The Prussian Girls Page 8

  The neat maid knelt directly behind the woman. She hesitated a second, summoning a look of concentration to her foxy muzzle of a face, then drew apart the hanging bottom ovals with her fingers. Her tongue licked once at her lips, a cat's before cream, then she pressed her mouth into the divide behind.

  Dick hissed as the tongue slid up her. Her cheeks flushed as she bent further forwards, widening with her fingers the silken purse of her pussy.

  “Ach… like that… yes, Resi, yes…”

  To Maria, watching bemused, the amazing was occurring-the clitoris twitched or kicked! Yes it stiffened in sudden erection, an hypertrophied angry-looking stub of gristle, standing out from the vulva like a thumb, wet and red. The mistress was stretching the quaking thing out further by distension of her lips and breathing pleasurably now, “Hah… komm… suss… come on you little bitch, shoot… she's doing it to you…”

  “Heavens, it's a cock,” laughed Katte from her chair.

  But the Head said sternly, “You'll eat shit if she doesn't come, Resi. I'll see that you get twenty at the triangle, too. Get it-in-deep!”

  Verily, Frau Dick's crotch seemed to be steaming. The stiff wet tube, half as long as a finger, was sticking out horizontally, a furious thing-yes, surely about to burst.

  “She's got it,” gasped Dick, sucking in her breath; and the morsel of femininity literally spasmed before them, sweating its dew in driblets to the carpet.

  “Holy Mother!” panted the mistress, straightening and looking about her with an undefined, slightly muzzy expression, while the maid withdrew her face, and licked her scummy lips. Froth still seeped expansively from her slit. The Head was according this performance a critical eye, hand at her own crotch, when there came a rap at the door.

  Ingeborg Untermacher came in and curtseyed. She was brilliant in the dazzling white of the Duty Mistress's skimpy tunic and she held the black Demerit Book in one hand. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back. Maria Daunitz found herself looking at her friend and mentor with curiously beating heart, as the young woman bent for the Directress to affix her signature to the day's rote of “Duty” offenses. The wrinkleless, clingy material, softly gathered at the skirt by the wide leather belt, proclaimed rather than hid Inge's solid body beneath. Her boots shone in the firelight, cutting into the creamy thighs.

  “Only three?” Frau Grumkow was saying, looking at the little list of penitents with a frown; “I doubt if you'll even get warm.”

  “I expect they will, Head,” Katte chuckled.

  “If I have anything to do with it,” agreed the Duty Mistress of the day, grinning.

  “Well, you have one nine; see if you can make her 'come again.'”

  “Who's that, Head?”

  “Steffi Nagel,” answered Jacqueline Bellais promptly. “My report in Hall.”

  “Well, well,” sighed the Frau Direktrice. “A niner can always be a bit uncomfortable. Still, think of the good you are doing to her soul, Untermacher. Lay on-and don't forget what I told you after, will you?”

  “I won't, Head.”

  As Maria curtseyed and prepared to follow her friend on her punitive mission, the last in the day for the Duty Mistress, she heard the maid inquire in a new and anxious tone, “Is there anything else you require of me, Frau Direktrice?”

  “Well, since you're here,” they heard the reply before the door closed behind them, “it might be as well… you could profit from a little switching, Resi, that is… if we have anyone here… who…”

  The two mistresses paced the corridors hand in excited hand, Inge carrying the big black Book under her right arm. Before they rounded the last bend, however, Ingeborg stopped and looked at her new-found friend.

  “What were you doing in there tonight?” Then, without waiting for reply, she hurried on in a whisper, “It is thrilling, isn't it? Oh admit it, Maria. You've never seen a 'Duty' before, and you must realize it's intended to be absolutely deterrent. No pity at all. You do understand that? I hit for all I'm worth and if I didn't, they wouldn't respect me a jot. If that Nagel doesn't get up by nine, my right arm isn't what it used to be.”

  “And if she does,” said Maria Daunitz, sinking into the same accomplice's whisper, “she goes back to the end of the line and gets them over, plus what she didn't take first time round.”

  “If I could get her to stand by seven,” mused Ingeborg with a sensual shudder, “then it'd be eleven over the desk, after. It doesn't do to think about it, does it?”

