by Victor Bruno
As each stroke had whacked down resoundingly, the girl had cried out in torment, her whole bottom juddering and squirming. When it was over... and Piet would have liked it to go on longer... Piet felt himself swelling and knew his face was flushed. He didn’t really care. Sister Martha took the paddle from him and re-hung it on the cell wall. Brother Anselm patted him on the back.
“Well done,” he said. “She deserved that. In fact, in view of her outrageous language, she really should have been birched.” Beatrix moaned hopelessly.
“If it occurs again,” said Sister Martha, “she will be.” She took the birch out of the brine-water in which it was kept. It was composed of six long, slim, green twigs, bound together at the handle end with cord. “This is what we use.”
Piet had looked at the cruel instrument, dripping with water, seeing just how flexible the twigs were. That would really hurt when laid over a young woman’s tender bottom. Perhaps, one day, he would have the pleasure of administering a birching to his niece.
They had left her there, still kneeling. “Another hour on your knees won’t do you any harm, Beatrix,” Sister Martha had said callously.
***
Piet had been told he could pay a visit to Beatrix’s cell at any time after eleven o’clock that night.
“You’ll find the door unlocked,” said Brother Anselm. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks ...”
“She’s not too co-operative at this moment,” Brother Anselm had gone on, “but, under the circumstances, I don’t suppose that matters very much. In time the girl will be co-operative. MOST co-operative.”
Piet had hardly been able to wait for eleven o’clock to arrive. As usual, while waiting, he drank rather too much brandy.
Then, at long last he had found himself going into the cell, taking off his dressing gown and standing there naked, pulses racing. Beatrix, equally naked, had been across the birching hurdle, her thighs splayed wide, her wrists corded to her ankles. Quite, quite helpless.
Piet had heard her sobbing softly, then she had begun to cry out in protest and terror as Piet ran a hand over her still burning bottom.
“OOOOHHHHHH... OOOOH... DON’T TOUCH ME... DON’T... DON’T! OOOOHHHHHH... YOU BEAST... YOU FILTHY BEAST ...”
Piet had started to titillate Beatrix’s sex. He wanted her warmed up a little. “I’m going to do more than touch you, my girl,” he said thickly, “I’m going to fuck you!”
In no time at all, Piet had come solidly to erection. His blood seemed to seethe through his veins. He gripped the twisting flanks, positioned himself... then rammed in.
No finesse. Just a straight forward thrust.
Beatrix uttered an ululating wail of pain and horror as she squirmed frantically. Piet loved the feel of that. His prick felt very big and strong. He hoped he would be able to go on fucking for a long time but, in his heart, doubted it. The pleasure would soon be too great.
Ram... ram... ram... ram.
Crude animal-like thrusts. Deliberately so. This was rape, wasn’t it?
Yes... yes... it WAS! And it was exquisitely enjoyable.
Thump... thump! Thump... thump!
Belly pounding to juddering buttocks. Again... again... again and again. The girl had continued to wail... and had begun retching to. Perhaps he was going to make her sick. That wouldn’t matter. Piet had been totally consumed by his overwhelming lust. He had become totally bestial. Mouth gaping, slobbering and snorting.
The pussy was getting juicier ...
Oh heaven! HEAVEN!
The girl couldn’t help herself.
He could hear the squelching sounds as he rammed in faster and faster.
Harder and Harder! Faster and faster!
This was total rape. Total ecstasy for Piet.
He had begun to grasp and groan hoarsely. His heart had pounded so furiously it felt as is if it might burst.
But that didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered but the total ravaging possession of this girl.
His girl now. For ever.
Piet lost control. Became almost frenzied.
Faster... faster... faster... faster... faster-faster-faster-faster-faster-faster!
Then, groaning as if in pain, Piet had exploded into Beatrix’s succulent depths.
She was still wailing and retching as, totally exhausted, he lay slumped over her sweating nakedness, moaning and dribbling... now utterly drained of all his insensate lust.
