The Prussian Girls

by P. N. Dedeaux

  “While I count three,” he said pleasantly, feeling it.

  The mistress seemed to know what was required of her. Her face became a comedy of concentration, and tortured doubts, as slowly, very slowly, she flexed her knees, lowering her large rump still closer to the hot bars. These were arranged so that they fell vertically, up her arse-cheeks. Maria watched, aghast.

  Suddenly contact was made. The striped seat sat on the heated bars and Wedell straightened with a startled jump, screaming. “Auuuu…!”

  The Count nodded.

  Huish! Huissch!

  The long cane wrapped itself beltingly about the startled buttocks. The mistress tried once more. This time she jerked off the inconceivably painful burn with four livid lines inscribed up her hams. Four cuts with the cane followed them. Wedell's bottom was becoming respectably tender.

  “I haven't even begun to count, as yet,” drawled the Count watching, his ramrod high. “Thrash her again, Sergeant-Major. I like my meat well done.”

  “Wait!”

  With clenched teeth and starting eyes Ulrika Wedell lowered her buttocks the little allowed her by her fetters. With a grimace of agony she touched the bars, seemed to lift up, then held herself there. Slowly the Count said, “One.”

  Her face screwed up with the effort of self-discipline, fighting down her riotous senses, her temples sweating.

  “Two,” said the Commanding Officer gently. He waited an interminable period, then said, “Three.”

  Ulrika Wedell fairly hurled herself in one strangled stifled yelp of agony upwards, her body crashing into the upright. Four fearsome blistered burn-marks crisscrossed her cane welts. Her bottom was a cauldron of white-hot coals. Never had Maria Daunitz seen, or imagined, its like before.

  In the Army trap back Ulrika Wedell indeed had to kneel on the floor, weeping; she was too tender altogether to sit as yet. Ingeborg put her arm around her friend with a shudder.

  “Too bad you lost your cherry,” was what she said.

  “I'd sooner have lost ten than been buggered again,” Maria answered. “It was quite the most repulsive evening of my life.”

  “Yet in the interests of Prussia,” opined the other passively. “What mammoth pricks,” she said with another shudder, and an undertone of pride.

  “What was it he said to you as we left?” Maria asked quietly.

  Ingeborg replied gloomily-“The contest. Between us and Wolfenbiittel. It's to take place shortly. And evidently at the barracks.”

  “We have to,” said a voice through set teeth, as Ulrika Wedell spoke from the floor, “win!”

  “What spirit,” commented Ingeborg Untermacher as she snuggled closer to her friend. Already she was recovering, a gentle warmth stealing over all her body, and there were inchoate delights ahead, when they returned.

  Chapter Ten

  The duel with Wolfenbuttel for the glory of housing Princess Elizabeth Christine of Brunswick-Bevern lived long in the annals of Schloss Rutenberg. It occurred on a snowy December evening, towards the end of term. And it did so, as the Colonel of the 15th. Dragoons had promised, in a commodious drill hall at the local barracks. Both schools were present, as spectators, Rutenberg tiered to one side, each girl bandbox neat and tidy, Wolfenbiittel-rather more numerous-on the other. The respective mistresses sat below their schools, facing each other across the polished expanse of parquet. Only the two Headmistresses sat on the dais, either side the Margrave of Ansbach, a bespectacled, scholarly gentleman of some seventy summers who clung to a copy of Wolff's Metaphysics throughout, but who showed a complete expertise in all matters of the rod.

  Count Karl von Schmettau ran the proceedings, with the assistance of diligent orderlies from the regiment, and a Tursteherin appointed by each side. These twin ushers, both senior mistresses, acted as umpires in the events, of which there were to be three. The first was a simple caning contest.

  When the two girls to compete against each other in this came forward there was a general buzz of astonishment. Rutenberg had chosen as its champion an Upper Senior called Annie Jansen, a big bovine blonde of peasant stock and build who had practiced use of the stick under the eagle eye of Frau Dick, gym mistress, for these two weeks past. She was five eleven in her broad, stockinged feet with muscular, arching thighs, visible biceps in her arms and a slightly protuberant belly; she could hit with great weight and, allowed to perform in one Duty under supervision, had made two girls “come again” at four.

