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.”