“Nice and slow,” the Head was saying now. “Each stroke as hard as you possibly can, Bellais. I want this to be a lesson to all those here. Commence.”
A wet sponge trickled brine onto the quiveringly upturned cheeks and then, with a long preparatory whirr, the hard lash socked into their dripping surfaces-THWLUICK!
“Unnnngh!”
It was impossible. Maria tensened at the branding blow, held still a second, then jerked furiously in her bonds-causing a real squeak of protest through her gag as a brass stud bit her clit. Allmachtiger Gott, she thought with sudden sobbing despair, wie werde ich gehauen! It was worse than she had possibly expected.
“One,” said Frau Grumkow calmly.
But there was two… and three… and four… and five…
By which time she felt she had been boiled in oil.
There was a long pause at five and Maria realized she was gasping and whining through her gag, squirming and tossing her buttocks as much as the bonds, retightened, permitted. Ten more. She could not possibly endure ten more.
“Hit her higher up the arse, there's more flesh there, and the underside is already pretty blue,” came the expert advice from the side. “At this rate you can cover the whole bum.”
Jacqui Bellais did so. She punished pitilessly, her dream come true. Maria mashed herself on the flooring, farting and blowing in utter indignity, and the French mistress took her time, slapping the ferocious pizzle across the central purple of her main weal, one seeping a ruby dew at each indenting thwlack.
Somehow it was over. Somehow Maria Daunitz lay there, heard the ritual words from the Headmistress, felt the rank of mistress file by, each spitting on her buttocks before each left the room, and finally she was alone with her tormentress.
Jacqueline Bellais was taking off her knickers.
“Feel a little warmer now?” she asked ironically.
She undid wrist and waist straps and Maria knelt sickly up, head bowed, holding her buttocks. They were ribboned with weals as thick as findings. Never had she known such furious pain. But already the worst of it was leaving her.
“Like me to scrub some vinegar into them for you?”
Maria shook her head dully, her eyes on the discarded pizzle before her; its tip seemed ruby with her blood.
“I'm sorry if it hurt rather,” said Jacqueline Bellais, kirting up her skirt and approaching with a fat and thickly bushed cunt on display, “but I had to, you know.”
Maria nodded dumbly. She said: “It's… all right. You… it was your duty.”
“It was my pleasure,” corrected the other, straddle-legged before her. “I've been longing to flog you, Mary, since I first saw you at start of term. There's nothing unnatural about it. I'd expect the same from you.”
Her ankles still tethered wide, Maria knelt up wry-faced.
“Why does everyone seem to want to beat me, Jacqui?”
“Because you're so beatable, dear, I expect.”
“That was agony, absolute murder.”
“I'd have liked to have given you more.”
“It wasn't fair… for what I did. I never wanted to use that thing myself. Frankly, I didn't know what it was.”
“Tell that to the Head,” said the Frenchwoman with a chuckle. “Now then. You going to come back to my room with me?”
“I want to rinse out this caustic first. Honestly, it burns hellishly.”
“So will some pimentade if I decide to apply it to that flaming rump of yours, dearie.”
“Please, Jacqui, please.”
“What about the scum buss instead? Is it a deal?”
Maria looked up helplessly. “I couldn't stand anything more… please not the pimentade…” She kneaded her buttocks expressively. “Oooh, you cut me so on the right.”
“Very well then.” The sprightly mistress turned and parted her legs, hands on her knees. “Get going then.”
Maria looked at the firm trim can at the top of the tapering thighs before her; it had a few thin lines of the rod across it, too. The well-grooved cunt beneath looked curiously sensual, thick and hairy.
“I… I've never done this before, I'm afraid.”
“You can start now. Insert your tongue, and don't stop until you can taste shit.”
Miserably Maria approached her face to the wrinkled dimple. It looked clean and rosy, and was definitely perfumed. She stuck out her tongue and with a glare of concentration went about her task stoically. Jacqueline Bellais' right hand moved almost instantly.
“Christ, that's heaven! You don't know. Deeper than that or I'll ask to give you more. Christ, Mary, you don't know what you looked like being whipped. It was like cutting into… ooooah… butter and now, now, YEESSS!”
Barbara Mack “owned up” the following morning after breakfast. She did so a trifle the worse for wear since the entire “D” Dorm, highly alarmed at a communal birching, had taken wet towels in the bathroom that morning and, under the supervision of Prefect Seckendorff, whose bottom was a reverberating vision of mauve and beetroot, had flicked the Junior with their ends until she was thoroughly welted. Monika Vorst had confessed to having utilized the utensil also. The wet towels flacked slapping dark marks on the chubby white bodies, both of which danced most amusingly, to the delectation of the Dormitory. The girls owned up together.
Frau Grumkow let pretty blonde Monika go. She interrogated Barbara in company of the Duty Mistress, this day's being Fraulein Katte again. The girl was repeatedly asked where she had got it, and to whom she had lent it. She confessed completely. The thing had been given her by a “chum” in the vacation and, no, no one except her special comrade Monika Vorst had either seen or used it. She always hid it in the Dorm.
Six thumping strokes across the bottom with a Duty cane did not alter this information, either. It was apparent the girl was telling the truth, and probably all the truth. Still, the Directress wanted to make sure. She had the girl set on the bar, and returned to her salon for a smoke.
This unpleasant and undignified instrument was, in truth, a bar of iron, some four foot long, serrated on its upper surface, and ranged on struts about this height from the floor. The girl bestrode it with her hands manacled behind her back.
Yes, it was a dreaded moment when a sinner had to get up, grim-faced, one leg on the stool provided and swing the other over, and lower herself gingerly, oh so gingerly, while the mistress plucked wide the cunny petals, making sure the rank iron, with its nasty indentations, sank fully into the veinous lining of sweet flesh.
“Whew! Au… oooooh!”
The bar was a feature of Prussian seminaries of that time but the one at Schloss Rutenberg had improvements-there were two parallel bars either side, lower down, making for a most penetrating spread of the victim's legs. And to the ankles of each of these small weights were attached.
“Please… Mistress… Fraulein… I didn't lend it to anyone else… aaaah… aieee, it's cutting me in two.”
Her head went back, tears smarted to her eyes. She felt she could not move a muscle, yet the inexorable iron was eating into her vitals.
“Hou… houah… I can't stand…”
“You'll sweat in earnest in a minute,” said Fraulein Katte, watching the grimacing.
“Phouuuu…”
She was given ten. At the end of which time, indeed, perspiration was streaming down her face and front. Her chest cringed, she tried to sway, only occasioning herself more pain, all the time pleading and begging. The Duty Mistress fetched her superior.
“Please… ach! Gott… ouuueee!”
Frau Grumkow watched the contortions with switch in hand.
“You're perfectly sure there's no one else involved?”
“Yes, yes, Frau Dir-r-rektrice,” wailed the girl with chattering teeth. “No… nooo one. I ner-know I've got to be whipped… I'll take my medicine, Ma'am, only please let me off this… fiendish… houw! it hurts so horribly… there was no one, no one else at all, I swear.”