“I don't know, but they do say, the Directress may have requested it-well, a sort of representative contest in discipline!”
“Hm,” said one.
“Mistresses, too?”
“Why not?”
“Good old mistresses.”
“I've also heard,” said the chillier voice of Frau Dick, “that three of us are going to be sent to Count von Schmettau's Grenadiers some time next week.”
“Nine inches of sturdy gristle, I feel it in my guts right now,” said Wilhelmina Marit with a wink.
“Who?” asked Maria Daunitz quickly.
“I believe you're one… and Ingeborg…” But they had rounded the last bend and had to descend the big staircase in stately, awe-inspiring silence, five robust school mistresses each eagerly anticipating her share in the infliction of righteous castigation to come.
“Whee-whee!” whispered Ingeborg Untermacher in her friend's pink ear, imitating the whistle of the twigs.
The rows of girls in their respective classes who lined each side of Great Hall dropped like mown grass in curtseys, as the mistresses filed in and took their places on the dais confronting them. The space between the two ranks of Prussian maidens was eloquent of only one thing-corporeal fustigation of a severe sort. The black stone block had been installed centrally, and beside it, on a bench, several long birches lay steeping in flat glass trays of vinegar or brine, with other instruments beside. At the foot of the dais, on a level with the girls, stood in regulation costume the Duty Mistress of the day, tall Luzie Rombau, the Duty Prefect, whose name was Borcke, daughter of a Graf, and the Duty Maid. The Prefects stood like officers in front of their ranks, only they did so facing inwards-for it was their duty to see no girl took her eyes off the correction to ensue, little likelihood though there was of that. Almost at once Frau Grumkow came in, breeched, booted, and in three-quarter flared coat, looking immensely elegant and well bewigged, her monocle winking. The assembly sank to its knees, only rising on her word of command to do so. The stern Directress proceeded with the ceremony immediately, the mistresses seating themselves in a line.
“Barbara Mack?”
“Present, Ma'am.”
In the silence a girl marched out from the side and stood on the far side of the block, facing the dais.
“Monika Vorst”-another did so, by her friend's side.
“You two stand accused of the disgusting offense of unnatural practices, namely self-abuse. How do you plead?”
The two girls looked at each other-as if to say, who's to answer first? — then Barbara Mack called out clearly, “Guilty, Ma'am.”
She was a well-grown girl, with brown to tawny hair, and her mien suggested that she had resolved to face the worst with courage. Ingeborg Untermacher's description of her nether regions was, however, exact; the scant tunic seemed to hang loosely from waist until it espoused the very full center of the bottom, which clearly announced a prominent overhang. Monika Vorst the reader has met already and she stood less bravely, her cute blonde crop falling forward over tearful eyes, her liquid limbs shivering.
“Ger-guilty, Madam,” she said.
“Look up, girl, when you answer.”
Neither offender knew how many strokes she was to get; both had had plenty of time in Solitary to reflect on the count. Now the moment of sentencing was upon them, it was Monika who seemed to feel the occasion most obviously.
“We punish onanism severely at Schloss Rutenberg,” continued the Directress. “Have you anything to say why you should not be so punished?”
“No, Ma'am.”
“Ner-nothing to say, if you please. Madam.”
“Very well. Let this be a lesson to the whole school, in case anyone else present is so inclined. You will be stripped and publicly whipped on the naked buttocks with the birch-rod. You Monika Vorst, as the lesser offender, and mere accomplice, will be let off lightly. You will receive three dozen cuts, slowly laid on, and at full strength, with the birch, followed by seven Master's strokes. Furthermore, you will be reduced to the rank of scum for the rest of this term and, starting next week, you will report to Matron on rising and retiring for six strokes of the cane- for a period of five days, Monday through Friday.”
Monika Vorst's head fell. She visibly blanched. Next week, too! Allmachtiger Gott! An assured sixty cuts, outside any other correction she might acquire. She began to sob. How could she ever get through it?
“You, Mack, as the importer of the heinous object and instigator and corrupter, will be more severely dealt with. You will be scourged with the birch to the extent of sixty strokes-five clear dozen across your naked arse, to be followed by ten Master's cuts. You too will be reduced to scum for the remainder of the term, and you will do two weeks, of five days each, of a double six with the cane, on rising and retiring, from Matron.”
A gentle susurration, a sort of hushed gasp, ran through the assembly at this frightful sentence.
“Do you wish to appeal?” snapped the Directress.
This time Monika Vorst replied first, in nearly a wail, “Ner-ner-no!”
Suddenly, in a collected tone, adult for her years, Barbara Mack spoke out. “If I might throw myself on the leniency…”
“You wish to appeal?”
The words stood in the shocked silence a second.
“Against the rigor of the sentence, Ma'am, yes, if I might presume. It is more than required, for I did not commit the offense so very often. And am wholly remorseful for it now. I beg you to remit the second week of caning. I would willingly exchange it for another dozen of the birch, now, to be got over with at once.”
This sensible and mature address seemed to faze the Frau Directress a moment. Then she turned and consulted with her colleagues. There was a buzz on the platform, finally a rank of right thumbs turned down. Frau Grumkow came forward again, one foot slightly in front of and at an angle to the other.
“Appeal denied. What is the penalty for a failed Appeal, Duty Mistress?”
“In this case-six with the stick, Frau Direktrice.”
“Administer them.”
Lanky Luzie Rombau curtseyed and came leggily forward, almost mincing over the parquet in her gleaming boots. She selected a long whippy cane from the bench and drew Barbara Mack forward a few paces.
“Bend over and touch your toes.”
For ritual's sake she received the six across her knickers, skirt up, the snake-like stick eating into the taut material each cut. The last two made her clench slightly, but otherwise the girl took them very stoically, rising red- faced on order.
“Strip them,” came the next command.
For a public birching ritual required that the small chlamys be literally ripped off the body of the offender, panties following. Luzie Rombau effected this briskly and completely, tossing aside the miserable shreds of clothing; both girls were exposed in nothing more than tightly gartered stockings and high-heeled shoes. They created more than a quiver of interest in the girlish audience, not to mention several crossed legs in the row of seated mistresses. For both had been shaved. Monika Vorst's mons shone like some polished stone, demurely slit at the summit of her close thighs; Barbara Mack's mound had come out dark as a man's jowl, lumpy and vigorously cleft. She had smaller breasts, tiny buds, and a very narrow waist, but her buttocks swelled out almost to the point of distortion, the sulcus spreading right across them without break. Both pair appeared pinkened from the sandstoning they had received from the Matron, a preparation that made each feel she had spent a day uncovered behind in the scalding sun, and across Barbara's lower halves were now six lively purple weals.
“Have you anything more to say?” asked the Directress. There was not a hint of irony in her tone.
“Nothing to say, Madam,” replied Barbara Mack promptly. And her friend joined in with a mumble.
“Proceed with punishment. Fraulein Katte, two dozen strokes for Mack, if you please. Take your time and let them be felt.”
With a frown and a curtsey the mistress came down from the dais, honored to open the ceremony.
