purchase with her knees, to move or flinch off her right side. And, alas, fidelity to historical fact make it incumbent to remark that Frau Grumkow had added a further refinement, since coming to the Schloss. This forward edge had been so serrated that it pinched and pricked the under-chest of the individual who lay on it. Consequently, a girl under birching tried to arch off this additional irritation, thus further cambering up her hips behind.

  Barbara Mack's were thus on display. One might say that Prafekt Borcke left her “all buttocks.” The bottom was at its thickest at the lowest part, the gluteal zone firm and fatty. A bulbous if hairless mound thrust back, like a fist, between the spread legs, and a narrow saddle-strap spliced it painfully. Katte measured aim with her excruciatingly long and drippy verge, tough-budded at the tips. Then came the familiar, but ever thrilling high-pitched whine of air-zzzschlisk!

  The five or six limbs snipped scorchingly into the meaty flesh low down. Their first smart made the girl gasp and jerk. The Duty Prefect called out a drawled, “One!” The birching had begun.

  Fraulein Katte took her time, indeed, working to tenderize the most sensitive regions first. For it was essential to start a birching right. She cut upwards, fairly thrashing into the buttock cheeks which soon began to bound and writhe. The cane marks were quickly blent into the striations of the birch, as the mistress played cleverly upon this area. Until eleven Barbara Mack made no sound in the silence, however, and even her anguished “Oh!” of protest then seemed as much from the pain at her chest as she bumped down after the cut.

  Katte changed the rod at thirteen and covered the buttocks with a network of purple with the last eleven.

  “Vorst,” called the Directress, as the Prefect undid the stoic Barbara Mack. “Two dozen strokes.”

  But Monika Vorst was in an agony of indecision. Her head hung, tears welled from her eyes; her hands twisted in front of her. For she had been unable to contain herself for fear and the titters of her nearest comrades were due to the little amber puddle that leaked at her feet. As Barbara Mack was helped off the block, her arms still bound behind her, Luzie Rombau strode forward angrily.

  “What is this?” She took one look, then tugging the girl's ear bent her head down and rubbed her nose in the urine. Monika sobbed protestingly. The mistress stood up. “Filthy little thing. Get the rags from your knickers and wipe it up at once.” She called back to the dais-“Could not hold her water, Frau Direktrice.”

  “Penalty for Incontinence?” snapped the Head.

  “I should like to give her ten.”

  “Then by all means do so. Hard.”

  Monika suffered, touching her toes. Then she too took the first twenty-four of her count. Fraulein Marit was privileged to administer these across the tender white chubbies of the fifteen-year-old and elicited biting cries and yelps by the end.

  Then it was the turn for Barbara's second installment, another two dozen. “Damn,” whispered Ingeborg Untermacher to Maria Daunitz on the platform as the Head chose Christina Holz for the task, “she's getting nice and tender on the right. I'd so like to have a fling.”

  But Fraulein Holz hit from the other side, whipping the tips into the left buttock cheek. Then for her final dozen she had the thighs secured and lashed them pitilessly, at long intervals. The whole dozen probably took a good eight minutes, and drew pants and gasps from the now perspiring girl. When Barbara Mack was ushered back after it, her thighs brushing closely together, she was bleeding. The whole of the area from mid-buttock to upper-thigh had been skilfully welted and in parts appeared veritably raw. And she still had a dozen to come!

  Monika Vorst took her final dozen somewhat better, but the agonizing cuts from the Headmistress's whalebone in conclusion quite undid her. At last it was nearly over. Barbara Mack had one more twelve to take, followed by the celebrated Master's stripes. Despite her reddened breasts and empurpled hips she walked calmly enough to the block, arms behind her, until the Head, now standing to one side with her waiting whalebone, called out to slumbrous-eyed Wedell, selected for this task-“And for the last six, whip in!”

  Barbara Mack's knees struck the floor with a thud, and Maria Daunitz felt a reciprocal surge of lava in her loins.

  “Please, Mistress, oh please,” implored the girl. “Anything but that. Give me another dozen, an' you must, but do not misuse me so. I cannot bear it… in between.”

  “Come,” said Frau Grumkow ironically, “I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Pleas are a luxury we must deny ourselves at Schloss Rutenberg. Whip in for all twelve, Fraulein Wedell.”

  “Very well, Head.”

  Panic-stricken the girl looked around. But in a trice she was prepared as before, only with no confining saddle strap. In between her streaked cheeks a fully fleshed shaven mound stuck back, gashed central in some sort of unholy antiphony to the buttocks themselves. Its pungent sides looked unbearably sensitive-and Wedell stationed herself in front of the girl, at her head. She did so with a ferociously
long and whippy birch.