  It was indeed a wretched rank lined up one side of the Duty Room door that greeted the two on arrival there. Facing them, on the other side, stood the Duty Maid of the day, who had assembled the culprits and who, judging by the sly smile on her face as she curtseyed, had been indulging in the favorite pastime of such, namely terrifying the troop verbally. The girls bobbed in unison as Ingeborg and Maria strode in past them without a word.

  The room was well lit this time, a flag presiding behind the Duty Mistress's table desk on which Inge plonked the great book, and on which lay two long penal canes. One of these she took up and flexed between her fingers with a dreamy smile.

  “Lovely. They put out the number three that I wanted. A little thinner than the others. Some of us like to use the thicker ones, but I find that sometimes they just bruise. Ugh. These bendy beauties sting like fiends.”

  “I know,” said Maria. “You seem to forget that I got ten with one.”

  Inge's face went solemn. She gave her friend a baleful look.

  “I'd love to thrash you, darling,” she said gently.

  Maria gave a nervous laugh. “Fortunately you're not going to be able to do that.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure,” said the other steadily, then went on quickly-“I'll take Nagel last, when my eye is in. The first girl, Hannelore Weg, is a Senior and pretty experienced. Shouldn't worry too much over six. The other sixer is a Junior called von Brandt.”

  “I know her,” said Maria, remembering the pert blonde from a Science class.

  Ingeborg Untermacher swept the stick through the air with a voluptuous slice. “God, these things were made to cut young girl-flesh, weren't they just? Most efficient instruments.” She bent elastically and thumbed off her underpants. Catching Maria's eye she explained with a loose grin, “More ease of movement like that. And… and… by the way, if you catch one of them lowering her eyes, for a look, don't hesitate to… Mary darling, I suggest you stand over there… yes, by the bars, that way you can see their faces as well… do you want to masturbate, by the way? We don't usually, during.”

  “No, of course not,” Maria Daunitz replied with a quick flush.

  Ingeborg gave her a rather roguish wink and with a twirl that lifted the skimpy silk off the slab of one sulcus, turned to the door with her stick- “Let's just go out and frighten them a bit first, shall we, I always like to.”

  They went out. The three girls waiting their turn for punishment looked extremely solemn. The first, directly across from the door facing the maid, was Hannelore Weg, a tall, slim, rather short-sighted brunette with silky straight hair. She stared straight ahead of her. Helen von Brandt, next in line, was visibly trembling, with traces of tears on her long lashes. The last, as arranged now by the maid on Ingeborg's order, was the “niner,” Steffi Nagel, a rather ordinary-looking brownette with an expressionless face. The first wore gold, the two others green.

  Ingeborg Untermacher stood back with feet astride, flexing her cane across her sturdy thighs, and looked at the trio with a well-stimulated dislike.

  “You three are going to be caned as hard as possible across the bottom, so you might as well make up your mind to it,” she said sternly. “Let's see good comportment under the rod. Bend tight and hold on hard to the bar. Tell yourselves what silly idiots you've been to get into the Book in the first place. It's still early in the term and there's plenty more of this waiting for you if you want it. You,” and she tapped under Steffi Nagel's broad rump with her rod, “it's only Thursday and if you get put in
the Book again this week, it's twelve, remember?”

  She turned and led the way back in, the maid smilingly closing the door on Maria, following. She felt wrought-up, tense, dry-throated. Once inside the room again Ingeborg sat down behind her table and said calmly, “Send in Hannelore.”

  Maria went to the door, opened it, and called out loudly, “Weg.” She closed the door on the rapidly marching girl. Her heels make a lot of noise on the black floor. Hannelore Weg stood in front of the desk, her eyes straight in front of her.

  “Hannelore Weg?” she was asked, after having taken her oath to the flag.

  “Fraulein.”

  “Accused of being Idle in class. Report of Fraulein Rombau. You plead?”

  “Guilty, please.”

  “Have you anything to say?”

  “Nothing to say.”

  “Do you wish to appeal?”

  “No.”

  “First Order. Six strokes,” said Ingeborg Untermacher, writing in the Book. “Thank you, Fraulein.”

  “Strip.”