(In his office, at those vivid recollections, Piet yet again lost control. He wanked himself vigorously to a mighty, thumping conclusion.)
Chapter Seven
It need hardly be said that, following the fearsome birching each had received, Virginia and Melanie did not continue with their lesbian activities. Their sufferings had been so appalling that the thought of any repetition of them made them exclude taking the slightest possible risk. They still loved each other, they still ached with desire for each other... but no longer did they so much as touch each other, much as they might want to.
In the brief period of relaxation allowed to them in the evenings before bed-time, they would converse with each other in low tones. Neither girl blamed the other for what had happened. They simply cursed, even more bitterly, the hideous regime in which they found themselves.
“Georgina is going into Remove next week,” said Melanie one evening. “As next in seniority, I shall be made Head Girl.” Melanie, dark-haired, dark-eyed and exceedingly pretty, was only nineteen and certainly didn’t look particularly ‘senior’.
“What does Head Girl mean exactly?” asked Virginia.
“As far as I can make out, it just makes matters worse for one’s last few weeks in this dreadful place,” replied Melanie. “I asked Georgina about it.”
“And ...”
“It seems Miss Magda keeps an even more eagle eye on one. Marks everything even more strictly.”
“Oh God... that’s so unfair... after all the weeks and months of effort one’s put in.”
“I know... I know. Another thing Georgina told me. When you get sent to the Head for ten Demerits, she automatically adds a couple of extra strokes. That’s apart from any you might earn yourself.”
“Oh the monster! That woman isn’t fit to live!”
“You don’t have to tell me. There’s another thing. Instead of caning you on the bottom, she somehow fixes your legs wide apart... and then canes the back and insides of your thighs. Five strokes for each thigh, then the final two across the crease of your bottom... overlays. Georgina said it was absolute agony.”
Virginia shuddered. “I should imagine so.” She was next in seniority after Melanie. It would soon be her turn. “Do you know what happens in Remove?”
“Not exactly. Though I’m told we have to dress up like Victorian skivvies or parlour maids and assist those filthy beasts of Housekeepers.”
“How vile!”
“Also, I gather, we have to wait on table at Madame Vosges’ private dining room. She quite often has guests, both male and female.”
Virginia shuddered again. The idea of having to wait upon some lecherous-eyed man or some hard-faced woman, was complete anathema to her. “How long do we stay in Remove?” asked Virginia.
“It varies. Just a few weeks; maybe a month. Then we are ‘consigned’.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Where do we go? Who decides?”
“That’s quite a mystery,” replied Melanie. “Our destination is mainly in the hands of the person who sent us here. Mrs. Cartier, your step-mother, as far as you are concerned.”
“One day I’ll kill her,” murmured Virginia in a low, vicious voice. “Slowly... very slowly.”
Melanie gave her friend a nervous glance. “I shouldn’t think like that,” she advised. “It doesn’t give you much
chance of being sent back to her.”
“I don’t WANT to go back to her!”
“Well then... what?”
“I just want to be free. Go where I like in the world. Do as I please.”
“So do I,” sighed Melanie. “We can only pray that it works out for us.”
“There’s this place they call the Nunnery,” said Virginia. “I’ve heard it said it has been designed for contemplation, rehabilitation and relaxation. Doesn’t sound too bad really. I suppose they have to make something up to us after all the wickedness they’ve done.”
“Mmmm... yes... it’s all a bit of a mystery. The main thing is not to have to spend too long in such a place. I’ve always felt Nunneries must be rather boring.”
“Me, too ...”
The two girls smiled faintly and sadly at each other.
***
Mr. Hackenheimer, sandy-haired, bluff and rather too podgy, sat in Madame Vosges’ Study, puffing away at a large cigar. Madame Vosges looked rather disapproving at that but said nothing. Mr. Hackenheimer was a dollar multi-millionaire who had consigned his wife’s errant twenty-year-old adopted daughter to the School a month or two ago. The girl had been getting involved in drugs and sex and had had to be pulled up sharp. No better person than Madame Vosges to do so, in Mr. Hackenheimer’s opinion!