  “No, no, no, no-auoooh!”

  “Hard, Wedell.”

  The heartless twigs zisched in, eating into the inner left cheek and splaying enough to sting the cunt lips there. The girl howled. The second cut was down the right. After six like this Barbara Mack was a shuddering epitome of pain.

  And it was now that the eyes wished to look away. For the last six were administered centrally, down the cleft itself. They were not correction, they were literal torture, as the tough buds welted into the spongy unprotected flesh of the shaven pubis. After three the lips split like an anguished plum and the red satin lining showed. The girl knew it, and screamed.

  “Noaow! Not… theah… auuuuuuu!”

  The Master's strokes were characteristically thorough. It was indeed a very solemn convocation that filed out of Great Hall that Sunday between the twin stools, on which stood two penitent girls, with bleeding bottoms, masturbating hopelessly at the orders of their implacable Directress.

  Chapter Nine

  They came for them in the dead of night.

  The three mistresses had been sitting in silence in the anteroom near the entrance steps when the clatter of the carriage came up. The school had long gone to bed and since they had been told not to talk they did not talk. Only Ingeborg Untermacher leant once to squeeze Maria Daunitz's knee, as she perched nervously on a pouffe-“It's not so bad after the first one.” The force of the UNKNOWN held Maria in its thrall. All color had long since left her cheeks. Ulrika Wedell, meanwhile, was lugubriously inspecting the lacing on her glossy boots, turning her ankles this way and that.

  The first thing they noticed when the Flugleman entered, saluting, was his gigantic height. He was, it was all too obvious, one of Friedrich Wilhelm's famous regiment of giants, the same that guarded the royal hunting lodge at Wusterhausen; some of these colossi were, it was said, as much as eight feet tall, to which the miter-shaped hats of the Grenadier Guards (to which they were affected) added at least another fifteen inches. It was also said that this vanity was costing the Emperor dear in prestige since, unable to recruit these mammoths from his own country in sufficient quantity, he was obtaining them from Poland, England, anywhere by barter-and now, so rumor had it, even by impressment. The three women, already curiously cowed, followed the back of this tight-fitting Prussian uniform out into the night and the waiting carriage there.

  This was little more than an Army trap, without Postillion, and they sat edgily on the padded seat at the back in firm-lipped silence now, as there was a speaking slot in the top through which they could be seen. The Flugleman drove over the dirt roads of the plain as if for dear life, down the narrow streets of the neighboring town, and finished up finally to a sentry's shouted challenge. They were at the barracks gates.

  “Pass and proceed!”

  Again they clattered briskly forward, fetching up in a cobbled courtyard to one side the main square. And again as though there were no time to spare at all, their escort held open the door, handed them down, and marched them at haste along dimly lit corridors and passageways on which his boots resounded echoingly. Maria, indeed, bringing up the rear, found herself forced more than once to break into a run; she soon realized, however, that this frantic pace was simply due to the inordinate length of leg of the soldier leading them. At last under flares illumining great ranks of helmets and cuirasses, swords and breastplates, they had turned into a stone passage lined with guardsmen. There must have been a dozen of them, motionless, backs to the wall, staring straight ahead as if of stone themselves. About a pace or more apart, none paid the smallest attention to the cortege of three women passing under their noses. But the Flugleman had stopped at a door at the end of this corridor, rapped on it, received a thundering “Herein!”, saluted and shown the three mistresses in, again saluting before withdrawing and slamming the heavy door upon them.

  The three found themselves in a gloomily lit guardroom of black stone which, at sight of the man standing to one end of it, their six knees quickly struck. It was Count Karl von Schmettau, in full uniform of Commanding Officer of the 15th. Dragoon Guards, and he was not smiling at them.

  “Get up,” he said without preamble, “and stand over there.”

  The three women ranged themselves across the room from the Count, facing him. “Strip,” he said.

  Maria Daunitz found herself almost feverishly tearing off her garments beside her friend Ingeborg, who was doing the same. Beyond her Wedell moved more lethargically. All three, however, worked with a certain lack of cheer. The contents of the room, to which their eyes were becoming accustomed, were not designed to inspire such; already Maria, for one, had noted the presence of three other figures, all stiffly standing to attention, than the tall Count himself. Moreover, it was curiously warm within this guardroom.