  The girl's fingers fled. Off came her knickers, to be folded neatly and placed on the desk, just by the dreaded Duty Book. Then her skirt was tucked into her belt, which was ordered higher, almost under her ribs. Ingeborg knowingly inspected the sleek, liquid little bottoms thus put on alluring display, fingering them for old bruises. But the girl had not been beaten this term.

  “Do twenty squat-bends,” she was told coldly. After which she had to touch her toes as many times. “Now bend over. I'm going to give you them nice and low, so you can look forward to a good lesson in self-control.”

  The well-practised girl went to a set of bars, horizontally set about three foot high, in front of the yawning, though empty, fireplace of the room. Placing her toes under a small brass bar, she had another rail along her ankles behind, while yet another pressed at the top of her shins, and another thighs, in front. She bent over in a lissome arch and grasped the bar at her toes, holding it tightly in her fingers.

  Maria could see what an admirably disciplined position it was. The girl could not kick back; the knees and legs were maintained wholly braced and no slightest relaxation of their rigidity could be permitted without leaving hold of the bar with her hands-which constituted getting up. If an offender did this she had to “come again.” It was what made “Duty” (as the girls called it) so dreaded.

  First “order” in a week was six, second nine, and third twelve-but it had been a long time since any twelve had been inflicted. Nine was usually more than enough, administered in the manner it was. The system was such, too, that it discouraged any girl giving up should she know early on in her correction that she could not take her dose. A count of nine, for instance, a truly fearsome score for a youngster, abandoned at, say, five good swipes would mean taking over the nine plus the four not received the first time-thirteen in all, fastened over the infamous Punishment Desk. No wonder Hannelore's hemispheres were shivering.

  But Maria Daunitz felt the same heat behind her eyes again, as she saw yet another bottom bared, bent, and waiting to be thrashed, cut into by the pitiless length of yellow cane, now held in Ingeborg's hand several paces away from its eventual target. The fluid texture of the flesh promised extreme vulnerability. The smoky stockings were gartered high, in red, and a thick dry slot of bush showed back, at the top of the thighs. The silence was practically deafening.

  “I'm going to thrash your behind,” said Ingeborg thoughtfully, if unnecessarily, as she stared judgingly at the well-divided flesh.

  Whrrrppp!

  As always, the first thudding cut, given with a run, seem to strike like lightning, writing its inky weal across the fruity flesh. It did so low down, wobbling the bottoms. But the girl said nothing.

  A long pause. Two… three… there was a gasping pant, the silken knees fretted at the bar.

  Whrrruppp! Four. Maria Daunitz drew a hand across her brow. It was moist. She was sweating under the leather. The weals were short but tough, purplish and raised, close hued on the right. She was intensely excited. She looked away.

  Five!

  Still averting her gaze she heard Ingeborg walk back to lengthen her run, heard the pause for the pain to sink in continue, and continue-finally an exclamation. She turned and looked, and what she saw stung her suddenly, in the center if her flesh, like a bee-sting in her vitals.

  The tall brunette, her hair falling forward, had arched up; stiff as a bristle she stood, speechlessly grasping her flaming underbuttocks, what was visible of her face hopelessly twisted. She had stepped back from the bars and seemed in some extremity of agony.

  “A rotten performance for a Senior,” said Ingeborg with satisfaction in her voice. “Go to the end of the line, Weg, and I'll deal with you later. It'll be seven, really hard.”

  “I'm s-sorry, Miss,” hissed the girl hopelessly. “I'm out of, out of… practice.”

  The moment was golden. Watching the tall brunette writhe her way to the door, striving to retain some shred of deportment as she tugged down strands of her skirt and curtseyed stiffly, Maria Daunitz felt molten lava in her loins. In the silent emptied room, too large for its human purpose, she stood staring at her friend fixedly.

  “Well caned,” she said at last.

  “It was unexpected,” returned Ingeborg, equally levelly and artificially. “Hannelore ought to take six in her stride. Did you notice what a deep-set sphincter she had?”

  “I didn't,” said Maria.

  “Sure you don't want to masturbate… a little bit… right now?”

  “No,” said Maria smiling, “do you?”

  “I feel nothing, during, but you must confess it's heaven to watch them like that… when it's over.”