  But what was the surprise of all when the Wolfenbuttel heroine tripped down the aisles, turning out to be a slim, shy-looking little Oriental of seventeen or so? Both girls stripped to stockings, heeled shoes and wide leather belts and as they did so their contrast could not have been much greater. Kho, as the smaller girl was called, was a liquid-limbed little gem whose small, pert ass looked vulnerable to the point of absurdity. Her neat triangular bush had been trimmed low, whereas Annie's was full and bushy. The Rutenberg girl tried some practice swings with the cane provided, a very long, bright yellow one, and there were some giggles and shivers in the audience as a result.

  Then the bottoms of both girls were “inspected” by rival umpires-tested to see there might have been no anesthetizing, belts tightened and a line drawn out with charcoal under the sulcus of each; for no stroke could fall “low,” only the buttock proper was to be attacked. A foul cut would result in three gratis for the donor: which was to say, against her! The two girls drew for start. A hush fell on the hall. Frau Grumkow's eyes brightened.

  Technically, there was little enough advantage in starting. However, it helped to come second in the administration of strokes since the girl then knew how many she had to endure to win. There was an exact simulacrum of the Duty bars created for the purpose and Kho, having lost the draw, advanced with a smile to them. She bent over in a lissome movement and grasped the bar in front. The two umpire-mistresses sat before this watching the exact moment at which the contender might give up, and leave go. It was a lovely lithe little pair she put on display, set at the top of two close soft thighs, perfectly symmetrical; and at the exact central junction of the charcoal sulcus-line a charming rosy little quim nudged back, as if apologetically, a sliced and hairless bulge. Annie addressed herself to aim.

  “Commence,” called the Margrave. “One.”

  The Rutenberg girl took a good run and whupped the licky stick across the creamy skin. A livid weal leapt up, and the Rutenberg mistress said, “All right.” Kho stood up, bashfully smiling, and walked steadily back to accept the quivering wand from Annie, who handed it to her and advanced to bend over in kind. Kho gave her stroke without a run, yet a very venomous welt ran across the thick posteriors of the Rutenberg Senior as a result. All the watching girls craned forward, observing symptoms, like connoisseurs. Battle had been joined. The contest was on.

  Kho then took two, followed by two for Annie. Then three, then four, then… five.

  Until this point the duel seemed eventless with the exception that Annie appeared to be striking twice as hard. She whipped the little ass of the Oriental girl slowly, with zeal, as if she wished to flog it off. As Kho walked back her jouncing halves were well welted up and down.

  Professionals like the learned Frau Direktrice, however, observed that her rival institution had not selected their representative of the rod for nothing. Kho was accuracy incarnate. Both girls had now had fifteen cuts in all and you could have put a ruler over those across Annie's broad ass. This was barred, in fact, by a single solid purple weal, blood-black on the right and blistered-looking. She got up from her five visibly the worse for wear, with a strangled cry, grabbing back at her bottom quickly. She walked stiffly away, head down, for her one minute's rest-all allowed the contestant before recommencing. The problem was — could Kho endure as well as administer? She was certainly an expert in the latter art.

  The Oriental girl, vividly striped behind, bent over for her six. If she gave up at four, then Annie would only have to get to five to win. But Kho resolutely
withstood the six terrific stripes slowly accorded her by the heavy Rutenberg Senior. Though she hopped when it was over she did so with a grin, and Annie Jansen went forward for her six very thoughtfully indeed.

  One!

  “Auoee!”

  Two!

  “Huuuuu.”

  Kho cut upwards in a biting arc. The cane seemed to espouse the solid seat, cling to it for a second, before bouncing back. She cut crisply into the bruised and aching welt she had drawn there. Twice Annie's head went back in a cry, and twice she seemed about to give up. But pluck held her to her task. Fatty quiverings and tremblings inside her cheeks showed the intensity of her pain, and her equal impossibility of flinching in this position away from the telling blows. The last bit in with a sudden surprising dash of blood-the blister on the right had broken. Gloom settled on the Rutenberg ranks. A stroke on raw skin…

  And so it concluded. Kho absorbed the whole next seven, set herself carefully, and-phffffupp!