  Confronting them also, as they lined up buck naked save their boots, was a brawny individual with huge, horsehair mustaches wearing only a stained singlet above his breeches. Spikes of wiry black hair from his chest thrust over this single upper garment, while behind, and to one side of, him stood a ruddy-cheeked boy of about fifteen, stripped to the waist. Some drummer-lad, thought Maria, noting how closely the thin white cottonette of his trousers clung to his young hips and thighs. He, too, appeared excessively solemn. Finally, to their left, at the far end of the chamber, a figure loomed stiff as a cypress tree, some waiting Grenadier; it was glancing at him that Maria noted a brazier burning in the dim recesses. Such no doubt accounted for the heat. Iron instruments lay on the coals. It was altogether an impressive place, calculated to dampen the liveliest of spirits.

  When Ingeborg ventured to speak, indeed, it was in a tone of such respectful sobriety that it increased her friend's incipient apprehensions-“The boots, too, Hoheit?”

  “No. Leave them. Line up there.”

  Silently, slowly, the Count paraded before the three naked figures, nodding in satisfaction at the triplet of well-haired cunts on display at the tops of their legs-Wedell's vulva a bulging lump, Ingeborg's shagged in a strenuous golden furze through which the commanding officer's fingers strayed reflectively, and finally Maria's sliced twat, trim on her flat belly above the arcs of her nicely muscled thighs.

  “You know why you're here?” he said, resuming his stance across the chamber from them.

  “Ja, Hoheit,” came the hoarsely chorused murmur.

  “I have had a platoon of His Majesty's favorite Guards attached to my strength for a month and, whilst they receive no especial favors or privileges-rather to the contrary, in fact-they needs must be serviced from time to time. Such big men require constant glandular relief. I suspect you will be surprised at the extent and power of their emissions. As there is a whole platoon and a Corporal to account for, we have some twenty-one men to get through tonight, and I told Frau Grumkow it might be a trifle, er, exacting for a single one woman, however stoic. She agreed.” Here the Count gave a sardonic smile, and his henchman in attendance stroked out the horsehair mustaches. “Sergeant-Major here will see to proceedings. A stable-boy will help mount each man… because with these… rather long… as you will appreciate. Now then,” concluded the Count, openly fingering his flies, “you'll all have your womb-sponges set?”

  “Ja, Hoheit,” came the even bleaker chorus of assent, to this.

  “Not that there is truly any need of them, since each guardsman has his orders and Kurt, our stable-boy, will watch closely. However, one never knows with such prodigies of manhood as these. So each of you will take seven men. You should be able to stand it, under controlled conditions such as these. All of you are strong young Prussian girls. There will be no chance of insemination since each man will fuck you in the cunt first and finish up the anus and I assure you, with tools like theirs you're going to know you've got something up you. The best thing you can do is to relax and try to help it on. You'll feel you want to go, but you can't. Understand? Any recalcitrant behavior, any lack of complete co-operation on your part and my Sergeant-M
ajor will have the pleasure of putting his cane across your backsides in no uncertain fashion. Got it?”

  “J-j-ja, Hoheit.”

  Seven pricks! Merciful Heaven!

  But the boy Kurt was coming forward, with an anxious frown, close followed by the bristling Sergeant-Major. Almost directly to the right of the three women was a whipping post, dripping straps. To this-the celebrated “martyr's pole”-the boy was rapidly secured. It was a simple solid upright no taller than himself, and squared off so that his legs embraced its sides. They were strapped at ankle and knee; his waist was belted and his arms locked either side at elbow and wrist. Slightly bent of knee his posture pushed back the surprisingly plump pumpkins of his arse which threatened to burst out of his thin trousers. Already the lad's normally jovial face was crisped in fear as the Sergeant-Major slid a leathern pad up a groove in the post in back, fixing it under the pelvis in a manner that stuck it even further out.

  “Strictly speaking,” explained the Count as these preparatives were riveting the attention of the three Schloss mistresses, “Kurt has done nothing wrong. But on occasions such as these we administer what is called a warming punishment. It will not be too bad,” he amended wryly, with a glance at the naked cunts ranked before him, “since it will be over the trousers. It would hardly be consistent with modesty to take them down, would it. Give him a good dozen, Sergeant-Major, you have firm meat to work on here.”

  The big man's eye seemed to glow as he trembled the cane through the air a moment. Moistening his right hand with spittle, he took his eager and impatient stance at a calculated distance from the boy's expectant bottom. Maria saw his hairy muscled arm, his bull-like neck, noted the shake and tremor of the frightful stick as it rested on the stone a moment, and all marrow seemed to melt from her limbs. He was more like a savage animal than anything. Finally, at a nod from his superior, he started work, with obvious relish. The cane swung with the full might of his arm, its powerful whirr-and completed clap-sufficient evidence of its hurt. The stable-boy gave a convulsive movement of his body, driven to his toes by the sheer force of the blow, but said nothing, biting on a kerchief.