From the secret little room, behind the false mirror, he had just been watching the girl... by the name of Pruella... getting a caning. The most serious one she had yet earned herself.
Previously, Madame Vosges had explained that Miss Bernice, the girl’s Form Mistress was dissatisfied with her behaviour. She lacked concentration, made insufficient effort and... the last straw... had ‘answered back’ at Miss Bernice. After a consultation with the Head, it was agreed that Pruella should get six strokes on each count, making eighteen in all. Admittedly, since she was a Junior, only a Number Four cane would be used, but in view of the girl’s inexperience, it was reckoned she would find that quite adequately painful. Up to then, she had received no more than six strokes at any one time.
Knowing that Mr. Hackenheimer would be paying his first visit to the School in a few days’ time, the punishment had been slightly delayed, although Pruella had been informed of it. She did not believe she could possibly be so cruelly treated!
On arrival, Mr. Hackenheimer was informed about what was to happen. “I hope you approve, Mr. Hackenheimer,” said Madame Vosges.
“Approve!” he burst out. “I’m delighted. That arrogant little bitch has been needing a rod across her backside for years! Do her good... yes... do her good.”
“I’m so glad you approve, Mr. Hackenheimer,” said Madame Vosges. “She has been caned before, of course, but not this severely.” She paused. “Perhaps you would like to witness it?” The American looked startled and faintly embarrassed... but when the Head explained about a secret little room, with its false mirror, he looked highly delighted.
So, in due time, Mr. Hackenheimer was installed in his little eyrie and a pale and tearful Pruella was led into the Study by Miss Bernice. As usual she had the girl firmly and painfully held by the ear.
“Y-You can’t d-do... do this to me... YOU CAN’T... I... I’ve done n-nothing really wrong... I HAVEN’T... I HAVEN’T... I... IT’S TOO MANY... I WON’T BE ABLE TO STAND IT!”
Madame Vosges’ waxen features were impassive; her black eyes beady. “Are you daring to tell me, girl, what I can and cannot do in my own School?”
“Nooo... oohh... nooo Madame... nooo ...” Pruella, for good reason, was already in mortal dread of that awful room and the macabre figure behind the desk.
“Because, if you are,” continued Madame Vosges, “I shall give you an extra six strokes ...”
“NOOOOOOOO!” shrieked Pruella in stark terror.
Mr. Hackenheimer was grinning hugely. Never before had he seen this selfish, self-centred girl in such a state. Never before seen her brought so low. He watched her go down on her hands and knees, raising imploring hands.
“M-Madame... please... M-Madame... spare me... just this once... I’ll never behave badly again... NEVER! Just let me off... this once. Please... ooohhhh... pleeee... eeeease!” The faintest flicker of a sardonic smile passed over Madame Vosges’ pale dry lips. Oh how often she had heard all this before! As the moment of pain approached, pride disappeared. Beseeching pleas became the order of the day but, in that Study, as ever, they were ignored.
“Get up off the floor, Pruella,” ordered Madame Vosges icily. “Then stand to the front of my desk.” A drawer was opened and out came a slim Number Four cane. Pruella’s eyes dilated at the sight of it and she gasped. Zombie-like, she moved to the front edge of the desk. She was beginning to whimper. “Lift up your skirt, bend over the desk and take your knickers down.”
Mr. Hackenheimer’s eyes bulged expectantly. This was certainly a bonus. He was going to watch Miss High-and-Mighty getting it on the bare bottom. Excellent!
Pruella looked wildly round; her eyes fell on the cane again. Miss Bernice well knew the signs.
“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” screeched the girl... and made a sudden dart for the door. Miss Bernice was ready for her. In moments Pruella’s arms were twisted up behind her back and she had been thumped down hard on the desk, momentarily driving the wind out of her. One at a time, Miss Bernice manacled the girl’s wrists into the handcuffs on the far edge of the desk.