  “Owww!”

  Phffppp!

  The big girl was in agony. She clung to the bar for four, her right cheek bleeding, then just as the fifth was falling she leapt erect, grasping her buttocks. Kho's completed stroke skinned her knuckles with a scream. Annie Jansen dropped to her knees, her cry drowned in the prolonged applause from the Wolfenbiittel maidens. Rutenberg had lost bout one, and there were only two more contests to decide.

  The next was between elected mistresses. It was to consist of a switch duel-three rounds in a large boxing rectangle, roped for the occasion, each round being of three minutes in duration. Each mistress wore a leather tunic to the waist, leaving the arms bare, a broad belt, and high-heeled shoes, that was all. All cuts had to be below the belt. Any shown to have fallen above constituted punishable fouls. Jacqueline Bellais, skilful little French mistress and aficionado of the rod, faced a brawny, raw-boned woman in her late thirties called Bertha Kittel, a brunette with a thick bush and heavily overhung Sitzplatz.

  When the “seconds” (assistant mistresses) were ordered out of the ring, this contest looked like a virtual walkover for Rutenberg. Bellais darted in and out, placing excruciating lashing cuts with her two-thonged switch. Bertha Kittel hissed with pain and, the round over, walked to her corner nursing some very angry-looking stripes indeed. But the second round produced sudden dismay for the Schloss-if they lost this, they lost all, and after two minutes had gone by it looked as if they would.

  In endeavoring a low swipe Jacqui Bellais tripped and fell. In doing so she lost hold of her switch and her rival flicked it from the ring in a quick triumphant stroke of her own. There followed a frantic chase. Big Bertha had a minute more and was going to take every advantage of it; she got in two ferocious cuts low down on Jacqui's belly, the second of which made her double to her knees in speechless pain a moment, holding herself and heedlessly exposing, on full view, the long slotted lozenge of her veinous vulva. The other saw it with a smile, paused and whipped it with her tips. She might have been more accurate. If she were Kho she doubtless would have been. But it was enough to make the Rutenberg heroine jack straight on her belly with a scream, legs together. A rain of blows followed.

  Jacqueline Bellais chose the lesser of two evils. She decided to stick out the remaining seconds of the round, prone on her belly, legs squeezed together, and as close to the ropes as regulations permitted. She had to be helped back to her corner at the bell.

  Her bravery won the day, as it transpired. Revived with brandy she advanced stubbornly to the fray, blood oozing from at least two buttock welts, and one on her belly. She went straight for her adversary's hand and scored-on the wrist. Bertha dropped her switch with a howl and from there on, it was all over. Jacqueline was in her element, and knew absolutely no mercy.

  Having flicked the switch away she took her time. The Wolfenbiittel mistress, like her, sought desperate refuge on her stomach, but such was Jacqui's skill she would coil the switch tails round the unfortunate woman's left ankle, wrench it wide and almost in the same next motion lash inside the buttock cheeks. The other clung to her pooch with already bleeding hands but the switch would still sting viciously into her cleft, whipping her to agony there. Finally, she had had enough. A great wail went up-“Stop! Stop! She's skinning my cunt. Stop it? I give in… I can't…”

  The final event was well won by Rutenberg. The two Head Girls had to vie with each other as to which could take most cuts of the whip. This was meted out by the Regimental Whipmaster, a past-master in the art wielding an oiled and plaited horror some five feet long. The Wolfenbiittel Head, a lovely blonde, suffered first, triced hawser-taut to pulleys at wrists and ankles, upright. The Rutenberg Head was taken outside by an umpire, so that she might not know how many the first contender had taken, and exactly what toll she had to surpass. It turned out to be only seven, a number indicated by Maria Daunitz on the stage in a prearranged manner, by placing seven fingers on display on her well-rounded knees. After eight the girl knew she had won, and was more than glad to be let down.

  Karl von Schmettau, who had watched the festivities in an almost continual erection, bowed low to Elizabetha Grumkow.

  “Congratulations,” he said gently, “you have won.”

  “We have won,” came the enigmatic answer, in a gloomy tone that surprised him, “but I have lost.”

  Chapter Eleven

  We have won, but I have lost.