  There was a knock at the door. Helen von Brandt came in, visibly crying. She had had a good beating only that morning and now got another, across her plump, pugnacious little buttocks which still held fat when bent. She took the count stoically, though gasping and panting a lot throughout, and finally leaving the room with stricken face, holding herself and moaning. It was the turn of Steffi Nagel, the “niner.”

  Ingeborg Untermacher took particular care over this correction, which was clearly, for her, a challenge.

  The girl had a dewy, heart-shaped little face, thin sloping shoulders fashionable at the time, yet a buttock, when disclosed, that went outward into a surprisingly full and heavy base. She had had her six at Duty on Tuesday and the lines still showed well. When bent, she was broad and placid behind, the central seam of her twat tucked in. Ingeborg took a long run, and Maria held her breath; she knew in her soul she wanted her friend to win the duel, she wanted to see this firm, meaty flesh lashed into agony.

  The air soughed… fffffttt!

  The first strokes smacked home viciously. The girl began to gasp at once.

  “Au weh, aaaah… o Gott, wie das tut weh… mein Gott, liebe Fraulein…”

  She was a loquacious victim but despite her imprecations (“Ach, das halte ich nicht aus…”) absorbed the whacking stripes like a sponge. Four, five, six, seven… Ingeborg was not going to “win.”

  “Bend right over… tight, tight.”

  The girl gave a long crying moan. Her thighs rubbed together and the split plum of her sex showed suddenly, a winking wound. Her puckered sphincter seemed to swell a second, dilate and withdraw. The right cheek was splodgy with welts, one of which appeared to be oozing.

  “Ooooh… auuuuuu…”

  Ingeborg Untermacher stood behind her victim, chest heaving, an eager, almost exasperated expression on her face. She seemed to be wondering- how was it possible to cane anyone harder?

  “Turn in your toes, Nagel. I want those fat hams absolutely separated for these last two.”

  The eighth and ninth whunked into the buttery flesh at the very bisection of hip and thigh. Steffi cried out loudly each time, but did not rise. The mistress let her stay so a long time before the “Permission,” and then said, “All right. Get your knickers on. Hardened little slut,
you ought to be caned like that every day.”

  Maria mused on the difference in reactions to extreme pain as the girl, her panties up, half-hobbled to the door, holding her riven buttocks and moaning loudly and slowly still.

  “Have the Matron see to that place where I broke the skin.”

  “Ja, Fraulein. Th-thank you.”

  Alone once more, the two stared at each other. Ingeborg sat back on the edge of her table, panting like a runner. Her mouth was wide, there was a quick tawny flicker in her eyes, that of an unsatisfied animal. She parted her legs, the thin stuff of her tunic draping conspicuously over the butting mound of her mons.

  “Shall I bring in Weg again?” Maria asked.

  The other crossly shook her head. “No, no. Of course not. The maid. For the desk.”

  Maria Daunltz paused. Her friend had spoken in rushing gasps. “You don't have to talk to me like that, Inge,” she protested gently.

  “I'm sorry… it's just that afterwards…” Her glowing head went back, she sucked in breath again. “Well, look.”

  Lifting the limp material from her front, Ingeborg bared her burning cunt. Unlike Frau Dick, she did not even have to part her hairy lips; the tough tail of glistening gristle stuck up through them like a ready tongue.

  “Good Lord,” said Maria, not without a certain reverence.

  “We… we… some of us… this special operation… Matron does it… uh, with pins… agony, absolute murder… elongates th-th-au Gott! I'm going to go off with you just looking at it like that, let alone a touch, and I want to keep completely horny for Hannelore. Here.” She thrust out the cane with an imperative gesture. “Give me a couple, really hard, to drive it down.”

  Maria took the willowy wand hesitantly. “Me… you?”

  But Ingeborg had turned and placed her palms on the table top, her legs widely parted.

  “Quick, quick.”

  “Wer-won't they hear?”

  “What does it matter? They know we get walloped.”

  Maria Daunitz raised the little flap of silk onto her friend's back and, after a pause, lashed the firm rounds twice, low down. Two thick weals leapt up, reddening to black. Ingeborg rose, thoughtfully.