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.
“Thanks a lot,” she said at last. “Now let's get that delicious little Dienstmadel in to set out the Desk. After which we can make Hannelore wish she'd never been born with a bottom. Seven of the absolutely most Imperial. God save her skin.” For a second she put her hands behind her. “Heavens, you really hit me, then. Drove my come down, however.”
“It didn't mine,” said Maria.
Ingeborg looked at her with close on a leer. “You don't have my clit, dearie. The mere touch of material would have, sent me off just now. But you're feeling nice and molten down there, eh?”
“Sopping,” she confessed, hot-cheeked. “I don't know when I've been so sexually excited.” Suddenly she gritted her teeth-“Cut the can off this one, Inge. Please, please. In little portions. Slowly.”
She turned to the door for the maid.
Two minutes late a very scared-looking Hannelore Weg, her dark blue eyes moist and her chest heaving, was shown in. A heavy pulpit desk had been ring-bolted to the floor. It was provided with ankle-stocks and adjustable wrist-stocks on its front side. There was a leathern boss on the forward slope of wood.
“Strip,” said Ingeborg coldly.
When the girl was in no more than stockings and heels this time, the mistress came forward ruminatively, her chain of office chinking. She lifted the warm satiny chubbies behind, at the top of the long smooth thighs.
“Still sting?”
“Yer-yess,” said the girl unsteadily. Then added, “I'm very sorry I got up like that just now, Miss. I never have before.”
“Well, you're going to be a lot sorrier in a moment. I'm going to take an even stronger cane to you, Hannelore, and give you seven you'll remember for the rest of this term. Fraulein Daunitz will position you.”
With a blind turn the girl went to the desk. Maria followed the trim, liquid movement of the peach-halves with beating heart. She fastened the girl over.