While Miss Bernice buttoned the hem of Pruella’s skirt to her collar, Madame Vosges ripped off the little white briefs. The girl was nakedly exposed from her back to her ankle socks, her plumply-rounded bottom juggling wildly as she kicked and twisted, tugging vainly - and - painfully - on the steel handcuffs. Mr. Hackenheimer was quite, quite fascinated. He watched the Head pick up the cane from the desk top and flex it easily in her fingers. Little Miss Pruella’s not going to like that over her bare flesh, he thought, not one little bit.
“For resistance,” stated Madame Vosges loudly over the shrieks coming from the girl, “I am giving you an extra six. Making twenty four strokes in all. I do not think, Pruella, you will defy me in future!”
With unhurried efficiency, Madame Vosges began the caning. Six strokes from the left hand side, six strokes from the right hand side. The room became filled with gasping-shrieking sounds. Ear-splitting sound. And Pruella’s bottom became a writhing tumult of juddering flesh. Mr. Hackenheimer was enthralled by the sight of it, watching the vivid weals leap up, one after the other. Sometimes, in her frenzy of pain, Pruella would twist right over, legs kicking and splaying... and Mr. Hackenheimer would catch a glimpse of her features contorted, unrecognisable in their torment.
Every time she did this, the girl got a stroke across the fronts of her thighs.
“That’s an extra!” Madame Vosges would bellow. “Get your bottom square to me!” And Pruella would go twisting back, buttocks constantly clenching in awful dread.
After twelve strokes, Madame Vosges paused. “Better get the joss-sticks ready, Miss Bernice,” she said. The Form Mistress lighted the acrid sticks which would keep Pruella in the land of the living right throughout her punishment.
“A-A-Aggghhh ...aaaghhh... merceee... merceeeeeee ...” the girl was choking out, “I... aaaghhh... I can’t stand any m-more... I CAN’T... I JUST CAN’T!” The final plea was quite heart-rending but Madame Vosges had a heart of stone.
“Halfway, Pruella,” she announced. “There are still twelve more to come. And you deserve every one of them.”
The caning began again in the same merciless fashion. The terrible shrieks became even more ear-splitting... the convulsive writhing even more frenzied. Almost impossibly so, it seemed. Mr Hackenheimer could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. Here was one girl being well and truly reformed!
Miss Bernice had to apply the joss-sticks after the eighteenth stroke... and the near-ins
ensible Pruella shrieked and choked and retched her way through the final liquid-fire streaks of lashing torment.
Pruella lay over the desk, great heaving sobs shaking her. She thought she had suffered enough during her first ever canings.
Now she knew differently.
QUITE differently.
She knew what true pain was.
***
“Well, she certainly didn’t seem to enjoy that,” said Mr. Hackenheimer with a gruff laugh. Pruella, semi-conscious, had been removed by the Housekeepers and consigned to the san. for the rest of the day and night.
“She wasn’t meant to,” replied Madame Vosges formally. “I believe every girl should get a really good hiding in her first few weeks here. It brings the reality of the situation home to them.”
“I am sure it does,” nodded Mr Hackenheimer. His blood was still tingling at the memory of Pruella’s madly writhing bottom.
“You will realise, I suppose Mr. Hackenheimer,” went on Madame Vosges, “that I used the lightest cane we employ here. It is called a Number Four and is reserved for girls in the lower half of the Junior Form.”
“I see ...” said Mr. Hackenheimer musingly. He watched as Madame Vosges tossed on to a desk, four canes. She spread them out and he noted the varying thicknesses. The one which had been used on Pruella was definitely the lightest but, from her actions, one would not have imagined so.
“As a girl gains experience, her powers of endurance increase,” continued Madame Vosges in a matter-of-fact way. “She has to be able to withstand a heavier rod as time passes or, at least, make herself do so.” Mr. Hackenheimer looked at the heaviest cane. It was a smooth, shiny yellow, thick as a woman’s little finger. A real brute of a thing. Madame Vosges picked it up and flexed it, seemingly as easily as she had done the slimmest cane. “This is the cane I will be using on the Head Girl... who is going to be sent to me shortly.”