  This gloomy prognostication, made by the now celebrated Directress of Schloss Rutenberg, had been overheard by some, and puzzled all.

  What did it mean?

  What did it signify that two days (or, rather, evenings) later the mistresses heard themselves called to convocation in the Head's private Chastisement Chamber? Why had there been erected there, at one commanding end of the room, a gleaming, soulless triangle-of the type to which recalcitrant soldiers were not uncommonly affixed. More than one heart, beating hard under a polished black leather tunic, said Weh in that rank of mistresses assembled there in line, to attention, by Matron Steinkopf. They awaited the Directress's entry with trepidation. When it came, they ducked in ritual curtsey exactly together and, though they kept their eyes dead ahead, at the opposing wall, more than one was surprised to the pitch of intense apprehension.

  For Frau Grumkow had entered in degage costume-to whit, skintight velveteen slacks and ruffled shirt. She was wigless. The sandy crop of hair curled vitally away from the freckled forehead, while the blue, slightly slanting eyes beneath were stern and porcelain in appearance.

  “I have gathered you together here not to prolong our felicitations over our victory, gentle ladies,” she began, her stocky body falling into a pose before them, “but because a grave injustice has been done this term.”

  Which of us? groaned more than one mind at this, though no face showed it.

  “Fraulein Daunitz was subject to a painful fustigation on the buttocks for a fault of which she was not wholly aware. While it is true, she should have reported the presence of a strange object in Dormitory 'D', I have had it conveyed to me by one of your number”-Ingeborg Untermacher's eyes blinked but briefly-“that Daunitz was entirely innocent of the nature of this object. I sentenced her to a pizzle flogging, as you recall. It was not merited. Have you anything to say?”

  Maria Daunitz, realizing she was being personally addressed, replied in a murmur, flushing to the ears-“Ner-nothing, Frau Direktrice. I am sure the flogging improved my conduct and, and general attentiveness. I thank you for it.”

  Maria Daunitz was not learning. She had learnt. The Directress gave a satisfied nod and then, feet astride, went on:

  “Such severity was entirely unmerited. And, since it is a rule of our academy never to mete out chastisement one would not willingly take oneself, I am hereby sentencing myself to be thrashed in front of you, for, for,” the Directress seemed to search for the words of charge, “Excessive Severity.”

  Although the rank was silent, it appeared that a shocked hush swept through them.

  “Wha
t's more,” went on the little woman determinedly, “to assure that his be carried out with the full rigor essential to my position, I have requested Colonel von Schmettau to supervise the infliction, which will be administered by his Sergeant-Major. It will be,” she concluded a little breathily, “two for one. Yes, thirty strokes… with the martinet.”

  Another hush seemed to rush through the rank. The shoulders of the little Directress came back, her eyes filled with defiance, she turned and strutted to the door connecting with her own chambers. And from the dimness of antlers, boar's heads, and copper lamp brackets turned down low there stepped the implacable Count Karl, close followed by his stalwart major-domo, clad as before in breeches, dirty singlet and… horsehair mustaches. Frau Grumkow seemed to pale a little as the latter closed the door behind him and stood there, winding through his fingers a ferocious martinet whose shiny wooden handle ceded to five furious lashes made of sheep's gut. These were a little stained at their edges. The Colonel spoke.

  “You are to scratch Madam's back a little,” he said with a grim smile. “Thirty of the best, if you please, well laid on, up and down.” He turned with an amused smile to the Directress. “Strip.”

  Frau Grumkow took off her flounced shirt, under which she wore nothing; her compact little torso supported two good round apple-like breasts. She held out her hands for the wrist-cuffs.

  But Colonel von Schmettau was still smiling. He beckoned Maria Daunitz forward. “Your honor, Fraulein. Urinate on it.”

  And such was Maria's training by now she made no hesitation. She crouched and sprayed the little ruffled Malines shirt until it was sodden with her liquid; after which the Sergeant-Major tore it into shreds and wadded it into an effective gag. Having done so he attached his victim to the triangle. Elizabeth Grumkow stood with arms hoist to the shiny apex, legs parted and secured apart at the base, offering a virgin back for the frightful whip.